SouthQuest

Yes, we can.

2008-11-05T20:56:00.002-05:00

Today I woke up feeling like anything is possible. If we can overcome all our long-held prejudices and elect this man to be President of the United States, anything is possible.

We can get past the recurring stumbling blocks at work, and find new ways of working together.

The kids can remember to do their chores without my prompting.

Maybe I can even finish this book I've been working on for so long.

Change is possible.

Yes, we can.

something new

2008-08-08T19:47:00.002-04:00

I have a new blog. The link is over there to the left.

My thoughts seem to be drifting more in that direction lately, so I decided to create a space for them.

Celebrations & Concerns

2008-05-25T23:31:00.009-04:00

Today I stood up
in church
and asked everybody
to celebrate my mother.

Forty-two years ago
she was a few days away
from giving birth to me.
She's lived a good life,
and now she feels like she's done.

I asked everybody
to pray
with Mom, for Mom
for all the days she has left.
There are so many,
stretching out ahead.

When I sat down,
she leaned over to me.

"Now that I've lost my brain," she said,
"I can't think."

"But I still have a heart,
and I can still feel.
And I love you."

I love you, too, my Mama.
For nearly forty-two years.

And counting.

this day

2008-04-03T18:58:00.004-04:00

I started this day with three dreams still tumbling around in my head. Fiery attacks, deaths of loved ones, emotional turmoil. My morning pages helped calm the storm.

After the redheads left for their normal destinations, I visited Mom. It didn't take her long to figure out exactly who I was, even though I arrived unannounced. We played Scrabble. My one seven letter word (which earned me 74 points) was RELATED. It felt appropriate. We're still related. We still relate, though differently.

From there I went out into the misty, moisty morning to walk a nearby labyrinth. It always centers my spirit, calms my soul. I breathed in the early spring air, walked carefully on the mossy paths, greeted the rocks as I came to them, again and again. In the center I sat. And listened. To the woods. To myself.

This afternoon I plunged deeply into the 1972 brain of my father. I examined his week-at-a-glance calendar, page by page. There was no glancing about it--at some points I needed a magnifying glass to decode his cryptic astrological notes.

Coming down to the kitchen, where my cheerful beloved was putting the final touches on supper, felt like swimming up from the bottom of a deep, murky pool. 1972 was so real--Dad hitchhiking back and forth, his fasting, his larger-than-life new age ideas. Could it really be that I actually live in 2008, under a roof, with a television and white rice, and a husband who earns a regular paycheck and comes home when we expect him?

Have I really managed to fool the gods and end up with a mainstream, sane, safe, happy life?

Labyrinth indeed.

Gratitude abounds.

Cabbagetown storm

2008-03-22T08:34:00.000-04:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cqWZmTv5xgA

Spring fever

2008-03-06T13:42:00.002-05:00

I've got
daffodils
on my kitchen table,
wanderlust
in my heart.

fire next time

2008-03-02T18:01:00.010-05:00

Our fireplace burns gas. And yet I split wood.

My 11-year old son got in trouble at church for lighting matches in the Sunday school room when no adults were around. A match was smoldering on the couch, the other kids pointed the finger at him, and he was holding the book of matches when the adult walked in. And yet he claims innocence . . .

During the service we learned that a dear member of our congregation, a white-haired blues-playing saxophone player with twinkling eyes, has been diagnosed with acute leukemia. Another seemingly healthy member of our church faced this same diagnosis a couple of years ago, and lived a matter of days.

And then I spent a couple of hours with my mom--playing Scrabble, walking in a sun-filled field of hummocky almost-springtime grass. This time, for some reason, she didn't mention the fact that she prays every night for God to take her as she sleeps. But it's always in the air around her. I know she's ready to go. Why can't it be her turn instead? She's ready.

Our fireplace burns gas.

And yet I split wood.

It's all I can do.

Finding Frances

2008-02-14T08:27:00.013-05:00

On my quest, thanks to the wonders of the internet, I've been able to find just about everybody I've looked for.

I found Bill, my dad's boss from when he was an ambulance attendant in Atlanta, even though all the other family friends from that time told me that Bill seemed to have fallen off the planet.

I found Neb, Jr., the now 80-year-old man who was the mythical child who called to my mother's sister Sunny from across the street, so that she dashed in front of an oncoming car. The whole family witnessed her death, as did Neb. He still remembers that day, nearly 75 years ago.

I found Pilgrim Congregational Church, with the striking blue roof, where my dad was minister for a year and a half while Birmingham was coming apart, and so was the church. That church was torn down this week, sold to a developer to become a new housing development (see the story here: http://www.al.com/newsflash/regional/index.ssf?/base/news-34/120284634741750.xml&storylist=alabamanews).

Really the only people I haven't been able to find are the ones who have passed on. Those are the true heartbreaks--the people I would love to talk to, ask them to share their stories, hear what they have to laugh about, see the twinkle in their eyes. But they're gone.

One of those is Frances Pauley. She was an amazing woman--a tireless worker for civil rights in Georgia. Spunky, fearless, determined. Julian Bond was quoted as calling her "everybody's grandmother and nobody's fool." She also happened to be my daddy's boss at the Georgia Council on Human Relations in 1967. It's part of the next chapter of my book.

Frances died before I set out on this quest, so I've done what I could to find other ways to get to know her. My cousin gave me a book about her, written by folks at the Open Door Community in Atlanta, where she was active in her later years. I read that. Her papers are housed in special collections at the Emory University library, and I went down to check it out. I got more of a behind-the-scenes sense of her there, and began to form some hunches about what happened when Dad worked with her, which was her last fiery year at the Georgia Council. I recently had breakfast with a friend of mine who knew her, but my friend couldn't remember much.

All of this left me wanting more. If only I could talk to her, ask her my questions, follow up on my hunches, hear her voice! I wanted to get to know her personally, have more connection than the words on a page.

And yesterday it happened.

I was dinking around on the internet, yet again, when I landed on the Southern Oral History Project at UNC, my own alma mater. On a whim I typed "Pauley" in the search place. And what do you think I found?! An interview that Jacquelyn Hall had conducted with Frances Pauley in the Pauleys' living room on July 18, 1974. The transcript and the recorded interview itself! I could download it! I could listen to her voice! As I sat on the floor of my study, headphones on, enrapt, I marvelled that Dr. Hall asked most of the same questions I had been aching to ask Mrs. Pauley myself. I felt like I had time-traveled, and my wish was granted.

One part sticktuitiveness, two parts luck.

Ask and it shall be given unto you.

If you have some time and want to make a great new friend, follow this link: http://docsouth.unc.edu/sohp/G-0046/menu.html.

Sandwich

2008-01-14T23:13:00.000-05:00

Making a sandwich
is a constructive proposition.

Gracefully spreading the condiments,
lovingly placing
the meat,
the cheese,
the fluffy green leaves of lettuce.

Finally the two sides meet.
An arranged carbo marriage.

My mother,
who no longer makes sandwiches,
still relishes them.
Her favorite
is peanut butter and jelly.
She has its name written
on a small piece of paper
by her bed
in the rest home
so she won't forget.
Again.

My daughter prefers jam
with her peanut butter.
Or pasta, and no sandwich at all.

The "sandwich generation" is a misnomer.

I'm not a symmetrical union
of bread and whatever.

I'm torn in two.

Leavin'

2008-01-14T08:08:00.000-05:00

When I was in elementary school, my sister Janet was a huge John Denver fan. She'd go in her room, shut the door, put him on her little blue record player, and turn it way up.

I'm leavin' on a jet plane . . .

Janet wished she could be the one flying far, far away.

During my toddler years (the chapter of my book I'm working on now), my dad was the one thinking of leaving. He would talk for hours to his friend Dave about how the Bible says we should "leave all to follow Jesus." Both Matthew and Mark tell the story, when Jesus said to his disciples, "everyone who has left houses or brothers or sisters or father or mother or children or fields, for my name's sake, will receive a hundredfold, and will inherit eternal life." Dad was convinced, as early as my own bubbly toddler years, that this was his calling. Leave it all for Jesus.

When I try to divorce this idea from my emotion--when I banish thoughts of my curly yellow head and chubby baby hands, when I try not to think about how hard Mom was working to hold our family together in those troubling times, when I don't think about all that my sisters endured for the sake of Dad's callings--the irony remains.

This is The Book of Family Values? Have those people who wield the Bible Belt even read this book?

Leave All.

Love All.

Just the difference of a couple of vowels. Jesus was somehow preaching both. But as the one left behind, it sure didn't feel that way.

Jesus' next line, in both Mark and Mathew's versions of the story, was "the first will be last and the last will be first."

So those of us left behind--are we the first or the last?

But either way, though there was no question that I felt abandoned when my daddy finally left for good, in retrospect it is pretty clear that we were better off. Safer. Saner. Happier.

So . . . last-first, first-last, irony or no, I guess it's possible.

Love all.

Leave all.

But I like it better when I can have the loving without the leaving.

Resolution

2008-01-07T11:54:00.000-05:00

Happy New Year!

I used to have the same resolution every year: No Resolutions. I didn't like setting myself up to fail. But last year I tried a new tactic. My resolution was:

More cussing in 2007.

It worked out pretty well. I definitely did better in the first part of the year, rediscovering the days of my youth by letting it fly on a pretty regular basis. My children were agog. By the end of the year, the joy of the four letter word was wearing off, so I sort of fell off the wagon. So this year I have a new one:

More rhinestones in 2008.

I started early, actually, buying myself a lovely rhinestone souvenir while we were in Texas over the holidays. It brightens my world. And I feel confident that my sparkly keychain is only the beginning.

In addition to my resolution, there are changes I'm making in my life. They're not resolutions. They're changes. Course adjustments, perhaps. Like f'rinstance, I've cut back on my paid work time so that I can get back to focusing on my writing. I have a book to finish, so I'm clearing space for it. First I need to make room, I figure, and then maybe I can begin to remember how to be creative, be open, tell the story.

But as I sat quietly today (something I almost never do--this is all part of making space), I remembered about the knowing part of myself. The part of me that already knows what I should be doing, how to open myself to the story, how to get to where I'm heading. That quiet little part deep down in there that never gives advice, but gives an encouraging nod and a twinkle when I'm on the right path. The part of me that just feels right when I land on what I've known all along.

Resolution doesn't just mean deciding, after all. It's not only about our grandiose plans--to lose weight, quit smoking, sparkle more, or whatever. Resolution is also about clarity. We change the resolution on our computer screens when things don't look right. We change the resolution of our digital images to make them less pixellated, clearer. Resolution is about seeing things more clearly.

Maybe my own resolution is simply that "this is it" feeling of heading the direction that I knew was right all along.

Listening for that quiet voice that never speaks, but just nods, and gives a little twinkle.

Like a rhinestone.

Cave Spring

2007-11-29T14:09:00.000-05:00

I don't know if you've noticed, but there's a draught going on. The governor of North Carolina tells us we're supposed to SAVE WATER, so I'm doing what I can. The best way I know to do this is to start by simply being mindful. Do I really need to be showering this long? I'm clean now--I could just get out. What if I hand-wash this sinkful of dishes instead of putting them all in the dishwasher? Do I really need to flush? Important questions to ponder. Just being mindful.

In Georgia, the governor's declared a state of emergency for the northern part of the state, and is asking for prayer. When I heard this news, it connected with some deep place in me. My preacher granddaddy would have been bemused by this, I think, but I'm pretty sure he would have encouraged his congregation to add their voices to the growing swell. Fishin's lousy when the lake's low. And he definitely believed in the power of prayer.

North Georgia water has been important to my family for decades. Our special secret lake is in northwest Georgia--our own magical family haven. Our sunshine-filled memories there go back to my mom's childhood--or would, if dementia hadn't stolen them away. I have pictures from back then.

I find myself thinking of Cave Spring, an old Georgia town not far away where we'd often go while we were at The Lake. Less than an hour from our haven, the historic cave in Cave Spring was always mysterious. And nobody in the family will forget the one year they actually had a perky tour guide to show us around the cave's small rooms, educating us knowledgably about the "stactalites and staglamites," now long gone, that had formerly graced its ceiling and floor.

It still only costs a dollar to go in and explore the cave's depths by the light of the bare bulbs hanging from the rough, damp ceiling. I know, because we went this past summer. My beloved, my children, my cousins and I all made our way over there, explored the cave, splurged on ice cream (never did THAT when I was a kid!), and waded in the ever-flowing water emerging from the cave.

It's not just about the cave after all. It's Cave Spring. It's just as much about the water. People, all kinds of people, still bring their jugs from miles around to collect the sparkling water flowing from deep underground. Cold. Clear. Clean. Free. Somehow more honest than the water that comes out of the faucet or comes in little plastic bottles from the store.

I just looked on the internet to see if I could find out, even in this time of Great Draught, if the water is still flowing at Cave Spring. My Google search turned up nothing.

But I don't really need to find out. I think I know. After all, I haven't blogged since March, and yet here I am.

The water still flows. I believe in it.

If I'm thirsty, it's there.

Life & Death

2007-03-16T13:42:00.000-04:00

Today,
to mark the third anniversary
of my dad's passing,
I held a
four-day-old baby
against my chest
for an hour,
his tiny heart beating
against mine.
It gave me
hope.

> ding <

2007-01-27T12:08:00.000-05:00

Fresh Water from Old Wells. The title of my book-to-be. I've been thinking a lot about that title lately, bustin' it wi-i-i-ide open. I thought I knew what the fresh water and the old wells were, so I set out to figure out how I could fit them together. As I started trying to fit them, I realized that I actually didn't know exactly what they were. Time to back up.

I was pretty sure I knew what the old wells were. My roots. Where I came from. My parents and grandparents. Where our family lived. All that stuff. So I needed to figure out about the fresh water.

Fresh water, fresh water. I've been going on the assumption that it's me--me in the present, what I'm learning, the now. But as I explored this over the last few days, it became clear that fresh water is, to me, something much more specific. I came across a quote from my blog last April, and realized I'd known what fresh water was all along:

Buddha said that carrying one's anger is like holding a burning-hot stone in your hand.

I'm hoping that new understanding
will help me
finally
trade the hot weight of resentment
for the cool water of forgiveness,
running lightly across my fingers.

For me, fresh water is and has always been forgiveness. Ahh--that quiet ping of recognizing something that I've known all along. That's when I know it's real. I printed it out and stuck it on the wall above my new fountain.

Okay, so fresh water is understanding and forgiveness. Then what are the old wells? Time to rethink that, too. This morning I got up and knew I needed to go for a walk. In fact, I knew exactly where I needed to go, through a nearby neighborhood to a high hill overlooking my little valley. It's rare that my walks have that clear a destination, so I figured I'd better head that way.

Along the way there were several points when I nearly veered off in a different direction.

It's cold. I could go up that way, and be home for breakfast sooner.
Nope--gotta go where I'm headed.
I could head straight down that way, and see cows and fields.
Nope--gotta go where I'm headed.

Here's the amazing part: when I got to the top of that neighborhood, set my foot at the top of the hill, an idea popped into my head, lightbulb-style.

The old wells are the stories.
There it was. Not the past, not the people, not the places. The stories. I sat down to think. If the old wells are the stories that I've been collecting from all these amazing people across the South, then the fresh water truly is my new perspective on all of it. Forgiveness. Cool water running lightly across my fingers.

As the pieces settled into place, a gentle breeze stirred the windchimes to life on a porch nearby.

Ding, ding. Right answer.

Somebody's got a sense of humor.

WATERMELON!

2007-01-25T14:09:00.000-05:00

At the end of my recent crisis, I recognized that I would truly be heartbroken if I give up on my dream now. So I built a little fountain for my study, with special lake rocks and a slender candle, and recommitted myself to the effort.

Yesterday I opened myself up to the whatever’s next that’s out there, brainstormed a little, watched my burbling fountain. Eventually it became clear that the only thing to do was get out in the woods with the dog. So I did.

I drove on the parkway for a little bit and found a pull-off where I could get on a familiar trail. Zip up the coat, dog out of the car . . . I was only about ten steps into the woods when I heard my dad’s voice in my head as clearly as if he were on the path right behind me.

I hope you’re ready, ‘cause this thing’s fixing to BUST WI-I-I-I-DE OPEN. Like a big ole ripe watermelon on the concrete. There’s gon’ be seeds and juice EVERYWHERE!

I wasn’t afraid—his voice sounded like he’s as excited about it as I am. And he’s rooting for me.

I’m not sure what it means yet, but I’ve got my pen out. I’m ready.

And I do love watermelon.

Taking it all for granite

2007-01-18T17:23:00.000-05:00

My daughter Katie loves rocks. Always has. Show her a gravel driveway and she’s happy for hours—discovering, examining, imagining. To me, an expanse of gravel. To Katie, ROCKS!

One of her favorite Christmas presents was a collection of rocks from all over the world. It’s a clear plastic box with fifteen little compartments, each holding two versions of the same rock—one polished, one not. A nascar driver and an opera singer in each little pocket. What a concept.

Given Katie’s geologic tendencies, when our family went to Atlanta for a January getaway last weekend, it made sense for our first stop to be Stone Mountain. I was the only one of us who had ever been there, and hadn’t been back since our family moved to North Carolina when I was ten. I had blurry memories of Stone Mountain—family picnics by the lake, almost-ripe persimmons (yuck!), swimming in the mill pond, resting at the halfway house on the way up the trail, watching a blimp flying overhead on a gray winter’s day, so close I thought I could almost touch it. Happy memories. It’s good to remember that I have them.

When we got there this time it only seemed vaguely familiar. The big carving on the side of the mountain is unforgettable, of course: Robert E. Lee, Stonewall Jackson, and Jefferson Davis, all on horseback, as tall as a five-story building. An imposing trio. But the amusement park-style development around the base of the mountain is new. None of that was there thirty years ago, and John and I were just as glad that part was closed for the winter. We decided to splurge on tickets to ride the skyway to the top, and then hike the trail down.

After a quick ride up, I emerged from the shiny building to find that the mountain top was just as I remembered it. A huge expanse of curved granite with all the busy-ness of metropolitan Atlanta spread on all sides below. It took my breath.

As I stood taking it all in, my eye wandered to three men dressed in burgundy robes and sneakers. The older of the three was engaged in a halting conversation with a young woman wearing a sari with a baby in her arms—they clearly didn’t know each other. I drew closer and they welcomed me with smiles, so I perched on a ledge and listened. He was a Tibetan monk, an abbot, in fact, and she was asking about his religion, why he seemed so happy, his opinion about why most people are angry (“including me!” she said. “Especially in the morning,” her husband chimed in), and how she could be more like him, more serene in the midst of the ups and downs of her chaotic family.

As I sat and listened, looking out from that amazing mountaintop, I thought, no matter how humans may deface mountainsides and build tacky things, there will always be sacred places in the world that transcend all of it. If you pay attention, in the midst of the metropolis, the sacred places are still there. Thirty years later. Thousands of years later. Still there.

My life has felt out of whack lately. I nearly gave up on my dream of writing a book. I’ve been trying to think about priorities and the now clichéd concept of the “big rocks” in my life, the things that matter most.

Maybe I need to focus on the sacred spaces instead. When I stop and listen to the wind, I realize that the big rocks, the things that matter, are the sacred spaces in my life. It’s the sacred spaces that matter most.

But I have to see them as amazing rocks, not just gravel, to realize how sacred they are.

little cat feet

2006-09-22T10:43:00.000-04:00

Every day this week I’ve woken up and thought, “this day is significant.” Like it’s an anniversary of something, or somebody’s birthday. But I rack my brain, and I can’t think of anything at all associated with this date. Maybe every day is significant.

Today is significant simply because it’s the day I write about fog. And here I am. It’s foggy this morning, so it’s an appropriate time to write about it. That quiet, dark feeling.

But it’s not any old fog I want to write about—it’s specifically fog on the parkway. And not just any old parkway. The Blue Ridge Parkway.

Usually, when we talk about “being in a fog,” it’s a stagnant place. Lack of forward motion, lack of vision, no clarity, bordering on despair. But fog on the parkway is a very different thing. Hard to see through at times, but exciting.

Here’s how it happens. I start out on a sunny morning, a little ambivalent about my destination, but enjoying the clear fall views out across the layers and layers of ridges. After about 35 minutes, just as I’m beginning to forget to drink it all in—whump—I’m in the fog. It’s not gradual. I don’t see it coming.

Can’t go over it, can’t go under it, can’t go around it. Gotta go through the door.

And then it’s magical in a whole new way. Mysterious. I downshift and take tentative steps forward.

I’m still moving, though, and so is the fog. It slides down the escarpment above me, and caresses the car with its long fingers. It rolls and plays, an otter in the shallows. It kisses the trees and then moves on, while they stretch out in longing, waving it toward the valleys below.

The fog delights in playing with my perspective. It blots out my vision, so that I can only see a few feet of the yellow line, emerging snake-like in front of me, just barely keeping me on the road. A car emerges abruptly, the headlights two blind saucers, and it’s gone.

Then a bubble in the mist—still foggy above me and all around, but the road itself is a tunnel to follow. I can see what lies ahead and behind, but with no periphery whatsoever. Only my imagination and memory let me know what surrounds . . . if I trust them. After all, it could all be different now, couldn’t it?

Abruptly, I’m whisked out of the fog. Azure above, miles of mountains spreading out, my way is clear. It looks like elation.

Fog on the parkway is an apt metaphor for the last two years of my life, as well as my process of writing creatively.

Especially before I decided to write, I said more than once that I felt like I was on the parkway in the fog. Just able to see what was directly in front of me, driving carefully, only able to focus on the immediate present because I had no idea where I was supposed to be going. Some part of me believed that the road kept going up there, and that it was winding around to someplace good, but I had no idea of the destination. Not even enough of an idea to be ambivalent. All I could do was drive, be curious, and try to be patient. The patience thing was tough—it was more like driving through the fog when you have to go to the bathroom really bad, but you don’t want to stop to do it.

And even now that my general way is clear to me (I’m committed to seeing this book through to the end, and I know I’ve got three days a week to do it, more or less) the fog continues to tickle my ear lobes and curl my hair. It’s been clear which story I wanted to start with, but I have no idea what’s beyond it. I need to remember that the mist will reveal it to me when I get there.

The writing process is the same. Keep moving, if blindly. Trust the path. Let the mist play around me, and enjoy it on the days I can. Notice the differences in texture, thickness, awareness. When clarity comes, celebrate! And write it all down before I’m back in the fog.

Fog is water in the air—two elements in one. Transformative. It gets on your skin, and droplets rest lightly in your hair. You breathe it in instead of drinking. It becomes a part of you.

In the fog, scenic overlooks are a joke, an exercise in futility. Fog forces me to follow my wise African friend’s advice—I can only be present in the here and now. The rest is gone. Evaporated in the mist.

Fog is dynamic and alive. To enjoy the fog, rather than just enduring it, you must have comfort with ambiguity. You’ve got to relish the mysteries of life, rather than denying them. You’ve got to be willing to sit down and have a cup of tea with paradox. Pandora’s Box.

You also have to be relaxed in the midst of complete silence (unusual in this noisy world). You’ve got to be an explorer. You must find excitement, rather than simply fear, in the unknown. You’ve got to be willing to learn, especially about yourself, since that’s just about all you can see when you’re in the fog.

Amazing Grace

2006-09-03T21:29:00.000-04:00

Great news! In the last throes of packing for the big trip to my brother Josh's wedding on the other coast, my digital camera appeared--and of course it appeared in a place I was certain I had checked several times already. At any rate, there it was. Once lost, now found. I never was blind, but now you can see . . . our trip anyway.

I never have been too certain about what grace is, exactly. I know grace when I see it in movement, but people talk about God's grace, and I feel a little befuddled. But I think maybe I experienced some of it on this trip.

All weddings are historic events in the lives of their main characters, but this one especially. I've told you already the story of Josh, my half-brother, how I met him a few years ago, and fell in love immediately. But the part I didn't really explain was that he has a whole 'nother family on the other coast--parents, brothers, the whole shebang. But never have the two sides come together. Until now. For a brief moment, in the length of time that it takes to say "cheese," there was tuxed-up Josh with all his siblings: his four sisters from the east coast, and his three brothers from the west. All of us. For the first and perhaps the onliest time. What a moment. Josh was clearly delighted, and not a little in awe.

But it might be that grace is sometimes experienced in darker moments as well. An unexpected wedding guest for me was an old, familiar surge of anger, one that I've not felt in quite some time. It came during the reception, after a series of toasts recounting various moments in Josh's life, including some references to his origins and my own dad. Even after all this time, all this work, all this "understanding" that I've been able to gain about my father by traveling through time, it turns out that I'm still mad. People start saying nice things about him, and I just want to get up and set them straight. It's an old, old knee-jerk response, and I wasn't happy to see that it's still in there.

But here's the grace in it (if grace is what you call it): I felt those old feelings, succumbed for a little bit, and then caught myself. "Oh," I said, "I see what's happening here. It's you, my old friend Mr. Anger. Nice of you to stop by, but the truth is, you're not really needed now. Things are fine here." We shook hands, and off he went. I breathed, and it was over. He was gone.

And so is Dad.

But the rest of us are still here, on this coast and that one, getting through our days, doing our best, raising our kids, still learning how to love.

I can't define grace in words, but I think I have a sense of it anyway.

And I'm glad to have my camera back.

Loss

2006-08-17T09:14:00.000-04:00

Have I lost it? It's a petite silver digital wonder. To me, at least. In actuality, it was the cheapest digital camera with the features I needed. But it does the trick. When it's not lost. I've been wracking my brain since the weekend, when I noticed it was missing. I wanted to pack it for our trip to the lake in Georgia, our second lake trip this summer, our last hurrah before beginning the school year. We went to the lake without it.

We had a glorious time anyway--full of cousins and grandparents and aunts and uncles and innertubes and games and watermelon and fish on the line. Everything the lake has always been, is supposed to be.

(These pictures are from our June trip, but they give you the idea.)

It wasn't all fun, though. There was childhood terror in the midst of a crashing thunderstorm. And tears all around the dock as we shared our memories of Aunt Martha, sent our songs soaring across the lake, and took turns letting handfuls of her ashes sift through our fingers into the deep, green water.

Though Mom came to the lake, she couldn't make it to the evening ceremony on the dock. Once she's had her supper, her lids begin the inevitable downward drift, and there's just no stopping the bedtime train.

Yesterday morning it was time to say goodbye. We skipped the age-old rituals of pre-departure picture-taking (my camera was missing, after all), but swept it all clean before waving our way down the winding gravel. Away.

Our family's car was full of children and dog, so Mom rode with my sister Nancy. When we got home, I called to make sure Mom had gotten home safely, but she was already out in the living room, getting reacquainted with her rest home neighbors. When she called back, she reported to my voice mail that they had gotten back about 3:30 and had a lovely time at the lake--swimming, boating, playing games. She couldn't wait to tell me all about it.

Couldn't wait to tell me all about it. She had already forgotten I was there. I was there.

I've decided not to get too bent out of shape about the camera. I'm guessing it'll turn up. Or, worst case scenario, I'll save my pennies and buy another. Cameras can be replaced.

Mamas, not so much.

Like a weed

2006-07-31T20:39:00.000-04:00

My long and lean daughter must be heading into another growth spurt. She's been ravenous lately.

This time of year--getting on towards late summer, school starting in a couple of weeks--gets me thinking about growth. Weeds are beginning to win the battle in my garden. My more green-thumbed friends and family are starting to overflow with produce. The trees are as dark green as they'll get. Undergrowth is lush.

Plant growth is relatively gradual. I can watch my weeds go from pinch-sized to grab-it-and-yank, and it all seems pretty steady. But we humans seems to do it in fits and starts.

I think I've been going through a growth spurt myself lately, although fortunately it's been the visible-only-to-me variety. "Personal growth," as the self-help industry calls it, I suppose. I noticed myself noticing today, caught myself in the act of recognizing my typical reaction to an emotional event, giving that reaction a nod of greeting, and letting it pass on by.

I'm quite sure I won't be able to maintain this zen feeling indefinitely, but I'm appreciating it while it's here. And maybe, just maybe, it'll be a tiny bit easier to get to this place next time around.

Growth. Fits and spurts. And mighty cyclical. Being alive is a fascinating proposition. Especially when you can pay attention.

What's Left

2006-07-26T09:50:00.000-04:00

Yesterday we moved Mom to the rest home. It felt more like an installation to me than anything else. So many people to move a small roomful of stuff, sisters cloaking feelings behind masks of efficiency. But the feelings sure leaked out around the edges. My own mask is a lot more transparent than it used to be. Supposedly that's healthy.

At one point I looked at my little stooped mama, never wavering in her decision, resolutely helping to carry way-too-big boxes. I said aloud, "she's so brave," and burst into tears. As I hurried across the porch to recompose my mask, I came to a windchime, hanging limply in the still morning air. No more chimes left--just the gonger in the middle, and wispy strings all around it. Nothing left to make music.

It's time.

The Calendar

2006-07-12T22:46:00.000-04:00

The other day, my sister Janet found an old briefcase in the back of her closet. In it was another gold mine: Dad's week-at-a-glance calendars from 1964 to 1972. Tonight I dove in, and saw up close and personal his path from frenetic pastor of a Birmingham Congregational church split down the middle, to Koinonia radical farmer, to Atlanta civil rights worker, to Cabbagetown ambulance attendant, to new age hippy.

In the Birmingham years I found the Selma march, and countless meetings with the minister and members of First Congregational, the black church in Birmingham. I found the frenetic pencilled scribbles of a manic mind trying desperately to hold all the details together in an impossible situation.

And looking through the Koinonia years, I figured this one out: my parents' anniversary is, almost to the day, nine months before the day of my birth. Oh, I got a good chuckle out of that one!

As Dad would say, "Don't that beat all?!"

Generation

2006-07-12T20:38:00.000-04:00

My mom made a lot of my clothes, growing up. I remember going with her to the fabric store, running my fingers along the different-textured bolts on the shelf. They were as tall as I was. Flipping through the big pattern books, dragging my mom by the hand to see the bolt of lavender checkered cloth--I couldn't wait for it to take shape into my very own mama-made dress. Made on her slender black Singer sewing machine.

We just don't do that anymore. Moms like me are too busy checking our email, writing our blogs (!), and answering our cell phones. And knitting--after all, we can take that with us. It doesn't tie us down like sewing machines, pin cushions, bobbins, and patterns. With knitting, you can grab it and go. Off and away.

Beside her slender black sewing machine (the one she still uses), Mom had a pink plastic ferris wheel to hold her thread. It had different compartments for the different size spools. Some would stand up straight on posts; others would recline in little spool-shaped beds. I loved to play with that ferris wheel, spinning it as hard as I could, many colors of thread first making a blur, then flying out in all directions. Or sometimes I'd move it slowly, each row of colors making its dignified way to the top, then relinquishing, cycling down, giving up its topmost spot to the next ascending row.

Mom's moving to a rest home in two weeks, and she gave that little ferris wheel to my sister Janet. Janet doesn't sew any more than I do, but that pink plastic gizmo means just as much to her as it does to me, and she'll make sure it doesn't get lost in the shuffle.

One row slowly descends, as the others rise up.

Down, and up. Down, and up.

And my heart cries out.

I'm not ready!

Side Effects

2006-07-10T20:31:00.000-04:00

One bummer of aging, according to Mom, is the raft-full of medicines she has to take daily. Of course, compared to most people her age, Mom’s got it easy, but she still hates it. The side effect she hates most is the cost. But though she tries to buck it sometimes (“I don’t have asthma anymore!” “That’s because of the medicine, Mom.” “Well, I don’t believe you, but I’ll take it if it makes you happy.”), the benefits for her far outweigh the costs, including the financial ones.

My book journey has had some side effects as well, mostly positive ones. Getting to know fascinating, legendary people. Unexpected, delightful gifts. The occasional flow of inspiration. So many things. Really, this journey has been almost universally positive and gratifying.

Almost.

Lately I’ve been wrestling with an unintended consequence that’s affecting my entire family.

You see, on my Atlanta foray in May, I found yet another old friend of the family, and reconnected the ribbon of friendship. Long ago, when I was just a saucy toddler with golden curls, this friend of my parents was one I really latched onto. And seeing her again brought it all back—in my childhood mind, she was one I could count on. I think, somewhere deep down there, I’d decided that if it ever got so bad that, well—she’s the one I’d go to. And seeing her again, 35 years later, brought back all those feelings of love and vulnerability. We sat in my cousin’s living room, shared our stories, and cried together. Though she was my mother’s closest friend and confidante when things in our family were at their worst, she never knew the truth. A hard thing to hear from the grown-up toddler, all those years later.

But the fact is, Mom survived it. We all did. And now here we are, with a new challenge to face.

Mom’s dementia is far enough along now that it’s time for a new plan. She’s lived on her own long enough—she’s ready for someone else to do the cooking and cleaning, ready to have people around to visit with, ready to be taken care of. Ready enough to move from her home into an assisted living facility. And hard though it is to accept (after all, she’s had the same phone number since I was 10 years old—funny what becomes important), we’re ready, too. It’s happening in two weeks.

The only person who’s not ready is this long-lost friend in Atlanta. After my visit with her, she came up and visited Mom, and decided she just doesn’t feel right about Mom moving to this place. Not right enough, in fact, that she’s tried to redirect the whole thing. She’s called my sisters and me, trying to talk us out of it. Then she even called Mom, inviting Mom to come to Atlanta and move into her condo.

At that point, it was too much. I was getting frantic—what if she changed Mom’s mind? This is hard enough as it is!

So this morning I called Mom and asked her about it straight-up. “Yeah, she called me,” Mom said, “but I got away from Atlanta 30 years ago—why in the world would I want to go back now?”

She’s clear. She’s ready. And once again, I just need to take a big breath, and let myself have faith in the process. All will be well. Sometimes side effects are just side effects, and they don’t even matter. The key thing is to focus on what does.

High Definition

2006-06-29T09:50:00.000-04:00

I went to Birmingham and watched HGTV on HDTV. I had never seen HDTV before, and this was a big ole wiiiide screen. I liked it--the wide screen skews the dimensions a little, especially right in the middle. So all the women choosing their dream homes are shaped kind of like me in the hip department. Every detail crisp and sharp.

The next day we went to Kelly Ingram Park, where the black city kids who believed in freedom faced water cannons, sharp-fanged German shepherds, and a racist police force.

That was the summer my family moved to Birmingham, 43 years ago.

The statues in the park were sharp, real, compelling.

When did we start needing TV to tell us what reality is?

More Ducks

2006-06-22T07:20:00.000-04:00

I'm off on another research trip tomorrow, and this time my ducks woke me up. Hopping on my chest--"Cindy," >quack< "get up!" A little beak tickling my ear, whispering, "We've got bushels of stuff to get done!" >quack< "Get moving!" Little webbed feet up and down my arms and legs. After all, this is the fourth research trip in three months. They know the drill.

We'll be heading to Birmingham at 6 a.m. tomorrow, so we can get there in time to visit Dad's former church and see what old records still exist. Hopefully we'll find some insight into his leadership, and what he was up to while he was there. We'll visit with older church members who remember my family, and put up a wind sock and see where the winds blow us.

When I got my eyes open enough to get a good look at my ducks this morning, I noticed that they're looking a little bedraggled. After all, the trip to Cincinnati last weekend was a bit of a strain on them, bless their little hearts. Their wings are drooping a little, feathers not quite as well groomed as usual. Their beady eyes have lost a bit of their dark sparkle. They're tired.

I think they need to just float. Dive and splash. Use that oil at the base of their tails to protect all those beautiful feathers. Let the water roll off. Enjoy the sunshine. Take a break and just be ducks.

This may be the last trip for a while.

My Friend Sam

2006-06-15T08:00:00.000-04:00

I've been actively dreading this weekend, the trip to Cincinnati for my aunt Martha's funeral. But this morning, my friend Sam gave me a gift that will help ease the way. I can keep it in my pocket like a cool, smooth stone. It will give me comfort.

Sam Oni is a famous name in our family--he's the man who came from Ghana to attend Mercer University. His was the first dark face to be anything other than hired help on that campus, when he came as a student in September of 1963. He was also the first black person to join a white Baptist church in the state of Georgia, when he stood before my grandfather's congregation a few days later, and was voted in by a slim majority. It was, as he said to me when we sat together in his living room, a "faith-shattering experience."

I never knew Sam until I went to Georgia last month. None of us did. He continued going to Vineville Baptist Church for a year or more when he was in college, but never felt accepted. After the racial epithets were hurled towards where he stood at the front of the church the day he joined, he always felt self-conscious, looked-at. As he said, "the climate was not exactly conducive for reflection, for meditation, for just being in the presence of God." If he happened to arrive at church early and sit in an empty pew, no one else would sit there. No one in the church reached out to him, invited him for Sunday dinner, asked him about his family or his studies at school. He never experienced the legendary "southern hospitality" that he felt he so richly deserved. Where was the warm welcome for this young man who had traveled across the world, the fruit of the Baptists' own labor in the missions field? He never felt it, so he got out of Georgia as soon as he could. He landed in Berkeley, California in the late 60's. Graduate school, flower children, the Black Panthers, accepted at last. It was the beginning of a love affair with a city as far from Georgia as Sam could get.

I did finally get to meet Sam, though. I spent two amazing hours hearing his stories. What a gift!

The thing that first struck me when I walked into Sam's apartment was the picture directly across from the door. It was a picture of a stained glass window in Tattnall Square Church, the Baptist church on the edge of the Mercer Campus. I recognized the picture because it hangs on my mother's wall as well. I remembered hearing that Sam had been thrown out of that church or something, and it struck me as ironic to see it as I walked in the door. While I was there, he told me the whole story: the visit from the Tattnall Square minister the first week, who made a personal visit to Sam's dorm room to let him know that he would not be welcome at Tattnall Square. Three years later, when Sam decided to visit Tattnall Square and the ushers physically blocked him from entering the sanctuary. His visit the following week, when they actually closed and locked the front doors so that he couldn't get in. Why would this, of all things, be the picture to greet me as I entered his home?

This morning, when I finally finished transcribing the tape of our time together, I got to hear the answer in Sam's beautiful, lilting voice all over again:

Now, for me, Cindy, I don’t know about you, but forgiveness is so therapeutic. It heals the forgiver as well as the forgiven. Let me labor the obvious. Whether you realize it or not, the only time that we live is really and truly the here and now. So people can latch onto incidents of the past, and let that affect them whichever way, and in fact maybe even retard their growth and progress. Or be obsessed with the future, and be made insecure by it. But really and truly, the time one lives, is here and now.

And that is my gift from Sam, the one that will soothe my heart and spirits as I drive in a family-filled car to Cincinnati, as we sort through Martha's belongings, as we grieve together.

Really and truly, the time one lives, is here and now. That I can do.

Slides

2006-06-11T21:33:00.000-04:00

I spent the past long weekend at The Lake, a tiny place in north Georgia that has meant the world to our family for over 60 years.

We still stay in my grandparents' cabin when we go, though now it belongs to my Uncle Buddy and has had several improvements since its days as a one-room cabin. It was mighty sweet back then, though, and full to bursting with love and my grandmama's spunk.

The cabin wasn't quite so full of family this trip--just the four of us for a good chunk of the time. And I had some time to go through the keepsakes still in Grandmama's chest of drawers. Her college scrapbook from the twenties is there, along with her wedding dress, her oldest daughter Sunny's baby books, and a picture of the flower-piled cemetery the day after little Sunny died. I've been to that cemetery now, so I recognize it when I see it.

It's different being there now--I have a new lens for looking closely. I know more, understand more, ask different questions, feel through it in a different way.

This time, I even went through the drawer of Granddaddy's slides. The phrase "gold mine" is trite and over-used, but it fits. When you first open the drawer, you notice that it's tumbled-up and disorganized, though most all the slides are in boxes. Some are labeled correctly, some are mislabeled, and many have no notations at all. So when you pull out a box and start popping slides in the viewer, there's no telling what you'll find.

But, oh, goodness, once you really dig in, the life that streams out of that drawer!

Granddaddy loved photography--he had lots of equipment, and even developed his own pictures (though not the slides, of course). And looking at the slides, just me and that lit-up 2x2 square of color, is about the closest I can come to being inside his head, seeing what he saw. Loving what he loved.

There are photos from their travels all around the world: Cuba, Panama, Chile, Ecuador, Rome, France, Luxembourg, Scotland, England, California, New York City, Mt. Ranier, The Lake. And there are pictures of people, mostly family. Us. Some posed, some not. Pictures of us swimming, playing, concentrating, eating, talking, smiling at him. Loving him back.

And he's in a lot of the pictures, too. I have lots of memories of waiting, posing while he got it all set up, then all of us counting together, eager with anticipation as he ran around and joined us just in time for the shutter to capture the moment with him in it.

But there's one roll of pictures that's completely different. No people, no exotic places. Just the lake, the changing fall trees, their house in Macon. A few simple images. It's from October of 1977, just three months before Granddaddy died of cancer. He knew he was going, and through the lens of his camera, he said goodbye.

Goodbye again, my granddaddy.

A POSTSCRIPT . . .
After writing this piece this morning at the lake, I came home and learned that my Aunt Martha, my mom's younger sister, had drifted peacefully away in her sleep in the wee hours at the hospice facility in Cincinnati.

Safe travels, Martha. We all love you dearly.

two part harmony

2006-05-30T12:25:00.000-04:00

My little outdoor adventure this morning was carefully planned, my weekly ritual to keep the tanks full for my journey. I had already decided what I wanted to do. I got some work done before I headed out so that I could let go and enjoy it. I carefully chose the right clothes to wear, and set out.

I didn't exactly know where I was going, though--I had heard there was a labyrinth nearby, and I had a general sense of its location. I took the scenic route getting there, and then wandered around until I found it. I walked the labyrinth's circular path, one bare foot in front of the other, slowly along the hot, edgy gravel. I felt the sun on one side, the breeze on the other. Smelled the honeysuckle. Enjoyed the sparkly mica in the stones along the path. Paused. Took my time.

After my second time through, I felt finished, but not.

So I set out on the spontaneous, entirely unplanned part of my morning's adventure. With my shoes back on, I strode along a linear, well-worn, familiar path along the river. I knew exactly where I was going, and what I would do when I got there. I arrived, did it, turned around, and walked purposefully back to the car. Completely satisfied.

Not entirely sure of the lesson in it, but I think there was one.

Sure was a nice morning.

Fair to Middlin'

2006-05-29T21:33:00.000-04:00

My mom was 35 when I was born. And up until just a few years ago, I always thought of her as "middle-aged." What did that mean? Hell, I don't know. I never really defined it for myself. I guess it meant she had wrinkled hands with lots of strength still in them, along with the faint scent of whatever fresh vegetables she had just chopped for supper. It meant she had dark curls with just a subtle touch of gray. It meant she had a depth of wisdom with a youthful twinkle. It was just who she was. My mama. Solid. Middle-aged.

Today I turned 40 and my oh-so-darling son informed me that I'm middle-aged. What?! ME?! I've been happily telling everyone that I've decided to opt out of the mid-life crisis, preferring instead the notion of the "mid-life renaissance." That feels fine. But middle-aged? That's a whole 'nother kettle of fish! Hold on! I'm not ready!

But here I am, 40 years old, with my 75-year-old mother fading away. Not dying, but decidedly fading. As I do the math, that puts me pretty squarely in the middle.

Half over? Half to go? Half empty? Half full? Here's what I know: no visible gray in these curls. Only the faint beginnings of wrinkles on my busy hands. Still celebrate summer by jumping off a high rock into the take-your-breath icy creek. Head over heels in love, quick on the uptake, and eager for adventure.

Aaah--math is over-rated. Life is good.

A Place

2006-05-22T21:30:00.000-04:00

The scary times didn't really take hold until we left Cabbagetown to move to Cambridge Square, our apartments on the outskirts of Atlanta (did I tell you we moved 6 times in my first 6 years?). By that time, Linda was pretty well grown and gone, and Nancy was hard on her heels.

They experienced mostly just the beginnings of Dad's craziness, but in some ways more directly than Janet and I did. His charisma captivated them at times--they flirted with following in his footsteps, dropping out, hitchhiking with him across the country and out into the ether. They each had their backpacks ready to go a time or two, I think, but somehow they managed to hear the voice of their own good sense and head back in the door just in time. Me, I was too young, and then I'd seen too much. There was no way. And he knew it.

Even though we shared walls with our neighbors, Cambridge Square is where the raging reached full pitch. Cursing, busted lips, broken furniture. We lived there, off and on, from the time I was 4 until I was 10. Not a place I've every really wanted to revisit.

But I did. It was the first stop on my trip back in time a couple of weeks ago, my Georgia Tour 2006.

As I pulled into the parking space in front of our first apartment there, I noticed flowers ebulliently blooming across the street. Things grow here. Someone opened an upstairs window, and I could hear the sound of vacuuming. People do normal household chores here. A man in a suit walked up the sidewalk and let himself into our apartment--his apartment--with a key. People go out and come back home again. They have jobs. I smelled the savory smells of Asian food cooking. People cook, and eat. They enjoy the flavors. I saw a bird's nest tucked under a balcony. New life.

And as I walked around the to the back, down the street, and in and around our second apartment, one phrase kept repeating itself in my head.

It's just a place. It's just a place. It can't hurt me. It's just a place.

And THAT--that simple, commonsense notion--was a huge revelation. It's really just a place.

thoughts while transcribing

2006-05-22T19:43:00.000-04:00

Many of Dad's closest friends heard his intense ideas as rarified idealism. Especially his younger friends listened raptly, so admiring his strong beliefs and his fervent need to do the right thing in the world. Our family friend Betty described for me what it was like when we lived in Cabbagetown, when Dad would ride all day on the Atlanta ambulance with Betty's then-husband Dave, and then come home at night to go to organizing meetings or take all of us to parties 'round the campfire, where his four daughters would shine like jewels, and he could go on for hours about all the wrongs in the world and how we might right them.

Here's how Betty describes him:

Your dad wanted things to be squared and right in the world. And I think it was always on his mind, whether it was people who were poor, or the racial thing, or whatever. And I think it was hard—it was hard to find a place to plant your feet and take hold because things were never as good as they should have been, no matter what, or who was trying to do it. You would’ve had to pick something and stay in for the long haul. ["Not Dad's forte," I interject.] It was a search for something that would finally meet the requirements. I always saw him as being very idealistic and not wanting to hurt the earth, not wanting to hurt anyone, not wanting to . . . it was almost like he had to disappear or evaporate so that his own presence wouldn’t take up too much space.

Starting out on this journey--talking to old friends, diving into the past--I've been in the habit of still seeing Dad through an old lens: he was selfish, thinking only of himself, exposing us to his rage, and then leaving us behind to pick up the pieces. But he always saw himself as truly trying to do the right thing in the world, in a way that no one else had the guts to do. And other people believed it.

I've always known he had followers, people who swallowed the whole thing, hook, line, and sinker. And that's how I've thought about those people. Couldn't they see through him?

But now I'm beginning to see glimpses of what they saw, in those places, in that turbulent time. They saw a man who had ideals and wanted to see them become real. They saw a man who had great energy and potential. And then somehow it all just went too far.

It's amazing how much space you can still take up when you just evaporate.

Especially if you're somebody's daddy.

True Grits

2006-05-19T13:51:00.001-04:00

I had another bad dream in the early light of this morning.

In my dream, the love of my life had betrayed me. But that wasn't the nightmare part. It was the rage. My rage. When I figured out that he'd lied, and other close friends had been in on the deceit, it was like I was possessed. I screamed, I threw things, I broke dishes. People around me tried everything to calm me down, with no results. I was beyond reason, far away from the here and now. I was my father. And it completely freaked me out.

The dream was so vivid that when I woke up, I didn't get that blessed relief feeling--I couldn't shake it. My worst nightmare, so real. So I did what you're supposed to do in times like these: I went outside, with my dog, and watched her be a dog. A dawg. I threw, she retrieved. In the pond, over and over and over. A dog doing what she was put here to do, what she loves more than anything, what she truly can't resist. Throw it, jump in, swim, bring it back. Throw it, jump in, swim, bring it back. A cycle of instincts. A cycle of doing what feels right. Letting it flow. Letting it go. Eagerness, excitement, joy. Water droplets everywhere.

I've been so bound-up lately. Trying ineffectively to keep up with all the end-of-the-schoolyear details, help support my mom, manage the still-overwhelming crush of feelings from my trip back in time. I just get tighter, tighter, tighter. What I need to do is remember what I was put on this earth to do: sit on the porch, drink a tall glass of iced tea, and tell a darned good story. I'm a southerner. It's what we do.

I always swore I'd never own a dog. Now I truly don't know what I'd do without her.

Crock Pot

2006-05-17T13:32:00.000-04:00

I so want to write about all my adventures, but the time just isn't right.

Somehow, when I have such intense experiences, they have to stew a good long while before they organize themselves into stories. I have images and STRONG feelings, but the rush of the good story hasn't come yet.

Stick around. If all goes well, it should be worth the wait.

Unpacking

2006-05-13T06:57:00.000-04:00

It's been three days since I got home, and I'm still unpacking. No, I don't mean my suitcase--it's still sitting in the corner, basically untouched. It's the experiences I'm still sorting through, holding each one up to the light, and looking at it from every side: Wow. What really happened here? Did I really do all this in 3½ days?

Looking at the pictures over and over again. Talking through the stories. Remembering. Refeeling. Wow.

I went to places I had sworn I'd never go back to, places I couldn't find, and places that have mostly existed only in our family legends. I followed maps. I followed directions we had pieced together based on looking at Google Earth--a combination of decades-old memories and photos from space. And occasionally, I even followed my instincts. I'm learning to feel the pull, let myself be led by the flow. Not bad for an old control freak like myself.

I drove a lot. And cried a lot.

So many stories to tell.

Solo Flight

2006-05-05T20:02:00.000-04:00

Tomorrow morning I set out on my next Big Adventure. I'm going to Atlanta to visit old friends, old haunts. The car is packed, the route is planned, I'm ready to go. My ducks are much more cooperative these days. More sure of their places, perhaps.

I haven't been back to visit since we left, though I've passed the exits and felt a sense of "no way would I go THERE again." But now I feel a protective cloak of detachment, thanks to my book. I'm sure there will be something unexpected, something difficult. But I have a sense of Boldly Going, and it excites me.

This is the trip I've been putting off--the others were more about Research, places I'd never been or didn't remember. This time I'm travelling back into the recesses of my own mind. Ever since I knew this would be coming, I've imagined that my sister Janet would be with me, being my bird dog, sharing my re-experiences as we shared the ones so long ago. But today she called to say that she wouldn't be able to come after all.

I think there's a reason
I'm supposed to do this
alone.

The Name Game

2006-05-05T07:15:00.000-04:00

So I'm taking this Sunday School class on Acts. ("Oh, I get it!" I said, "'Acts of the Apostles'--it's just stuff they did!" When you're moving on from illiteracy, the first step is to be unashamed, and celebrate every tidbit of new learning.) And there was this Levite named Joseph, who got renamed Barnabas, which means Son of Encouragement. Why are people always getting new names in the Bible?

With my hippy upbringing, I've known a long string of people who have clothed themselves in new monikers, and it's always irked me. Mike, who became Uthman, then Uthmichael, then Michael, and finally Dirtyrottenskunk (my mother's name for him) when he broke my sister's heart. David Sunfellow, Yanna, Gita . . . the list goes on. But the best one comes from the time when the bridge was out.

Mom and I came home one afternoon, to find the boat on the other side of the river. We were stranded away from home instead of at home. What to do? We called and called until we were practically hoarse, and finally a strange figure came hurrying down the hill from the house. Who was this guy, who had just helped himself, first to our boat, and then to our home? From across the river, he raised his hand in greeting and yelled, "Giturinon." After exchanging a confused glance, Mom and I both decided that this must be "hello" in his language. Cupping our hands around our mouths, we shouted back: "Giturinon to you, too!"

At that point, he hopped lightly in the boat, and paddled frenetically in our direction. The man didn't even know how to hold a paddle, adding to our impression that he must be from some faraway land.

But no, as it turned out when he finally got across to us, he was merely a friend of Dad's from Virginia Beach. Dad had sent Giturinon our way, assuring him that he'd get a friendly welcome. And good ole Giturinon probably thought he did. But in our private Mama-and-Cindy place, we were happy to send him on his way when the time came. Giturinon, really.

And that's been my take on the whole renaming thing. If I could raise one eyebrow, I would.

Until the day before yesterday, when I had occasion to sign my name in an unusually complete way: Cindy Henry McMahon. The fact is, I was happy to change my own name 14 years ago, when I shucked Cindy Henry to become Cindy McMahon. A chance to leave that old baggage behind at last. Leave all!

But at the end of this journey, when I have an honest-to-goodness book to send out into the world, I've decided that the cover will carry a new name--my whole name. Cindy Henry McMahon. All of me.

Please pass the crow.

Cold Calling II

2006-05-02T21:07:00.000-04:00

Tonight I finally got an answer at the number I had been calling to try and reach Collins McGee. He was a friend of our family way back, the black man who got seized by the collar that evening in December of '65 while the congregation at First Baptist of Americus sang "angels we have heard on high." I remember him visiting us in Cabbagetown and calling me The Graham Cracker Kid. My sisters remember him as always fun, a breath of life. We loved him.

I learned tonight, from his wife, that he died ten years ago. A heart attack, and he was only in his 50's.

Goodbye, Collins. We're all sad that we didn't have the chance to get to know you all over again.

Flood

2006-05-02T14:49:00.000-04:00

In December of 1976, our family moved from an apartment in Atlanta to an old house across a footbridge in the mountains of NC. The next November, the footbridge washed away.

The morning after the storm, the air was charged with excitement. Mom and I (it was just the two of us then) hurried down the hill to see the river. The river was still roaring, though down from its nighttime peak, and the swinging bridge was swinging indeed, boards and cables hanging loosely. It looked like a teenager with braces who's just been punched in the mouth.

The logical thing for us to do, really, was to lose it. Panic. Here we were, basically stranded. But that's the cool thing about living through all we had. To us, this was pure adventure. After all, Dad had left, so we felt safe for a while. We had wood for the wood stove, we had food in the cupboards, and we could walk to a bridge. In fact, we even had choices--the upstream bridge and the downstream bridge were each just a mile away, so every day we could decide on our route: does today feel like an upriver or downriver kind of day? And then it just got more exciting when some friends loaned us a boat, and we no longer had to carry the groceries and laundry in on our backs. It was like we had our own security system--when the boat was on our side, no one could get to us (good thing, since we never locked our doors, and didn't even have a key).

Truth to tell, I was a little disappointed when the state finally came to fix the bridge. I liked it when it was just Mom and me, two survivors, living on our own little island.

Boy, do I miss her.

Cold Calling

2006-04-30T13:57:00.000-04:00

I come from a long line of salesmen. My dad's father was a Dunlop tire salesman. My dad sold Tide detergent before he went to seminary, and won all kinds of top sales awards. Even my Granddaddy Moore majored and worked in business before he entered the ministry. And then, well, there are all those Baptist preachers in my family tree. Some might say that every sermon is a big sales pitch leading up to the "call" at the end. Closing the deal for Jesus.

But me, the most I ever sold was a few candy bars on the bus, raising money for the high school band. They don't call my professional experience "nonprofit management" for nothing. And here I am on my firstever major creative endeavor, faced with the challenge of cold-calling. Hardly what you think of when you picture the Bohemian artist lifestyle.

Big breath, here I go.

The first one on my list is Sam Oni. He's the one from Ghana who joined my grandfather's Macon, Georgia church in 1963 (more of the story). I know he lives in Atlanta and I'm going there next week. Think he'll talk to me?

Fingers on the keypad. I can do this. One ring, two, three--oh good, I'll get the answering machine. Quick, think of what to say. His beautiful, lilting accent the on the answering machine--yes, this must be the right number! "Hi, my name is Cindy McMahon, and my grandfather was Walter Moore, the pastor at Vineville Baptist Church in Macon, and--" >click< a person! "Ohhhhh," he says, after a pause, "you are an answer to prayer."

His response takes my breath away and with it, all of my words.

He was meditating, he explains to me, but when he heard my voice and message, he had to come to the phone. I'm coming to Atlanta? Of course he'd love to talk to me. Just phone again when I get to town, and we'll set it up. "You can't imagine," he tells me, "the joy I am feeling now."

And I'm sure he can't imagine the warmth that spreads all the way down to my fingertips. Funny when a call to a complete stranger provides an immediate reminder of the closely woven strands of humanity.

We are inexplicably inextricable.

The Visitor

2006-04-26T13:28:00.000-04:00

Unlike my parents, who gave up everything they owned to belong to Koinonia, I went there to be an observer. A sponge.

I dropped my stuff off at the cheerful yellow house where I'd be spending the night, and hung onto my sense of detachment as Button, my spry and cheerful host, explained that she keeps a gallon of water sitting on the bathtub drain to keep the critters out at night. "Usually just ants," she said, "and a couple of frogs, which is great. I really love the frogs. And then there were the two pit vipers. Don't you worry, though--we disposed of them without killing them." What a relief.

From there, I started my exploration.

I crawled into the archives and mined out all the relevant ore I could find. I stood in the door of Clarence's writing shack--aside from the coat of garish green paint on the outside, it seems relatively untouched since his heart stopped beating there 37 years ago. I breathed in the air off the crop fields--deep south Georgia springtime breaths--as sunset pink faded from the clouds. I stood in the center of the little Koinonia library, imagining Dad poring over the sections that would draw him in: new age stuff, alternative medicine, Hebrew and Greek. I followed a map of the farm, winding my way through the pecan groves to Picnic Hill, where the Jordans' graves are marked by a big sandy stone uncomfortably bearing a formal-looking plaque (at that point I did step out of my observer shoes momentarily, building a small cairn of rock shards on top of the big one. After all, I'm family--you don't visit a grave without leaving a little something behind).

And then, after my early morning walk on Sunday, I stepped into Button's kitchen, and everything changed.

Button was there with two friends, Emory and Nashua, having a cheerful breakfast and discussing an article in the paper about the "new" gospel of Judas. It was obvious that I had stepped into an oft-rehearsed scene. They all had their roles--Button spiritual and optimistic, Nashua dark and brooding, Emory challenging. I brought my simple bread, cheese, and tea, and sat down at the table, intending to listen and enjoy.

And then, from what seemed like out of the blue, Nashua said, "well, the Bible says we're supposed to leave all and follow Jesus." My head whipped around, there was an orange-yellow flash of light behind my eyes, and I snapped into engagement: "What is this, a KOINONIA THING???" Observer no longer.

At that, the words tumbled out of my mouth, and I told my whole story--being born at Koinonia, Dad's activism, his mental illness, my journey. What it feels like to be six years old, and on the other side of "leave all." They listened with wide eyes, and welcomed me to their breakfast table. I had come to the true Koinonia at last.

After my outburst, Nashua expressed his relief to find out who I really was. Before that, he said, I was the "Mystery Woman Who Came to Walk the Land." I liked that image. I thought that's who I was, too. But I guess not.

As I follow my serpentine path, I never seem to know what's around the next curve. But I'm always happy when it's not a pit viper.

LEAVE ALL

2006-04-24T08:33:00.000-04:00

It's time to tell the story of LEAVE ALL.

When I went to Greenville a month or so ago to have lunch with my parents' good friend Dave, he told me about one thing in particular that really stuck with me. Stuck with me in the way of sticking in my throat, feeling physically there, like that lump that comes up when I can no longer hide how I really feel.

You see, Dave met our family when I was still a blonde cherub in diapers, and he spent more intense time with Dad than anyone else during that period. He was the driver and Dad was the attendant on an ambulance in downtown Atlanta at the end of the 60's. Lots to see, lots to experience, lots to share with each other.

So what did they talk about, riding around in that ambulance? Here are Dave's words:

Dave: A lot of the theme of what he was talking about, that he kept coming back to, was the notion of leaving all, as a concept, to follow Jesus. We had a lot of serious set-tos about that.
Me: Leaving ALL?
Dave: I think that's what he was trying to thrash out. He was very interested in not being materialistic, and he didn't want to own any more than he had to, to get by with. I can remember saying, "but Al, you've got a family to take care of," and he'd say, "but the Bible says, 'leave all, and follow me.'"
Me: Leave all, including your family, apparently.
Dave: Well, that's where his mind was going, and I couldn't understand that. I never could quite get an emotional understanding of his urge to shuck everything and leave. It seems to me that was an urge from when I first met him--that concept was something he was mulling in his mind.

I came home from Greenville and sat with it. Here was proof that from when I was in diapers, my dad was trying to figure out a way to leave me behind. And then, when I turned 6, he did. For the first time, anyway.

My head knows that it's not about me--he was mentally ill, and desperately seeking to justify his urge to escape the pressures of his life. But my heart just doesn't get it.

Yesterday's Aha

2006-04-23T08:22:00.000-04:00

I've been reading through all kinds of old papers, looking for new insights about my dad and grandfather. Buddha said that carrying one's anger is like holding a burning-hot stone in your hand--I'm hoping that new understanding will help me finally trade the hot weight of resentment for the cool water of forgiveness, running lightly across my fingers.

I recently got another gift--letters from me to a friend, who had carefully saved them over the years. When I read through them, I felt the old familiar flush of embarrassment creeping up my neck. This always happens when I read back over things I've written long ago. I begin to judge myself: how could I have been so superficial, or pitiful, or naive, or [fill in the blank with whatever other critical adjective you can come up with]?

It may be that Dad's not the only one I need to forgive. Forgiving myself may be the hardest task of all. And the most important.

Family Tree

2006-04-18T15:22:00.000-04:00

Today I walked on a path through the swamp, and found myself thinking of my dad. He lived in the swamp for a little while--'til the rangers found out about it and impounded his tent. I found a note about it that recent rainy day in the shed. The note said he could go get his stuff and wouldn't be in trouble, but I'm pretty sure he never did. Then he'd have to make nice.

There were great trees in the swamp today. Dad often said that some of his best friends were trees. They may have understood him better than the rest of us were able to.

As I walked along the nature trail, admiring the new life of the April trees, I came to this sign:

A Fallen Log
When a tree dies, its role in the forest does
not end. A fallen log is really the forerunner
of future forests. Its rotting wood, through
the work of plants, bacteria, and insects,
enriches the soil so that other plants
may grow.

We do carry on.

Being There

2006-04-12T14:25:00.000-04:00

Coming home was delicious, just as I knew it would be. The familiar routines, my own bed, the arms of my beloved family wrapped all around me. Ahhhh.

But you know, it's good to go, too. And not only because then you get to appreciate coming home. I gain new perspectives when I go away. And being there, in the new place, never fails to bring me new insights about whatever's on my mind.

In this case, it was Koinonia. When our family moved away from there I was 9 months old, so I had no memories of it. I needed some, and now I have them. Now I have driven by the Sumter County Hospital and thought, "there's where I drew my first breath." Now I have walked the sand road where my sisters used to walk me, round and round, in the fussy time of day for babies. Now I have explored the pecan groves, and appreciated their special geometry--I love the way the trees are planted, so that you're always looking straight down a row, no matter which way you're heading. Now I've been there.

I went to Koinonia with a certain story in my mind--I've heard different versions of this story, and I wanted to see if I could get more evidence about how it really happened. Here's the short version:

Somewhere around Christmastime in 1965, my granddaddy, Dr. Walter L. Moore, was scheduled to preach to an association of churches in Americus, GA. My parents went to hear him, along with Clarence Jordan, Millard Fuller, and Collins McGee, an African American friend of theirs. Needless to say, this motley crew did not get a friendly welcome, and they ended up leaving the church before Granddaddy even came out on the platform. It was a memorable evening for all of them, and a told-and-retold part of my family's history.

Now the way my mama tells this story, it is both personal and painful. She and her daddy were extremely close, and when she found out (in the newspaper) that he would be preaching, she was excited about the opportunity to go. She was less than thrilled when it turned into a group excursion, because she really didn't want to cause a scene. He was her daddy, and he had been invited as a guest preacher.

Millard, who has told this story in books and countless lectures, tells it a different way. To hear him tell it, Granddaddy came out to Koinonia for lunch that day, and as he was leaving, gave a typical southern "y'all come" invitation to come hear him preach that night. To hear Millard tell it, Mom was out in front of the group, pushing her way in, saying "he's my daddy, and he invited us!"

To hear Millard tell it, it was a Civil Rights Event. To hear Mom, it's the story of a breaking heart, caught in between the father she had admired forever, and the husband to whom she had pledged her life. I went to Koinonia, determined to find out how it actually happened.

I did find out how it happened--Mom's story is borne out by all the different versions of it that appear in the Koinonia archives. But I also learned something much more interesting, and it didn't come from Koinonia at all. It came from inside me. When I was in the space. Just being there.

You see, I went to that church in Americus. I went there for Sunday morning service on Palm Sunday. Arriving by myself, appropriately dressed, I was barely even noticed. I fit right in. I passed. I sat in approximately the same pew were they sat, that Advent evening in 1965. I looked around the big neoclassical sanctuary and thought about what it must've felt like to sit down and have the pews around me empty out simultaneously. When the usher handed me a visitor card with a big smile, I imagined what it would feel like if, instead, he had reached over and grabbed the collar of my friend, threatening to drag him out of the church. I slipped inside my mother's body, 4 months pregnant with little me, and felt her feelings of fear, disappointment, sadness, and humiliation. I understood her turmoil in a whole new way.

I understood it because when I walked into that church, I felt a feeling that I never expected to feel. Comfort. Now that I'm a regular church-goer myself, I understand the comfort of all of the familiar rituals: reading the bulletin, holding the hymnal, sitting in the pew, listening to the choir. My voice blending with all the others in the old familiar hymns. It feels a little like coming home. And how much more so if you know your daddy's going to preach.

Until my family left Birmingham, my mother had gone to church every Sunday of her life, most of them with her daddy in the pulpit. But when they moved to Koinonia, that familiar comfort was jerked roughly away from her. This was her first chance to go to church since then, and she must have leapt at the chance. How much more painful, then, to have it all dissolve before her eyes. I finally understood that it wasn't just embarassment, and worrying about making a scene. It was grief.

I liked being at Koinonia--the people were warm and welcoming, the culture was familiar for a grown-up hippy child like myself, and there was lots for me to soak up. But I was happy to see it recede in the rear view mirror. Happy to come back to the present.

On the Road

2006-04-06T18:57:00.000-04:00

My ducks are getting antsy again. It's about time to hit the road. And the day after tomorrow, I will. I'm going to Koinonia Farm to see what I find there, and then to visit my Uncle Buddy (of the high dive fame) in Florida. Southland in the springtime. Open road. I'm looking forward to it.

My dad felt the call of the open road on a regular basis. He hitchhiked from one end of the country to the other, and had plenty of interesting stories to tell, most of them too interesting to be true. Canada, Key West, California, and everyplace in between. We often had no idea where he was.

Our family traveled a lot when he was with us, too, usually camping or visiting friends along the way. We never had any money, but that didn't keep us at home.

Dad was always the one to pack the car. When we lived in an apartment on the edge of Atlanta, he'd spread all our stuff out in the parking lot before a trip--all of it out there for the world to see--and then pack it meticulously away in the back of the station wagon, leaving only a little squirrel hole in the very-back for my sleeping bag, a good book, and me. If only he could have organized his own mind so efficiently, with a comfortable place for me there, too.

I remember heading out on a trip in the still-dark wee hours. Very exciting. I loved it.

And then off we'd go, hours and hours in the car to wherever. No DVD's or seatbelts then. Instead, we counted squiggly line signs, climbed over the seats, followed the alphabet on the billboards, and sang our hearts out. Go to sleep, you weary hobo . . . I ain't gonna study war no more, ain't gonna study war no more, ain't gonna study war no more, no more, no more . . .

and the one that always made me think of Dad:

If you see me passin' by,
And you sit and you wonder why,
And you wish that you were a rambler too,
Nail your shoes to the kitchen floor,
Lace them up and bar the door,
Thank your stars for the roof that's over you.

It made me want to climb in his lap while he drove and watch the line in the middle of the road disappear under the car. So I did. There were good moments, and I relished them.

Now that I'm grown with my own family, we've brought some of those good moments into our family travels as well. Not the part about sitting on Dad's lap in the driver's seat, mind you. But we still play the alphabet game, and we still sing our hearts out. Now I'm the one who takes pride in packing the back of the van like a ship. And the redheads love the excitement of setting out on an adventure in the still-dark wee hours. Buckle up!

I used to be afraid that I would become the main character in the film Chocolat. The wind would shift and I would feel an irresistable urge to leave it all behind. Fly like a bird to the mountain.

But as much as I love these solo adventures to immerse myself in this exciting project, coming home is the best part.

What the Ogre Knows

2006-04-04T20:34:00.000-04:00

As I do this research, learning more and more about my loved ones and myself, I do continue to feel like I'm peeling back the layers of an onion. What really happened, and why. The different selves that each of us showed to ourselves, each other, our closest friends, the outside world.

On Sunday I interviewed my best girlfriend from high school, who happened to be a grown, married man with children, even back then. But he knew me like a best girlfriend. I recently recognized that I'd been asking all these questions about my dad and my grandfather, but this book is supposed to be about me, too, so maybe it was time to get another perspective on the third character as well. Me.

Before we got to me, my friend told me about the day he met my mother. He prefaced the story by telling me what a poor first impression judge he is, and how he always has to go back and reexamine his first impressions. In this case, he said, he couldn't have been further from the truth. And then he told me,

When I met your mother, I thought it was all an act--the whole sweet Georgia girl thing--the accent, the unbelievable cheerfulness, the incredible optimism about absolutely everything, it was really . . . don’t ask me why, I’m just telling you I’m very bad at first impressions.

It was 1977. My parents were still married. I'm wondering if he's as bad at first impressions as he thinks he is.

Layers of the onion.

And then he went on to tell me about me. He talked about the me that he saw, and how different it was from the me that other people complained about. He saw me as funny, analytical, confident. He says my family worried about my "self-esteem problem," and others talked about the "hot-headed redhead," describing me as caustic and angry. One friend confessed to him that she had the most cynical person in Celo looking after her kids. Meaning me.

Layers of the onion.

And what was my perspective? I think I mostly agreed with the majority. I openly said I didn't like myself, and I generally thought of myself as prickly and angry. I did have plenty to be angry about, after all, whether other people knew it or not. And I saw my hard sarcastic shell as my only protection.

So why did my friend see something that no one else saw, not even me? Had I convinced myself that this protective persona was the real me, when my friend saw something else entirely? And had Mom done the same thing, but with a sunny persona instead? What were our real selves? Or are we all just made up of layers? Does the combination of layers, all together, make up the truth?

This I know: when you start peeling the onion, be prepared for the tears.

Two Men and a Bible

2006-04-03T17:39:00.000-04:00

When I went to the History Room, I learned that Granddaddy Moore had two favorite Bible verses. The first was from the Sermon on the Mount:

Seek ye first the kingdom of the Lord and his righteousness
and all these things shall be added unto you.
Matthew 6:33

The second, from my version of the Bible (since I don't have a King James), is

he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you,
for power is made perfect in weakness."
So, I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses,
so that the power of Christ may dwell in me.
II Corinthians 12:9

In his life and in his preaching, Granddaddy put God first.

I learned today that Dad had favorite Bible verses as well. Buried in the trunks were two pieces of paper, neatly written in different colors of marker. The holes in them indicated that they had hung on a wall somewhere. Compared to all the other pencil-covered scraps, these were practically plaques. Here they are:

That's my dad.

Hail hath no fury

2006-04-03T11:10:00.000-04:00

Last night after supper I went to my sister's house to unearth two wooden trunks at the back of a storage shed. They're pretty much all we have left of Dad besides our memories, and I had decided that today was the day to brave them. Janet and I moved stuff out of the way to clear a path, and then sat on her back porch and talked, still trying to puzzle out pieces that can never finally make complete sense. The rain was just beginning as I pulled into my own driveway.

Major storms in the night. Crashing thunder, daytime-bright lightning, and even hail. John ended up having to go to another room to sleep, and I found myself with little redheads on either side, snuggling up for mama-comfort. I lay there thinking, "Is that you, Dad? I don't care what you say, I'm going over there anyway. I'm opening up those trunks, and I'm seeing what's inside. I've put it off this long--you can't scare me away." After all, I'm familiar with Dad storming in the night. Yes, there's fear, but I've got my share of bravado, too.

This morning it was all I could do to drag myself out of bed, but I did it. And in the pouring-down rain, I drove back across town to face the trunks.

It was a far cry from my welcome to the History Room at Vineville Baptist Church (Welcome to the History Room), and my visit to the Walter Moore Papers in Special Collections at Mercer University. There, everything was in file folders, neatly labelled, all inventoried and categorized, well lit, with tables for spreading out and a copier nearby. Sanitary. Orderly. Typed. Sane.

Today, for a more realistic experience, I really should have been sorting through papers and books in a dark moldy tent in the woods. But I couldn't have done it. Instead, I spent two hours sitting on the floor of the storage shed with a flashlight, pulling out old books, opening envelopes, deciphering the pencilled notations of a manic tortured soul who wanted desperately to make sense of the world. I could only barely manage, surfacing every few minutes into the light and fresh air to regain my balance and perspective on the world.

What got to me most were the letters I found from my childhood self to her daddy, missing him, loving him, wishing him the best.

Oh, I do hope I have the strength for what lies ahead. Surely it can't be any harder than what I've been through already.

As I pulled out of Janet's driveway this morning, the sun broke through the clouds. I can do this. I can.

Fire & Water

2006-04-02T22:02:00.000-04:00

My dad started out a preacher and ended up an astrologer. There's one thing you can say for him--he stayed focused on the heavens!

He was a scorpio, and though I really know nothing at all about such things, astrology.com just informed me that this is a very intense sign. Duh. Also that each sign has an element associated with it, and scorpio is a water sign. Fascinating, since Dad seemed so full of fire.

But water was his only medication. As I've said, he loved to swim. He also washed dishes--it was the one chore around the house he could be counted on to do, though you really couldn't count on the dishes coming out all that clean. He loved the river when he came to the mountains, and would also lie in the tub for hours. I always wondered why he didn't completely shrivel up. And when he left us, no longer able to hold it together, he moved to the beach. There, he could swim with the dolphins, sleep under a catamaran, and listen to the waves--calmly, steadily coming in, going out, coming in, going out. It must have reassured his racing mind, calmed his frenetic spirit. It was the earth saying the same thing Dad used to say to me, in his lyrical southern voice: "everything's gonna be alright."

When I've had a crazy week and all the details are getting to me, my one-and-only will say, "you need to go walk by a creek." And he's right. The continuous bubbles and splashes, over and under, they calm the nerves, lift the spirit, quench the flames of frustration. I may be a gemini and I may not be crazy, but I've got a touch of my daddy's fire in me, and I do love the water.

Bare Feet

2006-04-02T15:11:00.000-04:00

Hallelujah, it's barefoot season in the South! I wore sandals to church this morning and my toes are happy. Free at last, free at last.

That was one of the things we all loved about summers at Camp Celo. Shoes weren't only optional there, they were practically unheard of. You'd know you'd spent a summer at camp when the soles of your feet were as tough as the soles of your boots, and you could walk down the gravel road like nothin'. Tough feet were a badge of courage, and we strode with pride. Now my 9-year-old, Caleb, has Camp Celo fever, and he's got the dusty feet to prove it.

With my forays into the past, I've been thinking about the whole "walk a mile in my shoes" thing. Some of us would rather just take them off and wiggle our toes in the warm sand. But again, it's an image of changing perspective. Sharing perspective. With each other.

I've been asking--who knew how bad it was for us back then? What did they know? Why didn't more people know? Why didn't they get it? But this morning I took my shoes off and asked a different set of questions.

Okay, let's think of a family I'm close friends with. Got it. The parents are friends, the kids are friends, we hang out. Now imagine that the dad in that family has some wacky ideas, loves to talk about esoteric things. A little odd, but he's very charming, clearly well-educated, twinkle in his eye, interesting guy. The mom is a can-do woman. She has a job she loves, supports the family financially, and always seems to see the bright side of everything. She's very interested in what I'm up to, asks great questions, and always keeps the conversation going. Just one of those people that always seems cheerful, no matter what. Such a good friend. Good kids, too. Clean, healthy, smart, plenty of friends--they don't watch TV, so they're always reading books or playing outside or singing songs. Straight A kids.

There's the picture. Do I think the dad is beating up the mom, yelling in the night, controlling what they eat, where they go, who they see? Do I think he's paranoid, mentally ill, usually absent? Do I think I ought to find out more about what's happening, get involved, try to help?

No, frankly, I don't. There aren't any red flags. They seem okay to me. And the truth of the matter is, I don't want to believe that all that could possibly be true. I like these people. I want the best for them. I don't want to imagine that things could be that different, that horribly different, from how they appear.

Yep, I get it. I wouldn't want to see the truth either.

Sometimes, when I put my bare feet on solid ground, things get a little clearer. And when your feet are on solid ground, it's hard to imagine that the ground could be shaky for anybody else.

Near Misses

2006-04-01T14:13:00.000-05:00

I've been thinking a lot lately about the many times our family could see History over the back fence.

Medgar Evers was gunned down on his front porch in Jackson, Mississippi on June 12, 1963. At that time, our family lived in Whitfield, 15 miles away.

That September, our family moved to Birmingham, where, as I've said, Dad was welcomed as minister of his new church on September 15, the same morning the Sixteenth St. Baptist Church was bombed, just 4 miles away. By that time, Dr. King had already written his famous "Letter from the Birmingham Jail," chastising the white ministers of Birmingham for being so unready for real change. Dad moved to Birmingham determined to be different than the rest and to integrate his church. He was different alright, but he couldn't pull it off. The city was polarized, the church was polarized, and so was he.

From there our family moved to Koinonia Farm in Americus, Georgia. I told a story (Sticks & Stones) about our time there, too, when the Sumter County Sherriff wouldn't let his daughter be friends with my sister Janet because we lived at Koinonia. Yesterday I learned that Martin Luther King had his own opportunity to get to know Sherriff Chappell. In An Easy Burden, Andrew Young described King's 1961 stay in the Americus jail:

Conditions in the Americus jail were so bad several demonstrators had to be bailed out because they simply could not withstand the discomfort and constant abuse. The marchers had not been prepared to go to jail and the morning of the march it had been fairly warm, so many of them had been arrested in light jackets, even shirtsleeves. Then a cold wave hit. When Martin asked Sheriff Chappell for blankets for the marchers, the heat was turned off, the few available blankets were removed, the windows were opened, and even the fans were turned on.

MLK described Sheriff Chappell as "the meanest man I have ever met." Probably just as well Janet never spent the night with the sheriff's daughter, her best friend.

From Koinonia our family moved to Atlanta, where Mom hung up on Coretta Scott King. And that, my friends, is a story for a different day.

Closets

2006-03-30T10:29:00.000-05:00

Earlier I wrote about the doors of my childhood closet, and finding new perspectives. I'm not the only one--look at the Narnia kids. All kinds of cool stuff behind the coats.

But closets have other connotations as well. Skeletons, for one thing. And whether to come out or stay in, and who should know about it. I have friends still struggling with this one, in our days of continued injustice.

My whole family was in the closet. We lied, we covered up, we told half-truths. And as I peek out through the doors now, I'm amazed at how many people still don't know what's behind the coats.

All of you, my blogfriends, you know. Some were there for it, some knew us back then and are only just now learning, others of you are just getting to know me, and are hearing the whole thing. But other people out there still have no idea, even after the divorce and all these years. I have to say it aloud, sometimes two or three times, for it to really dawn on people who were kept in the dark.

But it's true. It happened. He used his hands, his fists, his anger, his strength. It wasn't just words, as so many believed. There were bruises, blood, slams against the wall. Choking. One time, he threw an iron skillet. That kitchen floor still bears the scar. I saw some of it, heard it all.

It's time for the secret-keeping to be finished. It just shames all of us.

Tellin' it

2006-03-30T09:17:00.000-05:00

My granddaddy, Walter L. Moore, was not a civil rights leader per se. He was a company man. He did the usual company-man things: wore a suit, drove a big car, played golf, all of that. His company just happened to be the Baptist Church, a subsidiary of the Kingdom of the Lord.

Okay, I'm trivializing to make a point--Granddaddy was a man of deep faith and strong leadership, and his faith guided his leadership all the way along. But it's true that he was a man of his generation, and although he spoke out strongly and used his influence to further the cause of civil rights in Georgia, he didn't see himself as being a part of "the movement." Until last year when our family celebrated his 100th birthday, I really didn't even know that he felt the injustice all around him so keenly.

But listen to this piece of a sermon from 1938 in Cedartown, Georgia:

Even until this good day, race prejudice and provincialism have retarded the spread of the good news. We feel that we are the only race worth saving. . . . If an African is worthy to carry our crosses, he is worthy to hear what the cross means. Christ does not recognize the barriers of race. If you can't find it in your heart to have a brotherly feeling for the brother in black, I'm afraid you'll have to sit by him in the next world, because some of them are going down there, too.

Whew! Them's fightin' words!

But I'm struck, too, by the end of this very same sermon:

Is it fanatic and unbalanced to be wholly Christian? Since he made us and made us for that purpose, that life is unbalanced and wholly frustrated which devotes itself to anything else.

Granddaddy had not yet met Al Henry, my father, when he spoke these words. And the young Al Henry himself was a long way from his out-of-balance adulthood. But since we lack a professional diagnosis, "fanatic and unbalanced" is a pretty fair assessment of what he became. "Fanatic and unbalanced" is what he became when he felt the unresistable call to leave all and follow Jesus--leave his wife, his daughters, his responsibilities. To live in a tent in the swamp.

The area between wholly Christian and wholly fanatical can get kind of gray. Granddaddy recognized the difference, but not everybody does. Including my dad.

Brilliance

2006-03-26T06:47:00.000-05:00

Today I watched the birthing of the sun from the ocean. Too bad the word "awesome" has lost its meaning, because I need it now. It was a breath-taking start to my day.

They say you're never supposed to look directly at the sun. But in that moment, how could I help it? And it's true, I brought the sunrise back up the beach with me, seeing it again each time I blinked.

My journey feels a little like that. I've been telling myself for years not to look too closely at what happened long ago--it would just bring it all up again. I should put it away, move on. Enjoy this happy adulthood.

But now I'm looking. I can't help it. And although it does sometimes preoccupy the backsides of my eyelids, it's not destroying me. In fact, there's some freedom in there somewhere, I think.

Being near the ocean just always does bring thoughts of Dad. He found peace at the beach.

Ballooning

2006-03-23T20:04:00.000-05:00

When I left my job, my career, and my identity, the love of my life decided it was time for a balloon ride. So that's what he gave me for my birthday that year--a ride in a hot-air balloon. What a way to celebrate.

I thought it would be exciting, but it was one of the most peaceful things I've ever done. Since you travel the same speed as the wind and the blast of hot air is only occasional, the silence up in a balloon can be profound. That day, the tourists who had also plopped down the big bucks for their time in the sky couldn't make it, so there were just 5 in the basket: the pilot, the two of us, and two guys who had grown up in that same valley--a father and his grown son.

There wasn't much wind that day either, so we didn't go far. Instead, we travelled in time as we brushed the treetops, with the old father telling stories of who used to own that land over there, and how that barn there was the most modern thing going when it was built in 1955. Now that developers have gotten interested in that whole beautiful valley, his family's deep connection to the land will soon be stripped away.

When we landed on the roadside it was church time, but I didn't see how being in church could make me feel any closer to God than brushing the treetops and listening to stories about the soil.

With my father's mental illness, talking to him was like going up with a balloon, but that was a whole different thing. More like holding onto the single string of a helium balloon, holding on for all you were worth.

You'd start with both feet on the ground. He'd be easy and friendly with you, asking about something he knew you were interested in. Depending on the time in my life, it would be Shakespeare, or literacy, or the YWCA, or whatever. He somehow knew enough about where I was to have a good solid starting point. I'd think we were going to talk about me for a change. Or at least places that our interests connected.

But then would come the gradual lift-off, so gentle you wouldn't usually notice until your feet were about 5 feet off the ground. At that point it felt rude to let go, so you'd hang on. It's just a conversation, you'd think--what could be the harm? Then that deep-south drawl would take you up and up, higher and higher, until the ground looked too far away for a safe jump. At that point you held on because you had to. And here you were, up in the ether with him. How did we get from Shakespeare to the ancient rituals of the Chaldeans, and how they could save our world if people would only listen? Then the question would become a little scarier: am I crazy, too, now that I'm up here with him?

And that question, that very question, was the one that haunted me throughout my childhood, adolescence, and beyond:
Am I crazy, too?
It was a fear way beyond any of the others.

Now that I'm almost 40, I think I have the answer. And some peace.

Celebration

2006-03-22T09:49:00.000-05:00

In the March sunshine at mid-day, four mid-life women shared a picnic. It didn't look a thing like Renoir's party, but it was still great fun. A theme of our conversation was celebration. We all need more of it. It feeds us, keeps us going, gives us strength. Play is a powerful thing. I didn't always get enough celebration in my childhood.

A month after our family moved to Cabbagetown, here came the Christmas holidays. Tinsel, lights, wrapping paper, gaiety. Dad wasn't having any. Mom announced that we were going to her parents' house for Christmas; Dad got on a bus for Chicago. When he came back, it was the beginning of his first deep depression. Days, if not weeks, in a darkened room, with the quilt up to his chin. Mom's next announcement was to us: "well girls, it looks like we're going to have to choose between having Christmas or having a daddy, so we'll have to give up Christmas." I was a year old. We didn't celebrate Christmas again in our home until the divorce, 13 years later.

Birthdays soon went the way of Christmas--Dad decided they were too materialistic, and we weren't going to celebrate them anymore. So the only birthday celebration that I remember from my childhood, at least the only one that we didn't have to sneak away for, was when I turned 6 at Hidden Springs. You saw the picture of my grandmamas there. I'll never forget the cardboard dollhouse that Janet and her friends made for me, with lots of rooms, all painted peacock blue. I thought I'd bust with happiness.

Dad left for the woods right about that time. It was his first disappearance. He was gone for weeks, and we had no idea where he was.

So now, as a result, I have a missionary-like zeal about celebration. I love to be silly in front of crowds, knit silvery scarves, and fling them around my neck. I love to bake birthday cake and give presents. I love to turn the music up loud and dance in the kitchen. And perhaps most of all, I love the lights of Christmas. The simplest Christmas tree of all (like the first one Mom and I had in 1980, when we cut our own tree in the woods and hand-made the God's eyes to decorate it), takes my breath away.

I am alive, and I love to celebrate it.

Over Easy

2006-03-21T09:48:00.000-05:00

Last week I had some fine quiche. It was light and fluffy, made with eggs fresh from the farm of wise friends. They're old friends of our family--they first met our clan at Koinonia in 1965, and have kept in touch over the years. Never a part of our everyday lives, they've been in and out, and they shared with me their perspectives on our family from a distance.

She told the story of bringing a big ole casserole to help feed the helpers moving our family into Cabbagetown in 1967 (you can check out the Cabbagetown link). Having already met us at Koinonia and knowing that our family had moved from Birmingham before that, she had some concerns on that November day. Why was this father of four moving his family into riskier and riskier situations? To Birmingham at the height of the violence there, to Koinonia in the midst of the boycott, and now, as a civil rights activist, bringing his wife and daughters into a blue-collar white neighborhood. It made her appreciate her own steady husband.

And he talked about the atmosphere of the civil rights era. "It was hard," he said, "and yet there was an exhilaration about it. You were on the edge a lot." Which, of course, is right where Dad was drawn, time and time again. He was a passionate man. He craved that exhilaration.

As my friend mused, it does make you think about the whole question of whether the man makes the history or the history makes the man. Chickens and eggs. And mighty fine quiche.

Literacy

2006-03-19T12:56:00.000-05:00

My first real job set a path for my life, too.

When I finished my master's degree in English at Chapel Hill, I knew I didn't want to be an academic, but I had no clue what I was supposed to be doing. A friend suggested that I volunteer as a tutor at the local literacy council. So I did, and before I knew it I was the executive director. It was a hold-onto-your-hat kind of experience.

I learned so much in that job--about management, nonprofits and how they work, and the field of literacy. (Here's a picture of a highlight day from that job: I got to introduce one of my personal heroes, Lee Smith, when she spoke at a fund-raising event.)

Through my work in literacy I learned the word "participatory," and it spoke to so much of my upbringing: finding the strengths that already exist in a person or community and fanning the embers, rather than bringing flames from the outside. I learned that even in a town like Chapel Hill, where you can hardly spit without dampening a PhD, there are many adults who grew up without the printed word, and are still getting by. It takes real strength and ingenuity to get by like that.

I know because I've done my own share of getting by, slipping through. As I've said, my dad turned against the church in 1965, one year before my birth. So once I came along, we never darkened a church's doors. And that meant that while my older sisters had a fairly decent foundation for their biblical education, I missed out altogether. No Sunday School, no sermons, no bible reading, nothing. Zilch. My mom tried, but I had been well-schooled by Dad in the hypocrisy of organized religion, and I bucked it. So I missed out. While my friends in high school, college, and graduate school were picking up the Christian references like windfall apples, I was blithely watching the butterflies. I faked it, wrote about other things. Slid through.

And now here I am, writing the story of two seminarians who were both deeply influenced by their reading of the scripture. They were steeped in it. And I'm illiterate. Where in heaven do I start?

Whitfield

2006-03-18T07:24:00.000-05:00

My dad's mother was mentally ill, too. I don't have many of the details. A fuzzy story about her standing in front of Rich's department store in downtown Atlanta, handing out money to the passersby, introducing herself as the Virgin Mary and Dad as baby Jesus. A low-voiced remark about shock treatment. Bitter memories from Dad about all the time he spent with his grandparents, while his mom was in the hospital. I've heard she was diagnosed bipolar.

By the time I knew her she just seemed, well, odd. She loved to shop for bargains, and had all kinds of strange things under her bed. Lots of underwear that were unlikely to fit anyone she knew. She made us ice cream floats with Tab (blech, but we drank them politely) and fed us those wafery cookies with the creme centers. I loved her, but never felt the bond that I did with Grandmama Moore. (Here's a picture of me with both my grandmamas on my sixth birthday. Dad's mom is in the foreground.)

Considering all that, it's fascinating to me that Dad's first real job was in a mental hospital. After he left Southern Seminary in Louisville, he got a job as chaplain at the Mississippi State Mental Hospital in Whitfield, 15 miles from the state capital, Jackson. Mom tells the story that when they went for his first interview, they got lost on the way, and stopped to ask for directions to Whitfield. The friendly fellow at the gas station replied, "well, you just start acting crazy, and they'll take you right to it." Dad actually worked there twice, from 1953 to '55, and 1961 to '63 (again, there's a link, if you want to see what it looks like today).

What must that have been like--a state mental hospital, in Mississippi, in the early 50's? And knowing that your own mother experienced this treatment, and maybe even worse, in the decades before? To me, it sounds like the stuff of horror movies. And there he was, providing spiritual sustenance and support to patients and families inside the asylum's brick walls. Trying to give them hope.

I wonder if he had any nightmarish glimpses of his own simmering demons.

Crossed hands, braided hair

2006-03-17T09:11:00.000-05:00

Here's a picture of me with my hippie family and some friends in 1975.

You can see why everybody thought we were basically okay.

That was probably the summer that we camped by the creek. Janet and I would retreat into the undergrowth of rhododendron and imagination when the campfire burned too hot. Somehow we still got burned.

Ups & Downs

2006-03-17T08:51:00.000-05:00

Huh. From this vantage point, yesterday looks like a pretty bi-polar day, doesn't it?

Fascinating.

The Lottery

2006-03-16T15:15:00.000-05:00

If I won the lottery, I'd build myself a room just for wrapping presents. I love the whole gift-giving business.

I love the planning, making lists, thinking of quirky things about the people I love, and finding the perfect present to fit each quirk. I love walking through a store when something yells, "Buy me! I need to go to [fill in the blank]'s house!" I love buying fun wrapping paper, making the corners crisp, and tying the ribbon around Katie's little index finger. And I love the light in people's eyes when they've gotten a really fun present, something they never would have gotten for themselves.

An unexpected delight of this book process is the presents that have come to me. There are the stories, of course--each one gives me more to think about and adds another facet to my growing story. But then there are other spontaneous gifts: a 50-cent yard sale umbrella big enough for my whole family, a Cabbagetown CD with songs that make me laugh aloud, record albums of Clarence reading his Cotton Patch Gospel. Oh, and the books. Loads of 'em. I just wish I had enough shelf space!

I'm loving the gifts. I guess I am winning the lottery, a little at a time.

Solace

2006-03-16T05:52:00.000-05:00

Today is the second anniversary of my daddy's death. I sure did love him.

Yes, he was scary, and violent, and left us for months at a time. Yes, he blamed me for things that weren't my fault, and used his tears to make me feel guilty. Yes, he put himself before us, refusing treatment for his mental illness, when medication may well have made a difference. I was livid for years, and a big part of me still is.

But I still love him. He had a twinkle in his eye, and he told me I was the apple of it. He sang silly songs sometimes, and played the spoons in old-time jam sessions like nobody's business. He loved the old spirituals, too--they still take away my voice when I turn to them in the hymnal and the rest of the congregation begins to sing. Precious lord, take my hand, lead me on, help me stand. He loved to swim, with a beautiful, long, lazy, comfortable stroke. He read my palm and pointed out the "mystic cross," telling me I would accomplish great things one day, change the world. I believed him.

These are the reasons that, in spite of everything, my tears begin to flow before the sun even rises.

Goodbye, my daddy.

Blue Roof

2006-03-14T09:54:00.000-05:00

I found the website for Dad's church in Birmingham. I put the link over there on my list.

This is where Dad was getting installed September 15, 1963, two weeks after Janet's 4th birthday, a week and a half before Linda's 11th, and the same Sunday as the bombing at the 16th St. Baptist Church 4 miles away.

Dad left in 1965 because the church refused to integrate, but their website looks pretty inclusive now. Mom says the reason they didn't want to integrate was their new building. They were worried about all the church bombings.

Based on the web address, it looks like their building is still pretty focal. A good reminder about what matters.

My Bag

2006-03-13T20:56:00.000-05:00

I was walking through the garage just now, when something fell from a shelf and landed at my feet. My sleeping bag.

When I was 9 years old, my mom made me this down sleeping bag from a kit. That week, there were feathers everywhere.

How I loved that down bag! We camped a lot, since we had no money for any other kind of vacation and Dad's ultimate goal was for us to live in the woods anyway. And I took my bag to two camps, most summers. Way later when I went away to college, I had my sleeping bag on my bed the way some freshmen had stuffed animals. It was my comfort object.

When my sleeping bag was a year old, we moved to Celo, Janet left, and it was Mom, Dad and me. Period. When he was there, anyway. And when they'd fight, there was no big sister to hustle me out the door or crawl in bed with me. Instead, I'd head for the river or the porch, or hover around the edges, waiting for the sign.

Eventually, Mom would mutter to me, "get your sleeping bag," and I knew we were out of there. We'd sleep in the car, or maybe in a friend's attic--waiting for the wrath to dissipate.

Now it's 30 years later, and I have a 9-year-old myself. The downy, delicate feathers inside this thin nylon membrane are still intact. I could still cinch up the string around my nose and be completely protected from the winter winds. If I needed to.

Instead, I put it back on its shelf in the garage. It's good to know it's there. And just as good to know that I really don't need it,
except for camping.

Sliding Doors

2006-03-09T13:49:00.000-05:00

In 1976, Mom had her own epiphany.

She was working as a cook at camp that summer, to help pay my tuition. It was a welcome relief for all of us, getting out of the heat of the Georgia summer.

That day, she had finished serving lunch, and walked through the woods to the little house where she was staying, the Meditation Hut. She lay down for a nap, her usual 5-minute refresher. But that one was different--she woke up with a shining new thought--"we will move to the mountains before the year is out." And we did. December, 1976, our family moved from a suburb of Atlanta to a little community in the middle of the NC mountains. Celo.

We lived in a house up the hill from the river--you had to cross a swinging bridge to get to it. I loved many things about that house: the porch swing, the bridge, the river, the sledding hill, the barns.

And I loved my room. I had my own window seat, looking out at the mountains.

The closets on each side of the window seat had sliding doors, and I loved to pretend they were elevators. I'd shove all the junk to the side (I was not a very organized child), and get in, sliding the door closed behind me. A brief pause--one, two, three, four--the door would slide open, and then, voila! I was in a whole different place! No end of fun.

It feels like the doors are sliding again now. Stories I've heard my whole life have begun to take on new meanings. Memories that used to be funny now seem poignant and powerful.

Interesting what happens when you slide the door closed and let yourself pause in the darkness.

Guts

2006-03-07T13:18:00.000-05:00

When Janet was 12, she ran away from home.

We were living as part of another farm community, this one smaller, in the country outside of Atlanta. It was nearly midnight, and as far as Janet was concerned, the yelling had gone on long enough. She'd had enough. She was over it. Done.

She got a paper bag, put a few clothes in it, and stomped down the road. The dark, gravel road. But she was stomping. She didn't notice.

Janet stomped a good long way before she began to feel the rocks under feet, hear the night noises, realize what she had committed herself to. But if you know Janet--well, she's stubborn. Let's leave it at that.

A few steps more, and she began to hear footsteps on the gravel behind her. Still mighty dark. She sped up, not daring to turn around. On came the footsteps, getting faster behind her. Louder.

And finally--"Janet?" It was Dan, wonderful, safe, Dan. Linda's boyfriend, personal Prince Charming to each of us. Janet's relief quickly turned to sobs. Dan knew all the right things to say, respected Janet's anguish, got her safely home without forcing her to concede her point. After all, she was right. She shouldn't have to put up with it anymore. But there we were. Just kids.

Janet was the only one of us who ever took a stand about our parents' fighting, the only one who ever physically got between them. And therefore she was the only one of us who ever got hit herself. But she was also the one who took care of my dad in his last year of life, found him a place to live, did his laundry, made sure he had food, checked in on him daily. Janet was the one by his bedside when he finally slipped away.

The girl's got guts. And heart.

Still Got My Wit About Me

2006-03-06T06:39:00.000-05:00

Whew. This is getting heavy. Time to lighten it up. Let's talk about Granddaddy. As he would say, we need to be having "Moore fun."

Whenever you ask anybody to talk about Walter Moore, the first thing they lead with is his sense of humor. The man was funny. He told funny stories in his sermons (sometimes to my grandmama's chagrin), joked in a self-deprecating way, used humor to diffuse conflict in tense situations, and just generally had a quick wit in every situation. When he was in a car accident in 1969 and ended up with a blood clot in his head that required surgery and kept him out of work for 6 months, this was his message to the congregation:

I asked my doctor if I would be able to play a respectable game of golf after the surgery, and he assured me that I would. I told him I've got a long list of friends, then, who would probably like to sign up for this same surgery.

And for the visual among you, check this out:

I think it's hilarious. I showed it to a friend, who asked if I thought Grandmama and Granddaddy thought it was funny, too, camping like they were in their living room. It hadn't even occurred to me that they would take the picture for any other reason. But after he asked the question, we looked at the picture more closely. Can you see Granddaddy's left foot, the way it looks like it's in motion? He was the photographer, set up the camera and timer, and ran to jump in his chair with the newspaper. It's all set up. They were playing.

I love thinking about the gifts I've gotten from my grandfather. The genetic ones, I mean. I didn't get the long ear lobes, thank goodness, but I like to think I got a little of the sense of humor. And actually, when I think about how I survived all the childhood stuff I did, I realize that my sense of humor was (and still is) my number one coping mechanism. Without it I would probably be a wreck.

So no, Granddaddy didn't figure out what was happening with us, didn't ride up in his big white Ford and scoop us up and carry us off. But without knowing it, without meaning to, he gave me a gift that would help me survive. Help me thrive. Boy, am I thankful.

What We Do

2006-03-05T14:17:00.000-05:00

We had a family dinner last night. I was explaining to Mom (again) about my book project, and through the uneven haze of dementia, she began to figure out what all this might actually mean.

"Is your dad going to be in your book?"

"Oh yeah, he's a major part."

"Well, I hope you're going to say nice things about him."

How can it be that she's STILL protecting him?

My Dad

2006-03-05T13:48:00.000-05:00

1960

1990

'Nuff said. For now.

And then there was Josh

2006-03-04T14:27:00.000-05:00

Here's a picture of me looking at my little brother Josh. You can tell how I feel about him.

And here's one from the day after I met him:

What? Little brother? What about the whole four sisters thing, the complete set? And what's all this about "the day after I met him"?

Okay, I'll back up and tell the story.

Less than a year after I got the double-whammy letter from Dad, I still hadn't seen him, but I got another letter. This one was glowing:

Dear Cindy,
I've fallen in love with a woman named Dana and we're very happy-- we're going to have a baby together! We're moving to California.

WHAT?!?! I was stricken. Yes, I was happy he was gone for good. But I was supposed to be in the catbird seat, youngest of the four, apple of my daddy's eye. How could he do this? After all I'd been through, I was going to be dethroned, too?!? I was incensed. (I know, given the other letter, my reaction made no sense. But I was 14. Go figure.)

Well, as it happened, they did go to California. But no surprise, the relationship didn't work out. She left him while he was out looking for a dishwashing job one day, and went back to her old boyfriend. They got married, moved to Seattle, and Josh was born. Until he was 8, he never knew of any other father. We knew he was out there, and Dad even showed me an elementary school picture of him at one point, but that was pretty much the extent of it.

Until one day in 2001, when my sister Janet got an email out of the blue:

Hi. I'm your brother Josh, and I'm ready to meet you.

We were blown away, thrilled and fearful. Janet and I drove up to Virginia to meet him at camp. We had been campers there, too, long ago, so it was a good neutral place to meet.

I walked into the old familiar camp kitchen, saw a younger, male version of myself looking back at me, and loved him immediately. As it turns out, little brothers can be a gift. Especially if you meet them when they're mostly grown.

The Letter

2006-03-04T13:18:00.000-05:00

In 1978, my grandfather died. In 1979, my mother filed for a legal separation from my father. In 1980, they divorced. I have always thought of the years that followed, my teenage years, as The Healing Time.

Shortly after my parents' divorce, I got a letter from my dad. In the envelope were two letters, actually. I'll never forget the moment I read that first letter:

Dear Cindy,
I know that this divorce is entirely your doing, and I blame you.
I don't love you and I never want to see you again.

Dad didn't sign his letters, so that was pretty much it.

I pulled the second one out and unfolded it:

Dear Cindy,
I've changed my mind. I think maybe I do still love you.
But I don't want to see you again for a long, long time.

That day, I showed great wisdom for a 14-year-old. I threw both letters in the trash. But I never did manage to forget them.

Sense of Direction

2006-03-03T14:45:00.000-05:00

My sister Nancy claims she's directionally handicapped. When she goes to a new place, she always needs step-by-step directions, with lots of landmarks, and even then she's nervous. She doesn't trust her gut or her ability to follow a map.

And yet, when we go walking in her woods, Nancy leads the way. She's got that intricate network of trails and grassy roads completely mapped out in her head. While many of us know which back streets to take during rush hour, Nancy knows just which path to take if you want to miss the dogs, see the wildflower that just started blooming yesterday, or avoid the washed-out footbridge.

I must admit, I share some of Nancy's angst about directions. And today I drove to Greenville, a city I'm not familiar with, to walk in the park and have lunch with an old family friend. I got up this morning and came straight to the computer, printing out the directions he had emailed me, as well as double-checking both Google and Mapquest for all the places I wanted to go. First stop: Falls Park.

Sitting in the driveway before I left home, I pulled out all my notes and realized I'd printed out directions to every possible destination from every possible starting point . . . except from home to Falls Park. But I also realized that it didn't matter. I had collected enough information, I knew basically where I wanted to go, and I could follow the signs and my instincts. If I made a few wrong turns, I'd probably see things I would've missed otherwise. I did. And I did.

I've been feeling some impatience (already!) about my book process. I'm wanting to know what the shape of it will be, how the pieces will fit together to tell the story. But it's too soon to know.

I need to trust the process, which is just what I did this morning: collect enough information to have a general sense of where I'm heading, follow the signs and my intuition, and be willing to explore some wrong turns.

When I get there--like today--it'll be better if I've enjoyed the ride.

I got all my sisters and me

2006-03-02T22:10:00.000-05:00

I have always loved having big sisters. Four girls, and I'm the one to make it a complete set. My spot is the catbird seat. Yes, I suffered plenty of psychological torture, but sheer idol worship always won out in the end.

They were my babysitters and camp counselors, and on highlight days they were even my playmates. We sang together and made fairy houses in the roots of old trees. They snuck in Hostess cupcakes during the sugar embargo. I got to listen to their Beatles records and feel cool. When they went off to college, I got to visit, and learned The Hustle. They were my protectors. Until they went off to live their lives.

But most of all, having 3 older sisters means there's always an authoritative expert on every subject. If it had to do with big words, it was Nancy. Guitar chords and handsome boys--Linda. And for the final word on any other subject, see Janet. As a teenager, she was the one --duh-- who already knew it. Whatever it was. From my perspective, she was the epitome of cool.

And now I'm writing a book about all of it. So many questions, so much fuzzy history. And who do I go to, when I need to sort it all out? Duh--the experts.

Ray's Tears

2006-03-01T21:05:00.000-05:00

When I went to Macon, Ray and Ruth opened their front door and their hearts to me. They fed me bacon. I felt like family.

Ray and Ruth have had their share of heartbreak. Two of their children, Becky and Charles, were born with a rare congenital metabolic disease. They died at ages 8 and 7, respectively.

When Becky was 5, she was in the hospital for tonsil and adenoid surgery. Medically fragile anyway, she barely made it through. My granddaddy, Walter Moore, was pastor at Vineville Baptist Church at the time, and came by the hospital to visit. Ray and Ruth were both there, and they all had a friendly visit, talking with relief about Becky's surgery. After a few minutes, both Ruth and Dr. Moore left, leaving Ray to sit with little Becky as she slept.

After a few minutes, Ray broke down, all the fear and worry finally overtaking him. As Ray wept alone in the hospital, Granddaddy came back to comfort him.

When Ray told me this story, he asked me, as he asked himself, "why did he come back a second time?" Because he saw something in Ray during that first cheerful conversation, something Ray didn't even recognize himself. After all, he'd known Ray since Cedartown days, when Ray was just a child. Walter Moore had an intuitive understanding of human nature and grief. And so he came back. As Ray said, "he knew where people really were."

How could he not know where we were?

Sticks & Stones

2006-03-01T11:35:00.000-05:00

Until recently, my daughter had no use for girls. As a feminist, I kept trying to tell her how cool it is to be a girl, but she wasn't having any. She worshipped her big brother, and was only happy when she was playing whatever boy thing he was into. Now that she's in first grade, things are changing. She has her first Best Friend.

Oh, I remember those feelings. The possessiveness, the loyalty, the anger, the love notes. It's how girls practice all those relationship things that drive boys crazy later on. Katie and Alyssa do it all: they're in the same class, partners on the jump rope team, seatmates on the bus. They're both eager to have their first sleepover, but we haven't been able to schedule it so far. I'm sure the giggling will last into the wee hours. Mine did.

My sister Janet had her first best friend in first grade, too. Kay and Janet had chemistry--they recognized their kindred spirithood from the first day. In the same class, eating lunch together, sharing secrets and smiles. They were anticipating a sleepover, too, and were excited to ask their parents when it could happen.

Kay went home to ask her daddy, the sheriff of Sumter County, if she could spend the night with Janet. When he heard where Janet lived--that detested, communist Koinonia place--he told Kay in no uncertain terms: not only could she not spend the night with her friend, she was never to speak to Janet again.

The next morning, when the two little heads came together at school, Kay shared the answer, and both girls were confused and heartbroken. After that, Janet's best friend in Sumter County was a brick. Literally, a brick.

Sticks and stones may break my bones,
But words will never hurt me.

So they say.

Terror

2006-02-27T07:13:00.000-05:00

I had a nightmare last night--one of those rare, awful ones that take hold and won't let go. I kept waking myself up to end it, just to go back to sleep and right back to the dream. When the alarm finally went off, I wasn't left with many of the details, but a residual sense of terror.

Terror used to be a regular companion in my waking life. Even when things weren't out of control, and there was no screaming, or hitting, or throwing things, terror was nearby. We were always careful, being sure to have friends over as often as possible, eat the right things in the right order, and watch what we said--we somehow thought we could keep the explosions from happening, if we did everything right.

But the explosion was always inevitable. I knew when it was coming. The air would thicken. There was a familiar metallic taste in my mouth. He would get louder, threatening. Her alto voice would get higher, panicky but trying to hold her ground. I always wanted to intervene, but knew better.

Instead, I put it away. And when it was all finally over for good, I really put it away. In a box, with packing tape, inside another box, inside a vault with many locks.

Now here I am, keys in hand.

Shaking in my boots.

Oops Child

2006-02-23T22:29:00.000-05:00

My family moved to Koinonia Farm in 1965. Koinonia was a racially-integrated commune in south Georgia, founded by my dad's cousin, Clarence Jordan (I've got a link over there if you want to learn more). The locals didn't much like Koinonia--there was a history of drive-by shootings, and whenever my teenage sister sat down in the high school cafeteria, that whole side of the room would clear out.

Sometime in early fall that year, my mom had a car accident. Nothing major, just a little fender bender in the grocery store parking lot. The state trooper came, and everybody agreed that it was the other lady's fault . . . until Mom gave her address as Koinonia Farm. Then somehow she ended up with the ticket and the blame.

Soon thereafter, Mom went to the doctor because she missed her period, and thought it was because of the accident at the grocery store (fortunately the doctor would still see patients from Koinonia). "Well, you have had an accident," he determined, "but a different kind."

Oops. That was me.

Making Change

2006-02-23T13:48:00.000-05:00

History can happen any old time.

Four days ago, my minister announced from the pulpit that he would no longer perform legal marriages for straight couples until gay marriage is legal. He is one of the first ministers (or perhaps the very first) to take this stand. The event was not only on the front cover of our local paper, but also in USA Today, and has made news around the world. Though it was probably a difficult moment for some, I was more than proud to be there.

Almost exactly 42 1/2 years ago, Rev. Walter L. Moore welcomed Sam Oni, from Ghana, to the membership of his church. Vineville was the first Georgia Baptist church to integrate, as was reported the next day in The Macon News, The Atlanta Constitution, The New York Times, and as far away as the Mankato Free Press in Mankato, Minn. Though the deacons were unanimously behind their pastor and the congregational vote to accept Oni's membership was a strong majority, some members were incensed. A few even left the church over it. But others, staunch segregationists, stayed with the church. I find myself believing that, in staying, these segregationists must have begun to gradually open to another way of seeing the world.

My dad was also a minister in the 60's, and like my Granddaddy, cared deeply about civil rights. He was installed as minister of a Congregationalist church in Birmingham, AL on September 15, 1963, one week before Sam Oni joined Vineville, and the very same Sunday that the 16th Street Baptist Church in Birmingham was bombed. Four precious little lives lost. I wasn't born yet; my sisters were 10, 8, and 4 years old (here are the older ones, in their Sunday best).

Later on, Dad proposed to his church that they integrate. In an environment of civil rights-related violence and death, the church wasn't ready. Embittered and angry, Dad left the Congregationalists and Birmingham, and turned his back on organized religion all together. That was it.

Dad continued his civil rights work after that time, but mostly from the outside: taking groups of black kids to all-white campgrounds, or black friends to white churches. As far as I know, none of those actions led to progressive change. He spent years railing against the church and anybody with power inside its walls, especially my granddaddy. In his mind, anybody still within the church was guilty by association.

But who changed minds, opened hearts?

Considering the Lilies

2006-02-20T15:55:00.000-05:00

plaque in the Walter L. Moore Memorial Education Building

If I'm on the right path

(and the path does feel right)

then my redheaded lilies

will be clothed and fed.

History Room II

2006-02-18T17:36:00.000-05:00

Monday's child is fair of face,
Tuesday's child is full of grace,
Wednesday's child is full of woe,
Thursday's child has far to go,
Friday's child is loving and giving,
Saturday's child must work for a living,
But the child that's born on the Sabbath day,
Is fair and wise and good and gay.

I don't know about all that, but I was born on a Sunday. Here's a picture that Grandaddy took of my two-day-old self, smiling in my grandmama's arms:

And here's something I learned from the church bulletins on file in the History Room:

On the day I was born in 1966, Walter Moore preached on Genesis 26:12-22. (Feel free to look it up. I did.) The title of the sermon was "Fresh Water from Old Wells."

Sounds like a pretty good book title, doesn't it?

Epiphany

2006-02-18T15:22:00.000-05:00

Up to now, I've been on a journey. As of today, I'm writing a book. I'm still on a journey, no doubt, but no more mamby-pamby "I'm exploring my family history, and maybe some day it will turn into something vaguely resembling a book-like object." Pah. This is a book. A book that has been waiting to be written for a good long time, and I'm finally getting out of the way so that it can get itself on the page. I'm proud to be the one doing the typing.

What does this mean, in concrete terms? Here's what it means:

Starting Monday, I work on the book four mornings a week, no laundry, no tidying, no vacuuming, no Sudoku. Plenty of afternoon time for that. Other activities (i.e. walks in the woods) are permissible as long as they facilitate the process.

Money? Yes, we could use more, so I'll look into grants and other ways to make ends meet while I'm on this journey. Throughout history, people have written books and continued to eat (though not usually simultaneously), so it must be possible.

I make a plan as soon as possible about who I need to talk to, where I need to go, what I need to do. I'm a doer, and I've given myself permission to do. Now the fun starts.

You doubters may be out there in Blogworld thinking, "right, people make resolutions all the time--they're made to be broken. She'll never follow through."

Just you watch.

Meet the Preacher

2006-02-14T20:08:00.000-05:00

This is my beloved Granddaddy Moore, known to others as President of the Georgia Baptist Convention, Trustee of Mercer University, Dr. Moore, or simply "Preacher."

I knew him as a huge, gentle, loving Granddaddy, patient with my questions about fish guts, never eating peaches with the fuzz still on, smiling as he ran around the camera to be in the picture. I remember his study, with so many books and the big brown vinyl fold-out couch. And his various putting gadgets, the ones I liked to roll the golf balls into, watching them spit back out across the living room carpet over and over again. And I was always really fascinated by his really big ear lobes. He was my safe place. And I loved him for it.

Other people thought of him differently. To the Minister of Music, he was a beloved "bossman," with the final word on everything. To the young Baptist, he was a much-admired authority figure, whose word was never questioned. To the segregationist in his recently-integrated church (the first one in the Georgia Baptist Convention to integrate, a feat accomplished in 1963), he was an "underhanded, deceitful communist." Another minister referred to him as an "unusual combination of Christian scholar, and reg'lar feller."

As far as I can tell from what I've learned, this remarkable man was the complete package: he had scholarship, impeccable integrity, boundless wit, an unusual ability to deeply understand people, administrative skills, courage, great preaching, and a political mind. And don't forget those really cool earlobes.

He was both a doer and a deep thinker, something we could do with a little more of in our modern leadership.

His daughter, my mother, never questioned his wisdom, especially when he said an oath was an oath, and a marriage was forever. I do wonder what his wisdom would have been, had he known the full story of what we were surviving.

Immersion

2006-02-14T11:09:00.000-05:00

One hot Georgia day, my Uncle Buddy set out to prove that holding your breath could not make you pass out. He was dramatic. He decided to prove his hypothesis on the high dive at the Cedartown pool. When he missed the water all together, the impact of ten-year-old head on concrete must have ended his aspirations to become a scientist. But he made a fine religion professor.

I guess I was holding my breath, too, as I dove into the pool of my family history in Macon. But fortunately I didn't land on concrete.

It was an intense day.

I came back with nearly 1,000 copied pages and 6 hours of stories on tape to transcribe. Every minute I was there, I was either listening as hard as I could, intently reading and looking through files, or madly copying everything that felt important before my time ran out. I was hoping to come home with more of a sense of the history, the characters, the time line. My immersion experience left me dripping with all of it.

I drove away from Macon with tears streaming.

2006-02-10T08:45:00.000-05:00

Welcome to the History Room

My grandmama loved birds. One of my favorite things at her house was the little plastic wren that lived on the windowsill above the kitchen sink. It was one of those with the hole in its back--when you filled it with water and blew into its tail, it would twitter a bubbly song. Just like her.

She was tiny, this minister through music--I passed her early, and I'm pretty small myself. A little bit round, though not fat by any means. She moved quickly, always in high heels, whether her "bedroom shoes" or Sunday best. But the best part was when you'd first get to her house and poke your head in the door. "Grandmama?" The response, from whatever part of the house she happened to be, was always her characteristic soprano squeal: hoohoohoohoohoo! Welcome to the nest.

When I got to Vineville Baptist Church on Monday morning, I had no idea where to go. The place is big and the front door isn't obvious. But I found my way in to the office, and after a few minutes of fluttering around me ("did you hear who her grandfather is?"), a nice member of the staff graciously led me down, down and around to the History Room.

There are many doors to get to the History Room. After passing through the room of mirrors, we went to the back of a larger gathering room, to the door pictured above. Big breath. We stepped through this doorway and I found myself at the bottom of a stairway, with another door to my left. Here's what I saw:

hoohoohoohoohoohoohoo!

Welcome to the History Room.

2006-02-08T14:19:00.000-05:00

First stop: The End

I got to Macon earlier than I planned. I had the name of the cemetery and general directions for finding Grandmama and Granddaddy's graves, so it seemed like as good a place as any to start my exploration.

I pulled in just as the sun was setting. The cemetery was huge. And peaceful. Air beginning to cool, birds high in the trees, far-off train whistle. A good place to breathe after an afternoon of bombing down the interstate.

I knew I'd never find them by looking, so I decided to follow my feet. And they took me there. Right straight there. Darnedest thing.

Okay, here I am. What next? I read the footstones. "Minister of the Gospel" for him and "A Minister Through Music" for her. (Interesting how we word things differently for those of us who just are, and haven't been hired to be so.)

Having no brightly colored plastic flowers to offer, I settled for a tasteful bouquet of wild ones that I found nearby.

I looked around at the neighbors--what's it like to hang out here for eternity? Who else is around? I introduced myself to the Jewish family buried next door, and imagined Grandmama going over to welcome the newcomers to the neighborhood, dropping off some Tea Time Tassies, maybe borrowing a cup of sugar later on.

The train whistled again, I started to get chilly, and it was time to go. Grandmama and Granddaddy were glad I had come.

It was mutual on both sides.

2006-02-04T07:10:00.000-05:00

In the beginning, my ducks

I once drove from California back home to the south with my friend Gretchen. We stopped at my uncle's in Memphis, and visited the Peabody Hotel. Those ducks, they're in some rows! Down the elevator, in a stately line along the red carpet, PLOP in the fountain, round and round. All accounted for, all terribly dignified.

My ducks, not so much. One still has her feathers in curlers under a colorful scarf. Another's in the car, honking the horn. The baggage-laden one is jumping up and down on her suitcase, with underwear sticking out around the edges. One is trying to light a candle and have a Meaningful Moment, but the wind keeps blowing it out, and no one else will participate anyway. Another has her head in a book. One duck is standing at attention, waiting for instruction, with no clue where to go. Ah, ducks.

Tomorrow I go on the first foray of my journey--to Macon, GA, where I'll be getting to know my Granddaddy. He died when I was 11, and I have very fond memories of him, in a Granddaddy-sort of way. But he was also a public person. His papers are in Special Collections at Mercer. I'm hoping to find some of him in the history room (I imagine it as the Room of Requirement) at the church where he was the beloved minister for so long.

While I'm there, I'll stay with old friends of my parents, the person who introduced them and then later wondered if that was a big mistake. I've only met them once before, when I was in Macon for my grandmother's funeral a few years ago.

I'm not at all sure where this will go, where I'll land. But I have directions to get to Macon, and for now, that's enough.