The Check’s in the Mail

One of the most important pieces I’ve ever written. Appearing in Salvation South.

“An unexpected inheritance came too late to raise her mother from poverty, but not too late for the state of Tennessee to claim the money for itself. A first-person look at how Southern states stack the deck against their working poor.”

Click here to read.

Spring Cleaning

A short recollection about my favorite season.

One of the things I’d learned in my sixteen years on Earth was that the number of people who promised to show up when they were needed was greatly disproportionate to the number who actually did. This was true whether we were borrowing money for the KUB bill or asking relatives to fix our beat-up Mercury Topaz, and it was especially true the day Dr. Jenny implored her patients to spend a Saturday morning picking up garbage along Oak Ridge Highway. 

Dr. Jenny, our chiropractor, was plenty weird but still likable. Mom, Sissy, and I had varying degrees of success with treatment, but we were no more or less odd than Dr. Jenny’s average patient. Even though two of her usual customers could fit into one pair of my pants, I felt comfortable among the wan, patchouli-scented health nuts who flocked to her office. 

Dr. Jenny had recently pledged to keep a stretch of Oak Ridge Highway free from litter as part of the national Adopt-a-Mile program. She tacked a sign-up sheet on her bulletin board and asked each patient pointedly if we wanted to volunteer. Lots of patients were interested. I was no stranger to litter campaigns, having participated in the local River Rescue in years past, so I was enthusiastic. Sissy volunteered, too, and Mom joined just in case Dr. Jenny decided to throw in a free adjustment for participating. 

The morning of the clean-up, Mom drove us to Dr. Jenny’s office. We arrived to a mostly empty parking lot. Despite her other patients’ initial excitement, we were the only ones who’d kept our word. 

Dr. Jenny invited us in. A TV and VCR were set up in the waiting room.  

“The Adopt-A-Mile program sent me this tape to play before we start our clean-up,” she said. “Let’s take a look.” 

Watching TV with my chiropractor in an empty office was weird. It was like we’d invited her over for dinner because she was alone on Thanksgiving or something. Still, I felt bad for her. She was a Michigan transplant and new to Karns, trying to make a name in the community. 

Banjo music blared fuzzily from the TV. The Oak Ridge Boys – or maybe Alabama, who looked exactly the same to me – greeted us heartily. They were grateful we’d decided to donate our time to help Tennessee stay beautiful. After all, they had driven through Tennessee multiple times on tour over the years, and The Oak Ridge Boys or Alabama knew what a problem litter was on the roadways. 

My mind drifted as the bass singer read off a list of statistics about trash in our state. I hoped Mom would take us to Weigel’s for a french vanilla cappuccino when we were done. Today was going to stay damp and chilly. March was an unpredictable month for Knoxville weather.  

I pictured putting a cup under Weigel’s cappuccino spigot and pressing the button to dispense the hot beverage. The manager had pasted a sign on the machine admonishing customers to release the button when one’s cup was two-thirds of the way full, but I liked to live dangerously. I knew I could keep pushing for exactly four seconds after the recommended release and still have enough room for three packets of sugar. Weigel’s had created a rich, creamy, 89-cent masterpiece, even surpassing the turtle cappuccino at Old City Java. I was hooked. 

“Are they gonna sing “Elvira” or what?” Mom suddenly interrupted. 

“We can skip the rest of the tape,” said Dr. Jenny, bored as the rest of us. “Why don’t we get going?” 

We got back into our car and followed Dr. Jenny down Oak Ridge Highway, passing the Bargain Barn and the E-Z Stop gas station before turning left into the Food Lion across the street from Grace Baptist. From there, we took pickers and bags from her trunk and carefully jogged to the other side of the road. 

“Do we have to stay together?” I asked Mom. 

She thought for a moment. “No,” she said finally, “but don’t you dare get your ass run over.” 

This was the kind of laissez-faire and marginally effective parenting I’d experienced my whole life. Miraculously, I was still alive. 

The four of us started together and then broke off in opposite directions. Sissy remembered to bring her no-name Walkman; I was stuck with my thoughts and the sound of muffler-free trucks barreling down the highway. 

Despite the noise, I fell into a peaceful rhythm. Cleaning up litter was extremely satisfying. My heart grew lighter with each old soda bottle or soft drink straw that disappeared into my garbage bag. After a while, Sissy’s bag was as full as mine, and I caught her eye as she nodded her head in time to Pantera or whatever was playing. She raised her picker triumphantly, and I returned the salute.  

  I wondered why no one else had volunteered. The patchouli patients loved Dr. Jenny, always slopping sugar over how much her treatments helped them and buying whatever homeopathic tincture she recommended. 

Being a visible presence for her when they didn’t have to, though, seemed almost as important to me. I wanted to think the best of the patchouli patients, like maybe they were too anemic from their meatless diets to sling full garbage bags, but I suspected it was more.  

Janitors, garbage collectors, and carrion understood one of life’s most unfair axioms – their jobs were among the least respected but the most important. Deep down, most people thought it beneath them to clean up other people’s crap. I knew this was the real reason we were the only ones there. Poor folks like us were already used to digging through whatever was left for a myriad of reasons.  

But leftovers didn’t scare us. In fact, sometimes we found treasure among the trash. 

Though we had more ground to cover with only the four of us there, I was glad we’d shown up. I was confident Dr. Jenny appreciated it, too, possibly even enough to mention it in her next Xeroxed newsletter.  

I unfurled the extra garbage bag I’d stuffed in my flannel shirt’s pocket and shook it open. A car horn tooted a friendly thanks as it drove past fast enough to puff the bag out of my hands. Luckily, I caught it on the edge of my picker. 

“You’re welcome!”  I yelled sarcastically, but I wasn’t mad. Not everyone was equipped to create new beginnings. Crushed under the faded Funyuns bags and discarded Pennzoil bottles were tiny spring buds waiting to be greeted by the sun. We were no less than the hands of God this morning, two soggy teenagers and a broke middle-aged mom, clearing roadblocks and unearthing potential. 

Is Dolly Psychic?

What a TOTALLY COOL WAY to start the new year! You may remember I've been a two-time guest on Chion Wolf's Connecticut Public Radio show, Audacious. Chion, along with her equally awesome producer, Jessica, contacted me about an upcoming show featuring celebrity relatives. I was thrilled to be asked to submit some questions to Jada Star, Dolly's niece!

The entire interview is very interesting and required listening for any Dolly fan, and Jada is obviously good people.

(PS...if you'd like to skip right to my questions, they start at 41:10.)

(PPS...if you're looking for a fascinating radio show, you must check out Audacious. Incredible subjects and a host who knows how to get incredible answers.)

Click here to listen.

Goodwill Toward Men

For Davy, who still loves Christmas.

Davy sped down Clinton Highway with single-minded purpose one cold November evening. Rain beat against every side of his mom’s red Toyota Corolla, the road temporarily obscured with each downfold of the windshield wipers.

My toes clinched inside my threadbare black Chuck Taylor high-tops. Davy wasn’t driving recklessly, exactly, but his enthusiasm for Christmas seemed a bit adventurous when contrasted against the slippery pavement.

“I love Christmas!” he said, dragging his menthol Camel down to the butt before pitching it into the rain. “Lowe’s better have some good trees.”

“I’m sure they will,” I said reassuringly, “but let’s try to get there in one piece, shall we?”

“Oh, ye of little faith,” he replied, and fished another cigarette out of the pack. “We’re gonna buy a big tree this year, and I’m gonna make decorations for it and I think do, like, a gold and silver theme.”

Davy’s devotion to the holiday season was remarkable considering his family was as poor as ours. Christmas usually brought out the worst in me. I was either grieving the loss of Daddy or angry over receiving generic charitable gifts sorted by gender, along with dusty leftover cans of peas.

Davy never shared my despair, for which I was grateful. Christmas was his favorite time of year, and I didn’t want my radioactive Grinch spirit to dampen my best friend’s joy. He was insanely exuberant about the holidays.

He had to be to buy a tree in the middle of a monsoon two weeks before Thanksgiving.

“Turn on my Mariah Christmas CD,” he said. I hoisted the heavy black canvas case that held his music collection from the backseat and unzipped it. I flipped through the bulky pages.

“Aerosmith…Beatles…Beatles, 1001 Sound Effects, Green Day,” I read. “‘Mariah Carey Merry Christmas’,” I said, and pulled the CD from its slot. On the cover, Mariah was wearing a red velvet jumpsuit trimmed in white fur. She looked pretty, but also like some pervy elf fantasy come to life.

“Can we please not objectify women at least one day a year?” I wondered aloud. “It’s Christmas, for Christ’s sake.”

“I wouldn’t mind dressing up as Santa,” chirped Davy.

I chose not to reply and loaded the CD into the Discman wedged between the two front seats. The Corolla didn’t come equipped with a CD player, only a cassette player. The Discman was attached to a wire that was attached to a cassette-shaped adapter that fit inside the tape slot. It allowed CDs to be played in the car, as long as one kept the speed steady and didn’t hit any potholes, paper cups, or acorns.

We were still listening to the first song, “Silent Night,” when Davy pulled into the Lowe’s parking lot.

“There are the trees!” Davy exclaimed as we screeched into a parking space on a half-donut, extinguishing the engine as well as Mariah’s operatically endless run of the phrase heavenly peace.

I reluctantly got out of the car and walked quickly to the live tree display. The rain still poured, but the only thing that would make me run anywhere was a Godzilla attack. Davy piled into the middle of the tree selection immediately, engulfed on all sides by Fraser Firs and White Pines.

I watched quietly for a few minutes, the rustling of the trees the only indication Davy was still alive. I was cold. My flannel, Stevie Ray Vaughan t-shirt, and thin magenta bellbottoms were only warm enough for dashing from the car to inside. They weren’t cutting it tonight.

“Have you found one yet?” I yelled into the trees. “I’m cold.”

Davy emerged long enough to peel off his gray jacket. He handed it to me. “I’m still looking,” he said, and wandered back into the parking lot forest in his own short-sleeved t-shirt. I put on his jacket and tried to be patient.

After what seemed like forever, Davy returned triumphantly. “I found the perfect tree!” he said, and gestured to the Lowe’s employee that he was ready to pay. Sap, reflected by the outdoor fluorescent lamps, glistened on his forearms, and his hair pointed in a half-dozen different directions. He looked as though he had wrestled both Paul Bunyan and his ox for their holiday bounty - and won.

Davy paid and went to get the car. I stayed with the tree. He let me keep his jacket on, despite the fact we were both soggy and freezing. Somehow, he wasn’t fazed, still cheerful and comfy as a North Pole reindeer. It was sickening.

  Davy parked in the fire truck zone and pressed the trunk release. It flew open with a pop, revealing a surprise.

                The trunk was completely full of bags of garbage. Household garbage that someone, namely Davy, had forgotten to toss into the subdivision dumpster.

Rain fell from the sky and beat a rhythm on the plastic bags. Pah-rump-pah-pah-pump.

We stared in shock. “Oh my God,” Davy moaned slowly. “I forgot the trash.”

                “What are we going to do now?” I asked, taking a puff off my inhaler in response to both the damp weather and my consternation.

                “We’re gonna have to find a dumpster. I think there’s one at Kroger.”

                Kroger was all the way at the other end of Clinton Highway, near Merchants Drive. I sighed, irritated but resigned. This was a familiar feeling – between my friends and my mom, annoyed acceptance of someone else’s hijinks was the emotion I carried with me most frequently.

                “I’ll be in the car,” I said, handing Davy his jacket and leaving him to explain to the Lowe’s employee her new babysitting duty. Back inside the Corolla, I cranked the engine, and the bright intro to “All I Want for Christmas Is You” jingled festively. Instantly, I pressed the Discman’s power button to off.

                “Not now, Mariah,” I snarled. “Santa left his bags of trash in our sleigh.”

                Davy returned to the driver’s seat, and we headed to Kroger. The rain’s intensity had slowed but the windshield wipers were still needed. The interior of the Corolla had warmed up and the cozy combination of the heat and the sound of the wipers was making me drowsy. We still had so much to do – get rid of the garbage, go get the tree, take it back to Davy’s house, unload it. And we hadn’t eaten dinner yet, either.

                I tried with all my might to take it in stride. Then, Davy said, “Hey! What happened to Mariah?”

                He thumbed the power button back on and Mariah’s insistent vocals screamed to life.

                “I love this song!” he said happily.

Of course, he loved it. Everybody loved it. In fact, Mariah required it, her beautiful voice pursuing Christmas cheer as relentlessly as she did the tune’s absent beau. I was the lone dissenter – a garland-draped mannequin trapped in a Macy’s window display with two turtledoves for company.

We finally pulled into the Kroger parking lot. “See?” said Davy. “I knew there were dumpsters here.” He drove up next to them, then used his headlights to illuminate the rusty doors.

“Oh no!” exclaimed Davy. He put his face down on the steering wheel and gestured upwards with his right hand.

GOODWILL DONATION DROP-OFF was written across the dumpsters in white paint.

“I thought these were Kroger’s dumpsters,” he said with disappointment.

We sat in silence for a moment. The CD player stuttered forward to the next track. Mariah began to croon “Oh, Holy Night.”

Suddenly, Davy flung open the car door, popping the trunk once more. Surely, he wasn’t doing what I thought he was doing.

He was.

“You can’t be serious!” I called after him. “You cannot leave your household garbage in the donation dumpsters!”

“Hurry up and help me before we get busted. Lowe’s is gonna close soon. Or do you want to spend the rest of your senior year locked up in juvie?”

A mad twinkle had appeared in his eye, something akin to the look of an axe-wielding Santa in a B-movie. I knew then nothing would deter Davy from delivering his tree home that night. If I wanted to be asleep in my own bed before sunrise, I had to help. I got out of the car.

Davy opened the door of the dumpster, but it barely budged. “It’s full,” he said shortly.

Other previously donated bags, ones definitely not full of old PB&J crusts and funky-smelling paper towels, already ringed the blue metal rectangle. “We can just leave the trash propped up against it instead,” he decided.

We went around to the back of the Corolla and grabbed the garbage.

  “Fall on your knees and hear the angel voices…”

If Mom ever found out I was acting trashy at the Goodwill while listening to a song about our dear Savior’s birth, she would smack me upside the head with a stocking full of coal.

And I would deserve it.

“Sorry, baby Jesus,” I said guiltily, hurriedly setting two stinky bags next to a cardboard box full of empty Mason jars. I tried to find the silver lining. At least we would not be contaminating the interior of the dumpster. A Yuletide miracle, some might say.

Davy closed the trunk and returned to the car. “Let’s get out of here,” he said and slammed his door shut.

We peeled out of the parking lot, leaving our shameful donation behind.

Despite our fastest efforts, we caught the traffic light at the corner of Clinton Highway and Merchants anyway. Davy lit up another cig nervously, waiting for the green arrow so we could flee.

Lifelong poverty had taught me one thing about the holidays – some were good and some were bad, but every single one was a crapshoot. This Christmas would be the same. But did being a willing participant in the world’s worst charitable contribution portend calamity?

Nah, I thought. Christmas was about togetherness, peace on Earth. I was hopeful Jesus would turn the other cheek, the one not focused on the Goodwill dumpster, and forgive me.

I craned my head to the right and caught a final glimpse of the leaning garbage bags, shadowy and slick with rain. I quickly concocted a story in case we still got caught.

I would disguise my involvement as a work of outsider art, the gar-bage my general commentary on this time of year.

Davy could always blame Mariah.

The light changed and we headed back down Clinton Highway for the final time that night, racing toward a perfect holiday season.

A drawing from my 1995 journal

A Fair Proposition

The Fair’s in town. Is it carnival-house-maze-scary or local culture at its finest? You decide. A memory from 2001…

“So, are we going to the Fair today, or what?” asked Mama over the phone.

It was that time of year. The sticky days of late August had turned into the sticky days of early September, and the Tennessee Valley Fair had rolled into town. The Fair was a quintessential part of a classy Knoxville summer, like saluting the fireworks waterfall finale at Boomsday or drinking warm beer while floating on an inflatable in Melton Hill Lake.

Acres of rides, hundreds of prize-winning entries, and dozens of varieties of foods on sticks conquered every inch of Chilhowee Park during the Fair. All who attended departed with a sense of appreciation for local culture as well as heartburn, depending on how many deep-fried pickles one ate.

There was no question whether we were going; the only question was when.

“You bet,” I told her. “I guess it will just be the two of us this time.” Sissy had recently begun her second year of college, clear across the state, and I was living alone in my very first apartment. I had made some great friends working in cosmetics at the mall, but my friends and I rarely had the same days off. And when we did, we were usually nursing sore feet and sore heads caused by long nights at Cotton Eyed Joe’s.

“It used to just be the two of us before Sissy got born, anyway,” said Mama. “Your daddy had to work so much, he might as well have been on the road with the rest of the carnies.”

I wasn’t sure how to reply, but she wasn’t wrong. “I’ll be over in a little while.”

By the time Mom and I arrived at the fairgrounds, the sun was high in the sky and people were everywhere.

“Let’s start with the petting zoo,” I said to Mom. “The petting zoo is the most Broccoli place on Earth.” Broccoli was a character I invented in high school. She was part broccoli, part little girl, and completely weird. Even in my twenties, I couldn’t shake her countrified charm. She and I had more in common than I would have liked to admit. I also acted six years old, at least sometimes, and I shared Broccoli’s opinion that cows made good friends. Pigs, too, although cows were better listeners. Pigs ran away when you started complaining too much.

Mom and I entered the petting zoo tent and made our way to the middle, where a wooden pen was built on top of a ramp. The setup allowed ducklings to patter their way to the top of the pen and then slide down a plastic run into a small pool.

We watched in complete adoration as the ducklings slid down frontways, sideways, and backwards, and then plopped into the water. Although touching the baby ducks was not allowed, Mama couldn’t help herself.

She lightly mashed the fuzzy heads of the ducklings near her.

“Boop! Boop, boop,” Mama said aloud.

“Mom! You’re not supposed to touch them!” I hissed. I was a born rule-follower, much to the annoyance of my free-spirited mother.

“Ohh…lighten up, Heather Pooh,” she said. “Nobody cares.”

We had been at the Fair less than ten minutes, and Mom was already making me nuts. That was probably some sort of record.

“Fine. Why don’t we walk around for a while instead?”

“Ok,” she said. We left the tent to find out what else the Fair had to offer. We walked in the direction of the Knoxville Zoo, passing the Himalaya ride and a half-dozen game booths.

“Do ya wanna go fastahhhhh?” yelled the ride operator over a scratchy version of “Rollout” by Ludacris. I remembered the time as a kid when Sissy and I had ridden the Himalaya and almost fallen out, held only in place by my chubby fourth-grade leg and a fervent prayer.

“Absolutely not!” I yelled back, annoyed he’d even ask.

“Let’s get out of here and go play us a game,” said Mama, “although I do like this song.” She did a little dance, shrugging her shoulders in time with the beat as we walked out of earshot.

It took three games and nine dollars to pop a balloon and win a postcard-sized mirror printed with a picture of Gollum on it. The prize mirrors were Fair staples, and I had enjoyed winning a few over the years, but this year’s selection was lacking.

“Do you want this?” I asked Mom. “It doesn’t really go with my décor.”

“Sure. I’ll tell people it’s a picture of my boyfriend.”

Some people would believe her, too. “I could see that,” I told her. “He kinda looks like he would live in a trailer park and try to bum smokes off you.”

Quickly, we walked through the barn full of poultry titleholders next to the Jacob Building. It was loud and smelled to high heaven, but it saved us from having to walk up the million-or-so stairs at the main entrance to get inside.

Mom, who had grown up on a farm, made sure to respect the victors even though we were only there to cut through.

“Yay! Yay, chickens! Congratulations to you all,” she said with a sweep of her arm, gesturing to them like the grand marshal of a parade. She might have embarrassed me again, but she was barely audible over the winners’ squawks.

We left the poultry behind and entered the west side of the Jacob Building. The stuffy air of the chicken barn was replaced with the slight coolness of the large, two-story structure. The low chatter of those inside echoed off the walls pleasantly, and I took a relaxed and stink-free breath.

As far as Mom and I were concerned, the exhibits inside the Jacob Building were the highlight of any trip to the Fair. The bottom floor was crammed with booths while the top floor housed more prize-winners. Although some of the booths were business-oriented or political, lots of them were agricultural and non-profit. These were the most fun. For every aggressive Longaberger rep trying to strong arm us onto her mailing list, there were two bohemian papaws handing out free 4-H ink pens and pamphlets about fire safety.

Mom grabbed a headband with a feather attached to it off a table decorated with information about water quality. A handful of other interested parties, all under the age of ten, stood alongside her as they surveyed the items.

“You want one of these?” she yelled across the top of a kid’s head.

“Sure!” I yelled back. She handed it to me, and I put it on firmly so it wouldn’t slip off in the melee of water conservationists.

“Hey! The Army guys are doing face paint!” Mom suddenly screeched. I watched her yellow feather recede in the crowd as she bopped over to some muscular reservists wearing fatigues.

“Well, hi there!” she said cheerfully. “You wanna paint an old lady’s face, honey?” she asked, resting a petite paw on a reservist’s forearm.

I knew exactly what Mama was doing. I had learned my most awkward flirting techniques from her.

Luckily, the reservist was unfazed. “Why, yes ma’am! I’ll paint your face.” His volume dropped conspiratorially. “Now, are you gonna join the Army Reserves if I do?”

Mama honked with laughter. “You don’t want to give me a gun, honey. I’d get myself in trouble in no time,” she said, and swatted his arm lightly.

Sensing that Mom would be occupied for a while, I strolled a few booths over to the honey display. Glass jars of thick amber essence sat on a lighted display shelf. Most of the jars had prize ribbons attached, and while I wanted to get close enough to inspect them, I couldn’t, because of the bees.

The bees were the bane of my fair-going experience, even more than the Himalaya or the Pirate ship ride, where I had once puked chocolate MoonPies all over my favorite shirt. Every year, some lunatic plopped a honeycomb crawling in hundreds of bees into a plexiglass container for display.

I could never stand to watch them for more than a few seconds, and I certainly didn’t want to get too close. I also didn’t want to think about the miracle of honey and how it was made, which was nothing more than insect barfing followed by French kissing.

I steeled myself and quickly walked beside the bee table towards the jars of honey. I focused on the prize-winners, scrutinizing the jars to see what the blue-ribbon winners might have over the red. I tried to forget the crawly, stingy things behind me.

Just then, I felt a tiny dab of pressure on my back. I gasped.

I spun around, every nerve in my body on high alert, ready to sprint outside to escape the bee that had landed on me.

“Boop! Boop, boop,” said Mom.

“Oh my God, woman! You scared the crap out of me!”

“Sorry,” she shrugged and squinched up her face in an apologetic smile.

She was maddening. “You smeared your camo makeup,” I told her. I handed her my camera. “Here. At least take a picture of me with these terrifying things.”

I bent down next to the hive and pretended to scream. She clicked the shutter button.

We headed upstairs to look at more prize-winning exhibits. Everything from place settings to giant pumpkins lined the concrete floors. Unlike the honey, the second-floor winners were easy to discern, with the exception of the brown and soggy-looking tobacco plants.

“How do they pick a winner with tobacco?” I asked Mom. “It just looks like a haunted cornfield over there.”

“Let’s smoke some and find out,” she said.

I was sure anyone who ever uttered that phrase had lived to regret it.

To distract Mom, I walked to the railing and surveyed the floor below. I watched the visitors and vendors of the Jacob Building for a moment. I had looked over this railing a dozen times before during a dozen different Septembers. The lively hum of the exchanges was something familiar yet special.

All at once, affection for every sunburned patron and hustling small business owner alike swelled my heart. The Fair, equal parts trashy and sublime, was a part of me. There was no escaping it.

Mama joined me. “Hey, Punkinhead, I dare you to drop one of these blue-ribbon chili peppers on somebody,” she said jokingly.

My sensitive contemplation pulverized, I exhaled noisily. But she, and the Fair, had already won.

Accepting my fate, I gestured toward the Styrofoam plate full of peppers and pretended to dump the whole batch on a bald man below.

Almost getting kicked out was tradition, too.

Joyful One

Sissy and I designed a custom message for Mom’s footstone. We had to wait a half-year for it to be installed. I wrote a poem to commemorate the occasion.

A friend of Mama’s, fresh out of seminary and confident as only a young male pastor can be

once Told her that if she could view the world through God’s eyes, she would surely understand why bad things happen

and in fact, if she could, she would not only understand but even look forward to the anguish

“Honey, that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Mama had said with a laugh

Now that Mama is gone from here

(even though I keep some of her ashes in my safe)

what I think she was trying to say was

although there will never be a Good Enough reason for sorrow and injustice

If God is there

God understands

that sometimes the best we can do is cuss and yell and rend our slub-knit garments while we grieve

until eventually our pain turns outward and flourishes into vibrant loving action

like how Mama’s did after Daddy up and died and left her with two girls to raise

So if someone says joy can’t look like defiance

or struggle

or stone-faced anger

Be sure to tell them they’re wrong

because Mama shouted a happy confirmation from far atop her new celestial vantage point that

she was right

Being joyful is supposed to look different

depending on the view  

Happy Birthday Sunshine

The story of a very special birthday party.

(Heads up - this contains spoilers from my memoir, “Lunchladies Bought My Prom Dress”)

I focused on the pink and blue fleck design of my bedroom wall early one Friday morning, trying to blink the sleepiness from my eyes. The existence of such a special day usually would have had me dressed and ready for breakfast in a matter of minutes, but this year was different.

Today was my twelfth birthday, the first one I’d celebrate in our new trailer and the first one I’d celebrate without Daddy.

The weight of grief, briefly forgotten in my first moments awake, dropped heavily once again. The grief greeted me each day with maddening routine, no less regular a visitor even after six months of salutations. I curled my legs closer to my chest and let my gaze soften and go hazy, wanting to lull myself back to sleep. Valentine’s Day, Easter, school Awards Day…I wasn’t sure I had the strength to relaunch another special occasion without my father.

Even the thought of presents didn’t spark my interest. It didn’t really matter what I’d get for my birthday, anyway. Each box I opened would be full of the same thing – Daddy’s absence.

I wanted to lay in bed forever.

After a while, Mama knocked on my door.

“I’m awake,” I told her flatly.

“Happy birthday to you,” she sang softly, “happy birthday dear Heather Pooh, happy birthday to you.”

Mom came in and sat on the edge of my bed. “There’s my Heather Pooh. God gave her to me twelve years ago today.” I kept my face turned towards the wall. She patted my hip gingerly.

“Honey, I know you miss your daddy today. I do, too. But we can still try to have fun. What do you want to do for your birthday?”

A tornado of emotions whipped around inside my heart – anxiety, sadness, sharp anger. Why was Mom just now asking me this? Why hadn’t she and the rest of Daddy’s family not already planned something special? Didn’t they know how much I needed it?

I didn’t say anything at first, trying my best to scatter the firebolts of anger back down into my hardpan of depression, like a human lightning rod. I already knew the reason Mom hadn’t planned anything. She was hunkered down under a wind-whipped tree of her own.

Rage was a useless weapon when aimed at other grieving people.

“I don’t know,” I said finally. “Is Mammaw going to throw me a party?”

My birthday was within a week of Independence Day. Often, Mammaw and the rest of our large family gathered for a cookout that celebrated both.

“She’s working today, so we’re all just going to get together on the 4th, instead.”

“Oh.” Celebrating my birthday five days late seemed pointlessly painful. Any relief I’d secure in surviving another milestone would be short-lived if we waited.

“Do you want to go see a movie?” asked Mom. “We could get some popcorn and Milk Duds.”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” I told her. Nothing sounded good, but I also knew I was too heartsore to be left by myself. I didn’t want to be forgotten.

“Why don’t you get dressed and I’ll make you some pancakes for breakfast? Sissy wants to say happy birthday, too.”

I brightened a little. Sissy was a cool and resilient kid. She was pretty good at helping me cheer up.

“Ok. Tell Sissy maybe we can make a radio show for my birthday.” Sissy and I loved to do impressions and record fake interviews on our cassette player. Our most impressive work to date had been an interview with ‘Alex Winter’ and ‘Keanu Reeves’ that sounded an awful lot like a Bill and Ted press junket conducted deep inside the cornfields of Hee Haw.

“I will.”

I threw on my Bart Simpson t-shirt and a pair of shorts and slid my sockless feet into my smelly canvas shoes. I tied the laces tightly so any foot odor would have a hard time escaping, or so I hoped. Summer in East Tennessee was a humid mess, leaving me hot and sweaty from May until October.

After a breakfast of pancakes smeared with peanut butter and drenched with syrup, I was treated to a birthday rap by Sissy performed under the guise of Richard, Mammaw’s endlessly interesting boyfriend. She also presented me with a Debbie Gibson cassingle she had purchased with her own money. It made me feel better for a while, even though I made my laugh bigger on purpose to seem not sad.

Soon, the grief and disquiet returned. I sat on the couch, flipping through the Knoxville News-Sentinel, trying to find something to do. I checked the Living section for the movie ads. The only ones that looked interesting were Total Recall and Pretty Woman, but I knew Mom would never let me pick between a futuristic shoot-em-up and a Cinderella story about a sex worker. I closed the newspaper and tossed it back onto the coffee table, but not before taking a long sniff of the inky picture printed on the front page.

I turned on the TV. Nothing good was on, but I left the channel tuned to The Price is Right in case they played Plinko, which was my favorite. I slid open the sheers behind me and turned to stare out the window.

“I’ve got an idea,” said Mom from the kitchen. “Why don’t we call Amy to see if she’s home?”

Amy was my one of my favorite cousins, not old enough to be my mom but older than most big sisters. She was educated, polished, pretty, and generous. She was always popping by to drop off a set of pretty postcards or a particular book she had picked out for one of us. Best of all, she lived right up the street. Maybe she could salvage this cruddy afternoon.

“Yeah!” I said with the most enthusiasm I had felt all day. “Let’s call Amy.”

Happily, Amy had just gotten home and invited us to come visit. We hoofed up the hilly road in the trailer park and cut across to her doublewide. I held back from Mom and Sissy as they rounded the last corner in order to catch my breath. I wanted to look as ladylike as possible in my sweaty t-shirt when Amy answered the door.

Amy’s doublewide trailer was much fancier than our singlewide. Her house was covered in real siding, not just printed with a wood-grain pattern, and the holly bushes in her yard were perfectly trimmed. A baby grand piano was positioned in the large front window and framed on the front deck by stylish patio furniture.

Mom rang the doorbell – another feature our trailer lacked – and Amy swept open the door, lovely and fresh-faced in Bermuda shorts and a tank top.

“Well, get in here, girls!” she said loudly, hugging Mom from inside the screen door. Mama, used to taking liberties with the personal space of anyone she loved, patted the sides of Amy’s thick chestnut mane. “Ooh, baby girl,” said Mom, “your hair looks so purty!”

The four of us made our way over to the couch and sat down. “Do y’all want some tea?” asked Amy. “I just brewed some.” We did. Amy’s iced tea was delicious. She used less sugar than Mom and Mammaw and never brewed it too long - a perfect refreshment for such a hot day.

Amy returned to the living room carrying a tray full of tall glasses brimming with crescent-shaped ice cubes, tea, and lemon wedges. She sat the tray on the table.

“That reminds me, honey,” Amy said to me. “I have a card for you around here somewhere. And a little something from Waldenbooks.” Her cheerful warmth felt like an embrace. She had remembered.

“So, what are you girls up to this afternoon? What are you doing for Heather’s birthday?” Amy asked.

Mom didn’t answer and took a long swig of tea. I tried to sound casual, and not like I had wanted to stay in bed with the covers pulled over my head in depression.

“Oh, you know, not too much. I figured it wasn’t such a big deal to skip having a party since we’re having the cookout in a few days.”

I shifted my eyes to avoid looking directly at Amy.

Amy had loved Daddy, too. She said kindly, “I can understand if you don’t want to have a party, but are you going to at least have a birthday cake? Twelve is a special birthday. I don’t want you to miss celebrating it.”

There was no mistaking the gentle concern in her voice. I shrugged my shoulders; afraid I’d cry if I said anything.

“Would you like me to make you a birthday cake?” Amy asked softly.

Mom roared back to full volume. “Oh, Heather! Let Amy make you a cake! I think that’s a wonderful idea!”

I nodded over the lump in my throat, unsure of my decision.

“O.K.” Amy said brightly. “Let’s get started, girls.”

We followed Amy into the kitchen.

“Can I watch you bake my cake?” I asked.

“Yes ma’am,” said Amy. Amy was the most gourmet cook of the family and the best one, too, although wild horses couldn’t have dragged that opinion out of me. Mammaw had been proclaimed Eternal Reigning Champion of everything culinary from biscuits to twenty-pound turkeys, but I wasn’t convinced. An unspoken air of irritation of having to cook at all outweighed Mammaw’s technical perfection, and I could taste it in her food.

I watched Amy crack eggs on top of the fluffy white flour and the other ingredients she had gathered in a big bowl. Before she poured vanilla extract onto the mound - the real kind, not the imitation kind we had at home – she wordlessly held the spoon underneath my nose for a sniff. Heavenly, I thought.

After the cake was in the oven, Amy pulled broccoli and cheese from the fridge to make a dip. “We need something to snack on while we’re waiting,” she said, and tore open a bag of scoopable Fritos.

I adored Fritos scoops. I thought they were the most sophisticated of all snack chips, matching the festive atmosphere of Doritos while omitting the orange fingers.

“Now this is starting to feel like a party.” The words slipped from my mouth. I was surprised to hear them.

Amy heated the dip and sat it on the table. I dove in immediately.

“This is delicious!” I exclaimed. Mom and Sissy agreed.

“Let me write down the recipe for you,” Amy said. “You can make it for yourself sometime.” She took a marker and yellow index card from a nearby box and sat down at the table. This was why Amy was the best cook. She had fed me, included me, and empowered me, all with a simple block of cheddar cheese.

The four of us finished the dip and waited for the cake to cool. Amy said, “What color do you want your icing to be?”

“Um…yellow. No, purple. But I like pink, too. No, wait – can it be peach?” Amy had peach-colored accessories throughout her house, a very sophisticated choice.

“Sure, we can make it peach.” I watched her open tiny jars of gel to mix into the icing.

“Is that food coloring?” I asked in amazement. The only food coloring I had ever seen came in a squeezy-top four pack and was used for dyeing eggs.

“It is. I get it from a special store called Sugarbakers.” She pinched off tiny spoonfuls of red and yellow and folded them into the creamy frosting. She let me watch until a smooth, pale peach began to emerge.

“Do you want to give me ten minutes to finish decorating your cake? Then you can see it all when it’s done.”

“May I go look please at your perfumes?”

“Yes, you may.”

I walked into Amy’s bedroom and made a beeline for the glass vanity tray on top of her oak dresser. A dozen bottles of fragrance were nestled cozily, reflecting themselves on the mirrored surface. I picked them up one at a time, sniffing each atomizer and enjoying the feel of the heavy bottles in my hand. By the time Amy called my name, I had decided I liked the grapey smell of Poison best, but I thought the floral Laura Ashley bottle was the prettiest.

“Heather! Your cake’s ready!”

My cake sat on the kitchen table, ablaze with three candles – one for the past, one for the present, and one for the future. Amy had also arranged glistening mandarin orange petals in a ring on top.

Mom, Sissy, and Amy sang enthusiastically. Making a wish seemed too fragile an undertaking, but I closed my eyes and blew out my candles decisively.

“Happy birthday, Sunshine!” said Amy, catching me up in a perfumed hug.

I cut into the pretty, peachy confection. It was the same color as the edges of an evening summer sky, the same color that kissed the rounded cheeks of the sleepy but still powerful sun when it hung low on the horizon.

This day - this very hard day - won’t last forever, I thought to myself. In time, twinkling stars would come to stand guard, and I could rest. Relief opened a window in my heart and I took a bite of cake, letting our cozy celebration warm me at last.

Here Lies Heather Ream, Bestselling Author

Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have Amazon thrust it upon them.

-Shakespeare, probably

I just wanted to drop by and say thank you. Not only did you drown me in a sea of truly kind compliments, you also made Lunchladies Bought My Prom Dress the Number 1 New Release in my Amazon category. You even bumped me to the top of the bestseller list for U.S. Southern biographies, a category whose authors have included Homer Hickam, Rick Bragg, Dixie Carter, and Jimmy Carter (no relation).

So, beginning now and only ending after my bones have a-mouldered in the ground, you may address me as “Heather Ream, Bestselling Author.”

Stay tuned. There is much more to come.

Love and Lunchladies

It’s time!  Lunchladies Bought My Prom Dress is now available on Amazon in print and e-book formats. Click here to buy!

Thank you for your encouragement over the last few days. Truly, I am deeply touched. My dream is to turn “Lunchladies” into a limited series (and write more books). I need your help to connect with as many readers as possible, so that eventually some sweaty L.A. executive chewing a stogie will hear about my book from his granddaughter’s yoga instructor’s pet-sitter and give me a meeting. (That’s how Hollywood works, right?)

Here's how to help:

1. Leave an honest review on Amazon. My short-term goal is 100 reviews.  And just as a reminder, whether you write, “Heather is a better writer than James Agee,” or “I wish I had purchased Prince Harry’s memoir instead,” please don’t mention that we know each other, if we do.  Amazon will remove it, even if you’re being honest.

2. If you have the hook up with any media, or your business would like to carry a few copies of my book, please let me know. I offer a generous distributor discount and accept returns. I will also gladly do written, voice, or video interviews, as well as in-person readings if we can make it safe for our high-risk family (which is doable). 

  However, I will not accept interview requests from “Ima Butthead” or any other child who has stolen a parent’s phone to make prank calls.  Not again, anyway.

3. Please let me know if you receive a print copy and it looks weird in any way.  It’s Amazon’s fault, I swear.

And please let me know what you think!  Virtual hugs are nice, too.

Love and Lunchladies,

Heather

PS – if you don’t have access to the link above and decide to order directly from Amazon, the easiest way to find my book is to type my name, “Heather Ream,” into their search bar.  If not, you will have to scroll through about five hundred pages of prom gear.  So, heads up.

“Lunchladies” Preview

Lunchladies Bought My Prom Dress will be released either later this week or next week, pending file approval. It will be available in print or e-book on Amazon. Here is a preview of the cover art.

You have lifted me greatly with your encouragement over the last several months. Thank you. I’m not exaggerating when I say I feel like my whole life has been leading up to this moment.

The poverty, the grief, the struggle, the Story – it will all be worth it the moment a reader closes my book and sighs with recognition or sheds a tear of compassion, remembering the only thing to do at any moment is to try to love better and be kinder. 

Stay tuned.

The Vanity

Wishing you a season full of bounty, beauty, and brass.

They say that necessity is the mother of invention, and that holds doubly true when you are broke. My limited and mostly vicarious cultural experience had taught me every woman had in her home a dedicated space for beauty potions and powders. Whether a lady’s boudoir was filled with an elaborately carved antique set-up or her bathroom cabinetry was merely stacked with precariously balanced hot tools, there was a space, and mirror, all her own.

I knew from movies that the most alluring women’s vanities dripped with ribbons and bouncy flounced fabric. Often, they delivered their most knockout lines in profile, either seductively or frostily, as they smoothly applied lipstick or held perfume stoppers to their swanlike necks. 

When these women were Southern, their cutting remarks were spoken with drawls as long and lazy as the Mississippi River. The men in these scenes were rebuked by their withering words but left quivering by their sharp beauty. Unspoken yet obvious were their streaks of self-absorption, dames as puffed-up as the powder applicators pressed to their noses. 

I wanted to be one of them. 

Determined as only a teenager could be, I marched through our trailer one afternoon on a mission to build myself a special place to apply my cosmetics and practice being fabulous. I commandeered one of our old end tables from the living area and took it to my shoebox-sized bedroom. I found a hand-me-down lighted mirror in Mom’s room that was dusty from lack of use. Mom had neither the inclination nor the patience to pay more than sixty seconds of attention to her face each day. She wouldn’t even notice it was gone.

Seating proved to be more difficult. All our kitchen table chairs were spoken for, and the piano bench was already piled high with backpacks and library books. After much thought, I dumped out a large plastic bucket that had previously stored fruit cocktail for the high school and was now being used as a magazine rack. Being the daughter of a lunchlady had its perks, even though sprucing up the front room to resemble a cafeteria wasn’t my preferred style.

I stuffed the tattered reading material into an identical bucket on the other side of the recliner. Mom could replace the one I took later. There were plenty more industrial food containers where that came from, unfortunately. 

In my bedroom, I flipped the bucket upside down and sat. My knees banged into the end table no matter what position I twisted into. I would have to make it work. I added my Wet-N-Wild 99-cent lipsticks and a Noxzema-scented powder compact to the plastic tray on top, spraying a bit of my Designer Imposters perfume canister into the air to freshen things. I swiped my hand across both sides of my Clairol-branded looking glass to clean it. The plug reached the outlet with room to spare.

Sadly, I contemplated my bucket seat. It was in desperate need of flounce. Plus, it had left a large circular indentation in my rear end, leaving me feeling like the world’s biggest biscuit.

I looked around my messy adolescent bedroom for something glamorous and comfy to add. A pretty patchwork silk skirt, hidden under a 10,000 Maniacs shirt peppered with dog hair, caught my eye. The inner layer of the skirt looked like a galaxy, a background of deep midnight blue mixed with black and maroon swirls.  Working quickly with scissors, I cut the layer off. I went back into the living room and grabbed the only throw pillow in the house. The pillow was stupidly printed with geese, an artistic abomination that cried out to be concealed.  Back in my room, I plopped the throw pillow on the bucket and draped the skirt fabric on top. The excess pooled beautifully on the thin blue carpet. 

I carefully sat down and flicked on the mirror’s light switch. 

Turning my head from side to side, I pursed my lips in the shape of a kiss meant for a future suitor. I practiced a conversation in my head, complimenting him – but not too much. In real life, I tried to downplay my Appalachian accent, but this imaginary darling hung on to every banjo-timbred word.

I felt attractive, self-assured, brilliant. Could I charm the birds right out of the trees? My mind miles and years away from this tiny, lacking space, I winked at myself. The magic was real.

I was the latest woman to succumb to The Vanity.

A Gentle Reminder

A gentle reminder to myself and others whose mothers are no longer here.
Your mama still loves you.
Your mama is still proud of you.
She knows how you miss her, my friend. She knows.
So, take this as a sign from her.

Your mama still holds you close, even from very far away.

Budding

Some of you know I was a makeup artist for years.  An origin story, of sorts.

“Mama, can I press the button?” I asked, my hand poised over the vertical yellow strip beside my seat.  The strip was attached to the bell system of the K-Trans bus where Mama, Sissy, and I were current passengers.  We had just crossed the intersection of Gay and Main, and we had almost reached our destination.

“Yes, but only ring it once.  Don’t press it over and over like some people do.”

I would never.  I was ten years old, and in my opinion, mostly grown.  Such childish behavior was beneath me.  I touched the strip once and heard the satisfying ting of the bell.  The bus slowed to a stop in front of Revco on Gay Street, and the three of us were deposited onto the sidewalk.  The Dogwood Arts Festival was just a block away! 

The city bus let out a pneumatic hiss as we started down Union Avenue, leaving a smelly trail of sulfur fumes as farewell.

“Shoo!” I commented regally, “somebody pulled that bus’s finger.”  I silently congratulated myself on using a more mature euphemism.  I grabbed Mama’s hand to hurry her along. “C’mon, we’re almost there.”

The Dogwood Arts Festival was a week-long event held every year in the spring to celebrate the blooms as well as local artists and artisans.  Most of the action happened on Market Square, but free bus tours of the dogwood trails around Knoxville helped expand the festivities all over town.  School kids were given a day off to enjoy the festival (and hopefully pump some money into the local economy), and Sissy and I were appropriately excited.

We reached Market Square.  Every inch was packed with booths, tables, and swarms of people. I couldn’t wait to take a closer look. 

Mama plucked a pamphlet from a stand at the south end of the Square.  “Now, let’s see what all’s going on today.”  She bent her head to read it as I stood impatiently on my tiptoes for a better look.  “What do you girls wanna do?”

I wasted no time.  “I want to look at the jewelry and the pictures and maybe walk over to the library, and Mama can we go on a dogwood trail ride?  And can we have a funnel cake?”

“Let Sissy pick something, too,” Mama said.

“I will,” I told her.  Sissy was an easy-going kid.  We’d agree on plenty, especially the funnel cake.

Mama consulted the pamphlet again.  “Do you girls want to watch the cloggers?  They’ll be performing.”

“Yes!” cried Sissy and I in unison.  We considered clog dancers some of the most glamorous creatures on Earth, second only to baton twirlers and Miss America.

“Ohhh,” continued Mama, “And girls, Margie Ison’s gonna be here this afternoon.  She’s gonna host a fashion show!”

“Margie Ison?” I said, starstruck.  Mama and I just loved Margie.  She was the weather anchor on WBIR.  We thought she was beautiful and the epitome of class with her snazzy suit separates and soft accent. 

“Yep!” Mama replied. “It’s almost time for the cloggers to start, too, so let’s go find a place to stand.”

Margie Ison, cloggers, a fashion show? I had better pay attention.  I would soon be surrounded by my favorite manifestations of grown-up-ladyhood.  Mama was a good mama – often yielding, fiercely protective when necessary – but she lacked the gene that made her susceptible to feminine frippery.  Mama didn’t care about hairdos, cute outfits, makeup, or earrings.  What one saw was what one got – and what one saw was a no-nonsense, flame-haired fast-talker who couldn’t hide her beautiful blue eyes or full bosom no matter how unshaped her eyebrows were or how baggy her sweatsuit was.

I, on the other hand, had been born with a predisposition for color matching and the ability to paint my fingernails neatly using either hand. While these innate characteristics gave me the advantage over someone who thought it attractive to mix yellow plaid pants with a mauve blouse, I wasn’t yet old enough for backcombing or makeup application.  I needed to learn these skills out in the wild since my mother couldn’t teach me.

I wanted to be ready when the time was right.

We snaked our way through the crowd and found a place close to the side of the stage.  There was an announcement over the stage PA, and then a recording of “Orange Blossom Special” roared to life.  Eight cloggers – six women, two men – took the stage. 

The dancers clippy-clopped in unison, the women’s purple sequined skirts bouncing and twirling like full wine glasses accidentally sloshed in celebration.  The men wore purple pants that matched the skirts; they were no less dazzling than the women.  Someone in the crowd began to clap along.  Soon, we all followed suit. 

My feet couldn’t help but tip tap out a similar rhythm.  Loafers weren’t made to clog, so the best I could do was scratch out a back-and-forth motion on the concrete, like a skier.  When the song ended, we applauded loudly and watched them take a bow.  As they clippy-clopped away, I paid close attention to the female dancers’ heavy electric blue eyeliner and frosted pink lips.  I decided to remember the color combination for later.

I exhaled with satisfaction.  “Mama, what’s next?”

After an extended bus tour around Sequoyah Hills and a sweet, crunchy funnel cake, we made our way back to the stage.  The fashion show was to be hosted by Proffitt’s, our local department store, and modeled by the Teen Board.  The Teen Board was a group of high school girls whose special talents included looking cute in shoulder pads and competing for the title of Tallest Bangs.  I couldn’t wait to see their outfits. I knew these quasi-sophisticated Southern sylphs would steer me in the right direction.

Margie Ison strolled out on stage to heavy applause.  “There she is!  There she is!” Mama and I said to each other, clapping extra hard.  “Yay, Margie!” Mama yelled.

Margie’s outfit was a stunner.  She wore a creamy blush jacket and skirt ensemble dripping with fringe and soft suede ankle boots to match.  Her brunette hair was curled and teased into the shape of a rainbow.  In contrast, her eyes were ringed in black to balance the delicate hue of her outfit.    

I was enchanted.  She was easily as dazzling as Sue Ellen Ewing or Alexis Carrington.  I wasn’t sure how any outfit in the actual fashion show could top this one.

I made up my mind to one day own a closet full of fringed get-ups and a whole dresser full of makeup, no matter what it took.  There was simply no reason not to go around looking stunning if one could dress like a fancy cowgirl. 

Margie chatted with the audience for a minute and joked about the weather.  She then announced the first model, a junior from Rule High.  The model wore a stonewashed denim jumpsuit and big purple earrings shaped like triangles - a terrific outfit.  I thought I might need a denim jumpsuit in addition to my fringe separates, something more casual to wear when I was old enough to drive and needed to run to the Handy Dandy for a Slush Puppy and deli bologna.   

Next, a senior from Bearden High sauntered out in a peach dress with a lace overlay.  Her hair was sprayed four inches out on every side, defying gravity, and her eyes were coated with enough inky mascara to write a novel.  I would also need this outfit for date nights in the future – although it seemed wise to stay away from bonfires or any other romantic activity sure to fan flames. 

And I would definitely need the shiny teal prom gown and dyed-to-match pumps worn by the model from South-Young.

By the end of the fashion show, I realized I had swooned over every single outfit, even the spandex exercise set that would never flatter my chubby legs.  But I was hooked.  Makeup, fashion, hair – the opportunities for both a career and department store discounts seemed endless.

“Wasn’t that awesome?” I asked Mama and Sissy, after Margie’s closing remarks.  I was worn out from the excitement, but a glow remained.  I would have plenty to think about on the bus ride home. 

“Mmm-hmm,” said Mama distractedly.  She didn’t seem to be paying attention as she looked over my head toward the stage.

“You wanna go get Margie’s autograph?” she asked suddenly.

“Margie’s autograph?” I repeated in astonishment.  “Can we do that?”

“Heather, we can do anything we set our minds to,” Mama said.

I was torn.  I didn’t want to miss the opportunity, but I was far too shy to ask her myself.

“Mama, will you ask her for me?  Please?” I pleaded, yanking the pamphlet printed with the day’s schedule out of her purse.

“Give it to me,” said Mama, cutting through the milling crowd to get backstage.

Margie was handing her microphone back to a stagehand.  Mama moved quickly and fearlessly.

“Hi, Margie!  We just love you!” she said cheerfully, not giving Margie a chance to speak.  She thrust the pamphlet and a dusty pen fished from the bottom of her purse right into Margie’s face.  “Would you sign this for my little girl?  She’s a big fan.”

I gave a little wave from several steps away.  I tried my best to look poised, like a future Teen Board contender.

Margie Ison spoke warmly.  “Well, I’d be happy to.  What’s her name?”

“Heather,” replied Mama and I simultaneously.  I was proud to have discovered my voice, even for just a moment. 

Margie signed with a flourish and handed the pamphlet back to Mama.

“Thank you!” I exclaimed, finding the courage to grab Mama’s hand to lead her away before she started bragging on me and Sissy, like she did to everybody.

“Would you keep my autograph in your purse until we get home, Mama?” My heart was full of love for them both.

“Give it here, honey.”

I was once again filled with energy.  “Can we go to the library now?  I want to look at the fashion magazines.”  The library had paper and pencils, too, in case I needed to take notes.

“We need to get home and make some supper,” she answered, “but we’ll go to the library this weekend. I promise.”  Mama began to steer us in the direction of the bus stop.

I guess I could wait until the weekend.  In the meantime, there were other ways to get intel.

“Can I stay up and watch the eleven o’clock news?  I want to see if Margie is wearing a different outfit tonight.”

“We’ll see.”

After today’s events, I was well on my way to learning the frippery-do-dahs of style.  I was hopeful the future would bring lots of beautiful things.

I paused briefly to stand on a pink dogwood that had been painted on the asphalt.  I tilted my face to the sky and let the sun warm me.  It had been a wonderful day.  I decided I would leave Margie’s autograph on top of my dresser instead of in a drawer, as a reminder that everyday glamour was possible. 

Happy, I tippy-tapped a few steps in my loafers and ran to catch up with Mama. 

Me and Margie meet again, 2001

The Blizzard of ‘93

I always wanted one of those t-shirts that said, “I Survived the Blizzard of ’93,” because we did, with the help of a special friend.  Today is the 30th anniversary.  I present this story, in honor of her. 

“What a rip-off,” I told my friend Tony on the evening of March 12, 1993.  “I can’t believe it’s snowing on a Friday.  We’re gonna be stuck inside all weekend, and then it will melt just in time for school on Monday.”

                Tony made an excited noise.  “No.  We’re gonna get a ton of snow overnight.”

                “Then why aren’t all the weather people saying that?” 

                “They will be soon.”

                Tony was really into forecasting the weather.  He wanted to become a meteorologist after college.  He watched Matt Hinkin and Margie Ison with the same fervor some people watched televangelists.

                I knew him well enough to know he took his hobby seriously, but it was safer to stay pessimistic.

                “Anything is possible, I guess,” I told him.  “Unfortunately, I still think I’ll be trying not to fall asleep in Biology come Monday morning.”

                “I’ve gotta go,” Tony said abruptly.  “I need to get back outside and evaluate the conditions.”

                “Bye, Tony Baloney.” 

                I hung up the phone and grabbed the worn-out, coverless Stephen King paperback off my bedroom floor.  I had read it a dozen times.  For some reason, a terrifying eternal evil creature who took the shape of a clown comforted me the same way soothing music might comfort a normal teenager.  Supernatural evil seemed kind of charming when matched against the real-life horror of a half-dozen bounced checks and a whole week until payday. 

                This had recently happened because Mom had taken a chance on a full tank of gas at Weigel’s.  We had been coasting on fumes.  Stuff like this happened all the time, and I felt powerless to stop it.  I tried to look on the bright side by hoping things would work out somehow.  They usually did.

Sort of.

                I read for a while and then flipped my book face down, leaving it open on the bed.  I drifted off to sleep with the lights still on.  That clown would never scare me, God, I told Him. I would just flip him the bird and go back to worrying about the trailer payment. My prayers were always half commentary and half petition.  I praised God only when I really had something to celebrate.  Please let us be able to afford all the overdraft fees and not have any more bounced checks this month.  InJesusnameIpray, amen.

                When I woke up the next morning, my overhead light was dark.  At first, I thought Mom had come into my room during the night and turned it off, but I also noticed a chill in the air.  Why was it so cold?

                I draped my blanket around my shoulders while my feet fished for the legs of the dirty jeans I had left on the floor.  Partially dressed, I wandered into the living room with the blanket still around me.

                Mom and Sissy were curled up on the couch next to each other.  Cookie was next to Sissy, her snout resting on her haunches.  The need for warmth had transformed her long hound body from a kielbasa into a sausage patty.

                “The power’s out,” said Mom, “and it’s snowing.”

I looked out the rectangular window of our front door.  Everything was covered in snow – the deck, the car, the street.  Even our holly bushes, tough even in their brown and wilted state, were indistinguishable under the inches of powder.  There was nothing to see except cotton balls of various size.  

                “Tony was right,” I said, astonished.  “He said we were going to get a ton of snow.”

                “Well, what else did he say?” asked Mom.  “Is this gonna melt soon so KUB can get the power back on?  I need to make you girls something to eat, unless Cookie wants to share her breakfast.”

                Cookie, upon hearing her name in the same sentence as the word breakfast, thumped her tail in delight. 

                “He didn’t say, but I don’t think so.”  I began to feel worried.  Trailers weren’t as well-insulated as regular houses.  If the power stayed off for hours, or even days, we could be in trouble.  We didn’t have a kerosene heater or anything else to keep us warm, and there was no way Mom could drive our Mercury Topaz up the hill of our trailer park – or even out of the driveway.

                “What are we going to do?”  I asked.

                Mom thought quickly.  She was always good in a crisis.  It was a by-product of her hardscrabble upbringing.  “I’m gonna call Wanda before these phones go out,” she said.  “Maybe she can come get us in her mail truck.”

                Mom had met Wanda at church years before, when we were brand new to Karns and to the Methodist church.  Although the Karns Methodists were not as flashy as the Baptists we had left behind in South Knoxville, they were serious about their faith and committed to helping people in need.  Plus, their method of baptism was sprinkling, not immersion, which I preferred.  My crunchy perm behaved the best with minimal hair-washing.

                Wanda had adopted us into her already large family, inviting us for Sunday supper anytime we wanted and encouraging us to reach out if we needed anything.  We loved her and had come to rely on her. 

Wanda worked at the post office.  The three of us were delighted by her homemade mail truck, outfitted with two steering wheels so she could deliver the mail on either side of the road.  We had never known a female letter carrier before.  We considered every Lerner’s catalog or utility bill she delivered a presorted blow to the patriarchy, and we were proud to know her and call her our friend. 

Mom picked up the receiver and dialed Wanda’s number.  Each boop of the touchtone phone was louder than usual since there was no background noise.  I heard Wanda pick up and say hello.

“Hey woman, it’s Linda,” said Mom.  “Listen, the trailer lost power and it’s getting colder in here.  Me and the girls want to know if you might be able to come pick us up in your mail truck and take us over to your house.”

“And Cookie, too,” I said loudly.  I didn’t think Mom would leave Cookie behind, but I had seen her suddenly cut bait in the name of survival many times over the years.  I wasn’t taking any chances.

“And Cookie,” Mom added.  “Do y’all have power?”  She paused.  “Mmm-hmm. Yep.  Really?  Well, I’ll be boogered.  Are you sure you don’t mind?  Ok.  We’ll be ready.”  Mom placed the receiver back into its plastic bottom. 

“Girls, get ready.  Wanda’s son has a truck with a 4-wheel drive.  His family’s there because their power’s out, too.  He’s gonna come by and pick us up.  We need to pack enough clothes for a few days, just in case.”

“We’re taking Cookie, right?” I asked.

“Good Lord, Heather Pooh.  Yes.”

Mom, Sissy, and I headed to our rooms to pack.  I didn’t have a suitcase, so I dumped all the items out of my backpack instead.  I looked at the Algebra and World History books that had tumbled out on the bed.  Should I take them?  I waffled, then begrudgingly put them back.  I added some underclothes and my other pair of jeans, my Stevie Ray Vaughan shirt, and a flannel. 

My paperback wouldn’t fit, but I didn’t mind.  Wanda had an entire shelf of V.C. Andrews hardbacks and old yearbooks in her living room.  I’d have plenty to read there.

“Mom?” I yelled across the house.  “Is my Jimi Hendrix shirt dry?”  We had a washer, but our dryer was broken, so all the wet laundry in the house got hung up in Mom’s walk-in closet until it was no longer soaking.  It was a great inconvenience, one brought to us by Poverty™.

“Yes!” she yelled back, “and so is your turtleneck.” 

I made my way to the other side of the trailer and retrieved my stiff clothing.  I tossed the blanket off my shoulders and onto Mom’s bed.  I pulled the dingy white turtleneck over my head.

My Hendrix shirt crackled as I rolled it up.  There was still a touch of dampness around the neck and under the arms, but I stuffed it into the backpack’s opening anyway.  I headed back to my room and unzipped the front pocket.  I grabbed a handful of pens, pencils, and a week’s worth of notes passed between classes, replacing them with my toothbrush and our toothpaste. 

“I packed the toothpaste!”  I told them.  I would feel weird using another family’s Colgate.

After I finished packing, I helped Mom load a Kroger bag with Cookie’s wet food, and we sat and waited for Wanda’s son, Wayne.

Thirty minutes passed before we heard the truck engine outside.  Wanda’s house was normally only ten minutes away. 

“There’s Wayne!” Mom and I said simultaneously.  We locked up the house and carefully made our way to the truck.  Cookie, who had gingerly made her way down the two deck stairs, was immediately chest-deep in the soft snow.  Sissy put her backpack down and scooped Cookie into her arms.

Wayne helped us with our bags and into the truck.  Our first words were ones of gratitude.

“The news is saying this is the most snow we’ve had in thirty years,” said Wayne.

“I believe that,” replied Mom.  “Are we gonna make it up the hill of the trailer park without sliding?”

“I think so, but it don’t hurt to pray.”

Wayne’s truck made it almost all the way to the top of the hill before we felt the wheels lose their grip on the road.  My heart sunk.

Please God.  Please God.  Please God.  Please God.  I crossed my fingers and toes just in case it gave my prayer extra power.

Wayne gently pressed on the accelerator.  The wheels made a popping sound, which thankfully jerked the truck forward.  We rounded the corner and cleared the hill.

We sighed with relief.  Once we were out of the trailer park, the roads improved, though not by much.  The glistening white snow covered all, and still, it continued to fall.  Wayne’s truck slowly crept down the street until we arrived at Wanda’s house.

“Have y’all had breakfast yet?”  We shook our heads.  “Well, get on in there,” Wayne said.  “Mama made ham and biscuits.” 

Sissy toddled into the house holding Cookie.  I slung both our backpacks over my shoulders and followed.  Wanda was waiting for us in the kitchen.  She reached out to each of us with a hug, swatting the upper flanks of our backs rapidly, like any Southern mammaw would.

“Do you girls mind sleeping on the floor in the living room?” she asked.  “We can give your mama the couch.” We murmured our agreement and thanks.  “And you can sleep on the floor, too, Cookie,” she continued, and we laughed.  Cookie was used to making herself at home.  Keeping her off the couch would be a challenge.

After a late breakfast, we bundled up and walked back outside.  The snow had finally stopped falling. Wayne’s kids played in the front yard, plunging butt first into the deep drifts.  Making angels was impossible; the best they could do was leave behind rounded, kid-sized holes.  I stayed close to the door and observed the blanketed neighborhood from the porch. 

Full of biscuits and jam and surprisingly content, I went back inside and sat down to watch TV.  The noon news was on.  The only story was the snow.  There were live reports from outside the studio, people-on-the-street interviews via phone, multiple animations of the radar, and continual astonishment from the weather team.  The anchors called it, “The Storm of the Century.”

I smiled, happy for Tony.  He’d make a great meteorologist one day.

Afternoon turned into evening.  Wanda made a delicious batch of chili for dinner.  I ate so much, my stomach felt like a parade balloon.  Even so, I remained content.

  After brushing our teeth, Mom, Sissy, and I got comfortable in the living room.  Mom was asleep and snoring before long, but Sissy and I stayed up to watch Saturday Night Live.  Wanda showed us how to set the sleep timer on the TV and then retired to her bedroom. 

I shimmied off my jeans under the covers.  I had forgotten to pack my nightgown, but I’d be ok.  I propped my head to the side and rested my ear on the crook of my arm.  The skits tonight were pretty good.  There was a Richmeister sketch - the annoying office guy who sat next to the copy machine - and I knew John Goodman, the host, from Roseanne.

I started to get sleepy during Weekend Update.  The last thing I saw as I closed my eyes was Chris Farley, covered in fake snow, pretending to be The Storm of the Century.

That’s so cool, I thought.  Even SNL is talking about it.

I had a sudden urge to say my prayers.  A few drops of adrenaline flicked into my bloodstream, keeping me awake for just a minute more.

We were welcome to stay at Wanda’s house as long as we wanted, which would likely be several days.  There would be plenty of warmth and plenty of food.  We wouldn’t be using the car or burning the Weigel’s unleaded that had cost our family so dearly.  And if all our needs were met this week, we wouldn’t have to write any more bounced checks for a while.

I never understand why your provision has to be so frickin’ complicated, God. But thank you.  

I wondered if the manna that had once fallen from the sky looked similar to the feathery flakes coating every inch of our region.

The gentle hum of the heater lulled me to sleep. For now, we were sustained.

Roll Play

This is a story about a prior relationship and the road trip that pointed me in a new direction.  (Some names have been changed.)

“What are you doing on Saturday?” I asked Mama over the phone.

“Nothing,” she said.  “I might go to the salon and get my hair dyed, but I haven’t made an appointment yet.”

“I thought you were letting your hair go natural.”

“I was, but then one of those young UGA turkeys told me how pretty my white hair looked, and I said, to hell with that mess.  What do you want to do?”

“I need to drive over to Hull, Georgia to buy some toilet paper,” I told her.  “Do you want to come with me?”

“What on Earth happened?” she asked, baffled.

“Nothing. I just found out that Scott Tissue makes the pastel-colored kind. It’s so beautiful.”

“Well, you have always liked the finer things in life.”

“The only place even relatively close to me that sells it is an Ingles in Hull.”  I consulted my computer screen.  “That’s about twenty minutes from Athens.  I could pick you up on my way there.”

Marietta, where I lived, was a full ninety minutes from Athens.  If traffic on 85 North wasn’t at a standstill, and my foot felt heavy, I’d be there within eighty. 

“You really want to drive two hours to get toilet paper?” asked Mama.

My home life was getting complicated.  Lately, I was feeling crowded by my fiancé and the stuff he had dragged into my life.  Our apartment was messy and a mishmash of styles.  I needed all the beauty I could get.  And the space.

“Yes,” I replied, without hesitation.

“I’m in,” she said.

I beat my record on Saturday, making it to Mama’s apartment in 78 minutes flat.  I walked down the hall of her apartment building and knocked on the door.  I could hear Mama’s conversation with Cookie from outside.

“Lord, dog.  You need a bath.  I’ll inform the maid.”

I knocked again. 

“It’s Heather!  It’s Heather!  Cookie, it’s ole Heather Pooh come to see you.”  Mama announced excitedly. Cookie was an elderly hound mix and looked like a jumbo hot dog, shaped partly by genetics and partly by people food.  By this point, she had been in my life longer than my late father.  We adored her. 

Mama flung open the door to greet me.

“Hi Mama,” I said, hugging her tight for a moment.  I bent to pet Cookie, who sniffed my face for a few seconds and then exhaled wetly against my hair.

“Thanks, dog,” I said.  “Are you ready to go?”

“Just got to lock up.”  Mama picked up her purse off the counter and turned around to face Cookie.

“Now, if you’re good, we’ll bring you back a Wendy’s hamburger,” she said. 

Cookie stared longingly at Mama as she closed the door.

“Lord, that is the most spoiled animal in the whole world.  She knows we’ll bring her back a hamburger either way,” said Mama as we got into my car.

“She also appreciates the finer things in life,” I said in a Grey Poupon voice.  “I brought my Elvis Greatest Hits CD, if you want to listen to it.”

We sang “Hound Dog” and “Marie’s the Name” at full volume and bounced around in our seats, wearing our plastic sunglasses for full cool effect. 

“Whew! I’ve gotta rest for a minute.”  Mama fanned her face with her hand.  I turned down the stereo. 

“Do you remember how much I liked pastel toilet paper when I was little?”

“I do,” Mama said.  “You thought it was fancy.”  As a child, I had enjoyed wrapping long strips of it across my chest, imitating the Miss America sash, as well as setting it around my shoulders like a stole.  Sometimes, I would lay several passes across my head in the shape of a veil, and pretend to marry Robin, Batman’s sidekick.

Becoming a fancy, grown-up, Charmin-soft lady had been my childhood obsession.

“Why did we stop using it?”

“Honey, they took it off the market.  The pastel kind was irritating too many pooties and tooties.”

I was born with sensitive skin, asthma, and eczema.  “I see,” I said in a bored voice.  I hoped to drop the matter.  Further reminiscing would only invite trouble.  Mama was a thorough historian.

“Oh, look!” I exclaimed.  “There’s Ingles.  We’re here.”

We pulled into the parking lot, and I was out of the car before Mama could get her seatbelt unfastened.

“Slow down, Punkinhead!  That potty paper’s still gonna be there even if I take my time getting out.  Why are you so excited, anyway?”

I shifted impatiently from foot to foot while Mama climbed out of the passenger seat.  I entered Ingles a dozen steps in front of her.  I wasn’t sure why I was so excited.  The pastel colors would look pretty in my lavender bathroom, but that didn’t explain the knotted feeling in my stomach. 

I paused once inside so Mama could catch up.  Together, we walked over to the appropriate aisle.  I spotted the toilet paper right away.  Ingles had several packages of the assorted color 4-pack.  Each plastic-wrapped rectangle contained a blue roll, a green roll, a pink roll, and a yellow roll. 

“Mama, it’s so pretty!  The hues are delicate, like watercolors,” I breathed.

An Ingles employee, stocking paper towels further down the aisle, glanced over curiously but said nothing.

Not everyone understood the importance of aesthetics.  “How many packages do they have?” I asked, as I stood on my tiptoes and began pulling them off the shelves.  “I’m going to get them all.”

I handed the 4-packs to Mama one at a time.  Her eyes were covered by the fifth one. 

“I can’t hold any more of these, Heather!”  Mama’s voice was muffled by the tower of toilet paper in her arms.

Only one package remained on the shelf.  I grabbed it and took a few 4-packs back from Mama.  “This should last a while,” I said.  We started towards the register. 

“Hang on,” I told Mama, and called back down the aisle to the stocker.  “Excuse me, please.  Is it possible to call the store and order more of this toilet paper when I’m getting low?  I really like it.”

He said nothing for a moment, then replied in a Georgia drawl, “Yes ma’am, but we get new shipments every week.  I think you’ll be fine.”  He paused again.  Perhaps he was a man who weighed every word carefully, with consideration, or perhaps my passionate paper plea had simply rendered him speechless. 

“Most people just buy the regular kind.”

I bowed slightly in his direction.  “Thank you,” I said with dignity, and walked with Mama to the cash registers.

Mama insisted on paying.  “This was a lot more fun than sitting in the salon all afternoon.  Do you think Ethan will like your fancy new toilet paper?”

As soon as she said my fiancé’s name, the knot in my stomach squeezed tighter.

“I mean…sure.  You know Ethan.  He’s so easy-going.”

Mama looked at me the way mothers do.  She collected her self-checkout receipt in silence, and we returned to the car.

After we were back on the road, she asked, “Is everything ok?”

I wasn’t sure how to answer.  Ethan and I had been engaged for nearly two years and been together for four.  He was a sweet guy, a good guy, an ethical guy.  But was he the best guy?  I had been thinking a lot about that lately.

“Is this what marriage is going to feel like?”

“I don’t know what you mean, baby girl.  How do you feel?”

My feelings were a patchwork of comfort, safety, practicality, terror.

“Like this is as good as it will ever get with Ethan.  Like planning my wedding is half the fun of marrying him.  Like I’m conflicted about having his children.  But that maybe I’m being too picky and if I ever want to stop being poor, I should marry him.”

Mama protected me instantly.  “Don’t you ever worry about being poor.  As long as I’ve got breath in my body, I won’t let my baby starve or live on the street.”  This was the same fierceness she’d shown my whole life.  She was most alive when faced with a need for survival.

“I know, Mama.”

“Honey, you shouldn’t marry anyone you’re not crazy about.  You’re too special for that.”

“Were you crazy about Daddy?”

“Yes, I was crazy about him, and a lot of times he drove me crazy, but I loved him.  I would marry him all over again even knowing he’d die on me.”

Into my mind flashed an image of 4-yr-old Heather, swooping loop-de-loops of pastel toilet paper on my head and then securing it with a headband, turning myself into an elegant bride. “Wedding” had been my favorite game to play.  Even in my child’s mind, I understood that the love I had for my groom should be as exciting as it was sustaining.  No wonder my stomach had confused being tied in knots with tying the knot.

I considered Mama’s words.  The excitement of the early days with Ethan should have transformed into the burning flame of forever, but it had not.  Sadly, I would not be consumed when I fastened my veil for Ethan.               

“Is that how you feel about Ethan?” asked Mama.

“I don’t think so,” I told her. 

“Then you need to break it off with him.  It’s not fair if you don’t.”

We ended our excursion with a trip to Wendy’s for some cheeseburgers.  Mama, Cookie, and I each had one.  I said goodbye to them and drove home to Marietta.  I thought about Mama’s words the whole way back. 

Could I do it?  Should I do it?

Back home, I distracted myself by arranging a space in the linen closet for the six packages of paper.  I tore open a pack, selected a pink, and hung it up in the bathroom.  I thumped the toilet lid closed and sat down, furling and unfurling the fragile squares in a hypnotic motion.

The victory of acquiring the paper now rang hollow.  The beauty of the past could not be recreated.  I sat with the realization, knowing my days with Ethan were as numbered and disposable as the pastel squares. 

Toilet paper is a metaphor for my life, I said to myself. Toilet paper.

The absurdity and the aptness made me giggle, then cry.  After a few minutes, my tears subsided.  I had a decision to make, but I did not need to make it tonight. 

I tore off a wad of the delicate blush paper and blew my nose loudly.  I placed the tissue softly in the wastebasket, like a fancy, grown-up lady would, and exited the bathroom.

Eulogy

Linda Burchfield.  How might a person describe her?

Irreverent.  Gregarious.  Childlike.  Fearless.  Maddening.  Loyal.  Loving.

To know her was to never forget her, even if she didn’t always remember your name.  Hundreds of Punkinheads and Pookiedoos would attest to that fact.

And to know her was to forever have someone on your side, in your corner, because if someone in your life needed whoopin’ (figurately OR literally) you could count on her to have your back.

Here are some other things you may know about her.  At birth, the doctors said her congenital heart defect would cause her death by age 16.  Mama proved them wrong.  In high school, her guidance counselor told her that she, quote, “wasn’t college material,” and that she should give up her dreams of higher education.  She decided to ignore this piece of snotty and unsolicited advice and earned her degree in early childhood education instead.  After she was suddenly widowed, she raised two daughters by herself, left with nothing to break her fall except faith and an obligation to survive.  And later, she moved to a different state and created a vibrant new life for herself, a happy third act as a Georgia Bulldog. 

She was the life of the party.  A ride or die chick.  The choir member who sang “Victory in Jesus” the most ebulliently - and most off-key - and the one who hollered the loudest at every graduation and wedding she ever attended.

That was Linda Burchfield.

Many of you know the last several years of Mama’s life were very difficult.  Those who knew her best knew her history of untreated mental illness.  After retirement, whatever physical barriers that had held the worst symptoms at bay broke.  Our family was tasked to shore her up and help her the best we could. 

Diagnoses were shifted and medications were rotated, decreased, increased.  Eventually, her doctors – one of the only geriatric psych teams in East Tennessee - settled on two names: schizo-affective disorder and vascular dementia.  In true Linda fashion, even her prognosis was complicated and unusual.

These health problems were part of Mom’s makeup; she did not invite them in.  Nor did she win some sort of battle in the years her illness was dormant or lose in the years her illness was active.

I share this information not to dishonor Mama’s privacy, but to shine light on the dark shame so often associated with mental illness. There is no need for shame, no need for anything except compassion and acceptance.  I have chosen to reject the despair of these last years and to deny the hopelessness that waited quietly in the shadows day after day, eager to drown me as I desperately tried my best to be her advocate. 

I will not allow grief to have the final word.  There was such an outpouring of love, such a strong presence of the divine the last week of Mom’s life that there is room for nothing except gratitude and awe.

Mama understood her time on Earth was drawing to a close.  On December 17, her nurse called to say Mama had awakened in the late afternoon and asked for help with the phone.

“Can you get in contact with my family?” she had asked.  “I need to tell them I love them.”

Her nurse dialed my number and handed Mom the phone.

“Heather,” she said softly, “I think I’m dying.”

I bit down on my lip so I wouldn’t cry.

“Yes, Mama,” I said.  “I think you are, too.  But you don’t have to be afraid.  Jesus is there with you.”

Somebody was, at least.  The week before, she’d asked me who was sitting on the couch in front of her.  There was no couch in her room, but I have no doubt someone was keeping watch.

“I love you so much,” Mama said.

“I love you so much, too.  We all do.  Mama, if you see Jesus or Daddy or someone you recognize, it’s ok to go with them.  They’ll take you to Heaven,” I told her.

“I love you so much, baby.” She said it again, and then handed the phone back to the nurse.

On January 6, Ben and I were visiting with Mama.  She asked for grape juice, and then for something else.

“Take my pictures home with you,” she said softly.  Mom’s room was covered in pictures of family and friends.  In fact, if you are listening to this service, your picture likely hung on her walls.

“Which ones?” 

“All of them,” she said, and I knew her time was short.  As we took them down, I briefly brought the pictures closer so she could see them for the last time.  Her eyes lingered the longest over the ruby-red cardinal Daddy had drawn for her before I was born.  My greatest comfort was that she would see him again soon. 

January 13 was the last time Mama told me she loved me, but that wasn’t the only thing she said.

  Rebekah, Ben, and I walked into her room that night. We had just shrugged off our coats and put our things down when Mama said, “My three angels are here.”

  She said it in a way that sounded like an announcement, like we had interrupted a visit, one in which introductions need to be made.

  “Mama, do you mean me, Ben, and Bekah are your three angels?”

  “No,” she said without hesitation or confusion, and I believed her, because she was my Mama.  If she said there were angels in her room, there were.  And that means angels will draw near to each one of us when it’s our time.  We don’t have to be scared.

  The balm that heals my shattered heart is the belief that Mama still lives, unfettered from her frail human body and utterly, joyously free, now in the presence of a loving God forever.  Free to dance with careless elation, free to worship with abandon, free to be face-to-face with the Creator who sustained her through every song of praise and every flood of anguish. 

Mama’s illness might have been the last chapter of her story, but it will not define her life. 

So, what will?

Her love for you.  Her love for me.  Her love for us all, and the fact that she loved each of us for who we are.  Mama wasn’t the judgmental type.  She accepted you at face-value, not expecting you to be anyone but your own beautiful self; only asking that you accept her in the same way.

I’d like to think that when it was Mama’s time to go to Heaven, there were so many people lined up to walk her Home that God had to send a party bus to pick her up.

I can almost hear their eager voices.  They’re the voices of people who loved her as much as we did. 

“Y’all hop on board!  We’ve got to go pick up Red!”  Uncle Ken would say.

Aunt Patsy climbs aboard, and then Mammaw.  Then my Grandmothers Willa and Retha, my Uncle Jack, Uncle Ronnie, and our friend Curtis. 

Wilma, Lori, and Leslie get on next, wearing sequined party hats under their halos and dressed to the nines.

“I can’t wait to introduce her to Elvis!” Wilma says.

Finally, Daddy climbs the stairs to the bus and takes the first seat behind the driver, leaving the seat beside him open. 

“Are we ready?” asks the driver.  “It’s time.”

Back here on Earth, Mama drew her last breath, surrounded by music. Sissy sang to Mama as she departed, a tender farewell on the way to the homegoing celebration. 

Then, Mama arrived !  

How I would have loved to see the look on her face, her instantaneous remembrance of self, her delight in reunion, and her realization of the glory of Heaven. 

This is how Mama’s earthly story ended and how I’d like to believe her eternal story began, with love upon love upon love.  This is also how I believe our stories will continue, each precious memory of Linda Burchfield a bright drop of love and affirmation in a world thirsting for something meaningful.

May each memory we share be a reminder to stand up for the little guy, to look out for one another, and to love without condition.  And may each of us leave the world a better place than we found it, just like Linda Burchfield.

Yes, It’s Real

Here is Mama’s official obituary. Yes, it’s real.

Linda Louise Moyers Burchfield, age 74, of Knoxville, TN, went Home on January 19, 2023.

Linda was born in Pine Bluff, AR, a proud plumber’s daughter, and later graduated from the College of the Ozarks (now University of Arkansas) with a degree in Early Childhood Education.  Determined to be a missionary, Linda attended Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary after college, where they taught her how not to dance or smoke instead.

After learning formal ministry was not for her, she hightailed it out of Fort Worth, TX, with a husband in tow, along with some really great casserole recipes.  She and her late spouse, Tommy Joe Burchfield, lived happily in Tennessee and went on to rear two of the world’s most sarcastic beauties.

Tommy Joe had the audacity to up and die one day, leaving Linda to finish raising their daughters alone, nothing to break her fall except faith and the obligation to survive.  She changed careers and retired years later from Knox County Schools, known as “the magic lunchlady” (a self-bestowed nickname that we still don’t understand) at Karns High School as well as the head custodian at Byington-Solway Technology Center and Amherst Elementary. 

Later, she moved to a different state and created a vibrant new life for herself, a happy third act as a Georgia Bulldog – much to the consternation of her Tennessee relatives.  Working at the O-House dining hall, she became a well-loved mother figure to scores of college kids at the University of Georgia. Athletes, geeks, theobros - she encouraged them all as they ponied up their cash or cards. "There's ole Punkinhead!" she'd beam proudly when she saw an athlete she knew on TV. "He comes through my line all the time!"

After Linda’s second retirement, things changed because of a long-term serious illness.  It eventually caused her death.  Although her illness might have been the last chapter of her story, it will not define her life.

She is best remembered for the fact that she loved each of us for who we are.  She wasn’t the judgmental type.  She accepted people at face-value, not expecting them to be anyone but their own beautiful selves; only asking that people accept her in the same way. 

And oh, how she loved Jesus. 

Linda is survived by her daughters, Heather (Ben) Ream and Rebekah (Will Malone) Burchfield, and Lois, Conrad, Alex, Lynn, Joe, Connie, Garry Ross, Kristi, Debbie, Tolliver, Kendra, Wade, Pauline, Angela, Cindy, Stephen, Joseph, James, Alicia, Adam, Larry, Spencer, Michael, Sadonna, Russell, Stacey, Hannah, and Jeremy – enough brothers, sisters, in-laws, nieces, and nephews to star in their own reboot of Hee Haw.

Services will be held on Saturday, January 28 at 11:00am at Woodlawn Cemetery in Knoxville, TN.  In lieu of flowers, the family requests that you donate to a charitable organization that has deep meaning for you, in her memory. 

The family also requests that you take a page out of the Linda Burchfield playbook and always remember to stick up for the little guy, look out for one another, and love without condition.  She will be missed, but we will see her again.

(Go Dawgs!)

https://www.rosefuneraltn.com/obituaries/Linda-Burchfield/#!/Obituary

An Announcement

Friends, please hold us close to your hearts this morning. My mama, Linda Burchfield, went to Heaven yesterday evening. She passed peacefully.

Her hospice team let us know a week ago her time was approaching. Since then, Bekah, Ben, and I were with Mama. We had time to say all the important things. Mama knew she was well loved.

Even though she had been non-verbal and mostly asleep for days, we included her in every conversation. We shared music, prayers, and memories. We laughed uproariously over old, digitized home movies and wept with pride and the deepest love for her. And when she took her last breath, Rebekah was by her side, singing to Mama as she crossed out of this world and into the next.

This past Friday evening was the last time Mama told me she loved me, but that wasn’t the only thing she said.

Rebekah, Ben, and I walked into her room that night. We had just shrugged off our coats and put our things down when Mama said, “My three angels are here.”

She said it in a way that sounded like an announcement, like we had interrupted a visit, one in which introductions need to be made.

“Mama, do you mean me, Ben, and Bekah are your three angels?”

“No,” she said without hesitation or confusion.

Despite my deep Christian faith, I don’t know what happens after we die. None of us do. What I do know, though, is my own experience. In the past week, Sacredness has been palpable. It was all over Mama’s room – tenderness, goodness, the feeling of important work to be done. The sense that we were not alone, that a company of protectors had gently cordoned off the area so we wouldn’t be bothered. And that is the blessed place where Mama’s story ends.

We will post her obituary and service information when they are complete.

In the meantime, my sorrow looms large, but my hope looms larger. Take it from me – God is real, and God is Love.

Mint Condition

A sweet holiday memory, from me to you.

Just before the start of class, my boyfriend put a plain white envelope on my desk. My heart fluttered excitedly. I opened it surreptitiously so that no one would see what was inside.

I removed a letter written on a piece of paper that had been torn from a memo pad. “MERY CRISTHMAS,” was scrawled across the page. “I LOVE YOU.”

I looked one row back and two seats over and glanced quickly at Dustin, the author. Dustin was six years old, like me. He had been my crush all year. Our affection for each other had reached its zenith. Even having one of our previous letters embarrassingly apprehended by Ms. Southern, our teacher, had done little to extinguish the spark. Shyly, I returned Dustin’s smile, captivated by his baby blue eyes and shaggy blonde hair.

Ms. Southern suddenly entered the classroom. I faced forward and sat up straight in my seat. As I slid the envelope into my desk, I noticed a shiny green object inside.

I peeked and saw a rectangular Andes mint. The mint was beautiful; its green wrapping reminded me of the lighted tree designs that graced Gay Street’s skyline during Christmas. I had never eaten an Andes mint before, but I had seen their fancy packages at the store, and I was very sure I’d like them.

My first gift from a boy! I tried to pay attention to the handwriting lesson, but my mind wandered. Should I eat the candy in one delicious gulp, or savor the flavor by taking a dozen tiny bites? I caught Ms. Southern looking at me, as if she could read my mind, and I froze. I opened my eyes widely and stared directly at the chalkboard, trying to assure her of my attention. I decided that the sweet thoughts of the morning would be better appreciated at home.

I walked to Mammaw’s house after school. I spent the entire walk trying to decide what to do with my mint. What was better - eating my candy tonight or waiting until Christmas? Or maybe, I shouldn’t eat it at all. And what could I bring Dustin in return? I wouldn’t see him again until after holiday break.

We had lived with Mammaw for months, awaiting an apartment to become available in Western Heights, a nearby housing project. I knew we were burdensome houseguests, but Mammaw had taken us in anyway. There was a lot to admire about her. She didn’t act old like other grandmothers. She wore pretty mauve lipstick and painted her nails, generous in sharing as long as Sissy and I were careful with her cosmetics. Mammaw also liked to play cards and go dancing. She had a boyfriend of her own, Bill, who had been keeping her company since Papaw passed away and who didn’t mind being a pillow when I fell asleep against his arm watching TV.

I knew my concentration would be shattered as soon as I stepped across the threshold. There were always relatives coming and going from Mammaw’s house.

I still hadn’t made up my mind by the time I got home. Mama was waiting for me on the front porch, smoking a cigarette, Daddy’s green nylon jacket draped over her shoulders.

“Hi, Heather Pooh,” she said, aiming her cigarette away from my head as I climbed on the porch to hug her. “How was school?”

“Good,” I said, but I didn’t mention my mint. Hurriedly telling Mama about it in the stinky, freezing cold would surely diminish its origin story.

“Let’s go inside and talk about Christmas,” said Mama, pitching her butt into the driveway.

Once we were inside and defrosted, Mama plunked a JCPenney catalog on the coffee table. “Have you circled what you want Santy to bring you?” she asked.

I had serious doubts about Santa’s existence. It was painfully obvious Santa’s gifts had more to do with income than behavior. Experience had taught me that the richest kids at church and school always had the best toys, whether they were brats or not.

Us poor kids usually made do with lumpy stuffed animals and off-brand Barbies, even if we got all checkmarks on our report cards and never said H.E. Double Hockey Sticks out loud during Sunday School. Santa was either fake or cruel.

I had to know the truth. “Mama,” I asked, “are you and Daddy Santa?”

Mama looked startled. “Well, Heather Pooh, all mamas and daddies are Santas, because they help with Santa’s deliveries,” she stammered. “He’s too busy to deliver all the presents in one night, so we help.” She clearly wanted another cigarette.

I was unconvinced. “Mama,” I said reassuringly, patting her hand as if I were the mama. “It’s ok that Santa isn’t real. I don’t mind.”

She relaxed a little, happy she wouldn’t be destroying a beloved childhood ritual. “When did you learn about Santa?” she asked, baffled.

I was triumphant in my vindication. I’m a good kid even if I don’t get anything but boring ole socks and board games for Christmas, I thought smugly. “I guess I’ve always known,” I said.

“Well…how about we just keep this between you, me, and Daddy,” Mama said. “We don’t want to spoil it for everybody else. You can help us play Santa.”

I liked the idea of playing Santa. “How do I do that?”

“You can wrap some presents, and then keep Sissy from peeking under the bed and finding them,” Mama offered.

Trying to keep Sissy out from under the bed was an impossible task. She was more curious than a kitten. She would discover the truth about Santa soon enough, even if we hid the presents on the moon.

“I’ll try, Mama.”

“Now, what do you want for Christmas? What did you circle in the catalog?”

I shrugged. I knew what I wanted to get and what I would get were not often the same.

“A pretend purse and pretend makeup and a pretend cash register.” I couldn’t wait to be grown.

For the sake of audacity, I added to my list the year’s hottest toy.

“Oh, and a Cabbage Patch Kid. But I know I won’t get one,” I said matter-of-factly.

“Is that the babydoll people are fighting over?” Mama asked.

We had seen plenty of news coverage about Cabbage Patch Kids. People all over the country had lost control of their senses, standing in line for hours and then pushing their way into the back of the store to buy one, or two, or five, or whatever insane number of dolls they could hold or stuff under their Members Only jackets.

“Yes. I like Cabbage Patch Kids, but I know I won’t get one. They cost a lot, and I’m scared you and Daddy would get hurt.”

Mama rolled her eyes. “Good Lord. What is wrong with folks?”

I didn’t know a lot about grown-ups, but I knew some of them were just plain weird.

“I don’t need a Cabbage Patch Kid, Mama.”

“Don’t worry, honey. You’ll have a good Christmas.”

*

I didn’t eat my special mint that night. I didn’t eat it the next night, either. I developed a routine in the days leading up to Christmas. I started by holding the mint in my hand and admiring its elegant green wrapping. Then, I would lift it to my nose and inhale deeply. Finally, I would carefully open the back of the wrapper so I could observe the thin, pale green stripe that ran down the middle of the candy. Sometimes, I ended my ritual by imagining what it would be like to give Dustin a big smooch of gratitude.

At this rate, I wasn’t sure I’d ever be ready to eat it, even though the aroma of the smooth peppermint and decadent milk chocolate made my stomach clinch in anticipation with every sniff.

Christmas morning arrived. Sissy and I leapt off the twin mattress we shared and clomped noisily into the living room. We beheld something wonderous. The tree was not yet lit, but so many presents encircled its base, the tree stand was no longer visible. Mama and Daddy were sitting on the couch, both sipping steaming cups of coffee. Mammaw and Uncle Mike, who worked 3rd shift, were pouring cups of their own in the kitchen.

Our parents made quick work of the gifts, sorting piles for me and Sissy. We began to rip open the wrapping paper, anxious for what might be revealed underneath. I was ecstatic that Mama and Daddy had gotten me a whole set of play makeup. Sissy got the Chatty Patty doll she had asked for, as well as a pretend cash register loaded with big plastic coins that she and I were to share.

Mama handed me another present. The box was bulky, almost too big to wrap my arms around. I tried to sit it down gently, careful not to topple forward into the other gift Mama had given Sissy.

“These are from Santy Claus,” said Mama.

I was puzzled. I had helped wrap Santa’s gift to Sissy. I didn’t think there were any gifts left for me.

Gingerly, I ripped a strip of paper off the front of the box. I saw the familiar logo of a baby’s face resting in leafy cabbage. I gasped in realization.

“IT’S A CABBAGE PATCH KID!” I cried.

I plucked the box from its paper cage and looked at my doll. She had sandy blonde pigtails and a dimpled smile.

“I LOVE HER!” I told Mama and Daddy, trying to hug them both with the box still in my hands.

Mama leaned forward to catch my embrace. She hugged me and whispered, “Mammaw got her for you.”

“Mammaw played Santa for me?” I whispered back. Mama nodded.

I wondered if Mammaw had fought off a crowd to buy my Cabbage Patch Kid, or perhaps she had won her in a high-stakes card game. Either way, I felt only pride in my grandmother. I was deliriously happy, but I didn’t know how to thank Mammaw. If I ran into the kitchen to hug her, she would know that I knew the truth about Santa. I thought quickly.

“I’ll be right back!” I hollered and ran back into the bedroom Sissy and I shared with our parents. I scooped my special candy off the dresser and pounded back down the hallway.

“Where’s the present we got for Mammaw?” I whispered to Mama. She handed me the wrapped box containing Mammaw’s new pair of slippers.

I opened my fist. By now, my Andes mint was looking a little ragged, but it still smelled good. I slid the mint under the wrinkled red ribbon, satisfied.

“Honey, you don’t have to give Mammaw your candy,” said Daddy.

“I want her to have it. I’ve been saving it for her.”

As soon as I’d said it, I knew it was true.

“Well…she’ll appreciate it very much, then.”

My special mint now belonged to Mammaw, a secret thanks for a secret gift-giver. Only I knew its true significance.

“Daddy, would you help me open my doll?” I asked. I turned my attention to the task before me, but not before sniffing my hands one last time, catching a final whiff of Christmas-scented affection as I reached for the top of the cardboard box.

1988: Me - Age 9

Cloris Holly - Age 3

“You Should Write a Book”

“You should write a book.” I’ve heard this a lot over the years. My soul pings with joy every time I do. But what should I write? My notebooks are filled with starts and stops of all kinds – love stories, how-tos, devotionals. I’ve wasted so much time trying to find the genre where my writing “fits” and then going from there, attempting to scrunch a Heather-shaped manuscript into a non-Heather-shaped publishing world.

Things changed this year. Instead of writing with my head, I decided to write with my heart. I have longed to share the story of my childhood for years. It’s a story of tenderness, of grief, of poverty, of exclusion, but ultimately, of hope. The characters are flawed and funny and beautiful in their humanity. I love them dearly.

So, I went and wrote it, my friends. I’m proud to say I wrote that book.

The stories are true and sometimes you are a part of them in small ways. “Am I in this book?” you may ask, and the answer is, yes, your essence is. A few friends and relatives make cameos under pseudonyms and are always the heroes, never the villains. In fact, there are no villains in my book except systemic ones.

If you grew up poor, if you love ‘80s and ‘90s nostalgia, if you love Knoxville, if you lost a parent, if you ever felt ignored or unloved by the church but still tried to love Jesus, or never loved Jesus at all, I think this book will resonate with you.

I have a title selected and plans to go from here, but all I know right now is that my book will be released in 2023.

Thank you for every bit of encouragement along the way. The time for celebration is almost upon us.

Love,
Heather