Tag Archives: people watching

At the table: I’ll have a double handful right now, please

My dear son Kai returned to Montreal Sunday. I am so grateful he had a chance to spend two and a half days in Atlanta with me, a whirlwind of three doctors at two different Emory campuses. I made macaroni and cheese while he was here, (added bacon and subbed a little soy milk), and because the avocados were so pretty, I picked some up too. Thanks to the inspired presence of Michael and Kai, the guacamole got chopped bacon added as well.*

A friend took me to the grocery store Friday morning. There’s a sentiment too often inscribed on wine glasses and aprons these days, but during WWII, steely-eyed Londoners reminded each other to “keep calm and carry on.” I suspect it’s a cultural thing, perhaps a gender thing, but “carrying on” has always led me straight to thoughts of my belly. No matter what happens, we all have to eat, right? So, although I could not rationalize it one single bit, it felt okay for me to be in the grocery store Friday morning with my life in slo-mo shatter all around me.

I found the okra but they had black spots. “Do you have any fresh?” My friend who carried me to the market is a mind-reader. The produce manager smiled at her and returned in short order with a bin of okra pods, green as God intended. As I sorted, I remembered to breathe. I was looking for the short, tender pieces. The new ones, more fuzzy than spiny. I focused, sorted, breathed. I began to see how I might carry on.

I had my 90-day check-up last week, and here’s the bad news:  five new lesions on both lobes of my poor old liver. Here’s the good news: I’ll be starting hormone shots soon, and these may shrink or slow the tumor growth, alleviate some of the nasty GI symptoms, and also act as markers for targeted radiation therapy

I remembered all the times I’ve picked okra. My daddy used to grow a little bit in the backyard, when I was little and we lived in Kansas. He showed me how to pick the tender pods before the spines got mean. He taught me how to make snapdragons yawn and he teased my mom about her fierce loyalty to Jiffy corn bread mix for breading okra. But he kept a box of Jiffy mix in his cabinet for the rest of his life.

This put a smile on my face: remembering all the many, many times I have splashed that sunny yellow Jiffy mix, oil and beaten eggs across all the many stoves I’ve owned. The innumerable skillets full of the most delicious, tender, crispy, sweet, salty sliced joy from the garden that I have proudly presented to a tableful of guests, guarded at the kitchen counter, jealously hoarded for a latecomer. The buckets of sweat that have poured down my face while ceiling fans and floor fans roared and percolated the sultry Alabama air.

“Look.” My friend had found the discount rack. “This is the best risotto ever and it’s only a dollar.”

I wouldn’t bite. “It’s out of date.” I went back to fondling fuzzy baby okra pods.

“No, it’s not. Have you ever had homemade risotto?” Well, no, I haven’t. Or rather, I hadn’t up until then. She convinced me. I bought it. A pound of fat, unsullied white mushrooms, selected slow. And a pair of strawberry cartons on the fly on the way out the door.

I wanted to cook the risotto first, since I’d never tried it before. You have to stir the stuff nonstop. Thankfully I had enough clout to press Kai and Michael into service. It was good. But the okra? It was heavenly. It was love-on-a-fork. It sang to me of my mother, my children, my past. I was tired and didn’t make it as carefully as I might have but Kai knows his part.

“Best okra ever.”

We finished up the odd meal with lots and lots of strawberries and canned whipped cream and those perpetually stale dessert cups. Nectar of the gods, I tell you.

This thing we humans do, this preparing and sharing of food. It has such power in it. My friend Ellen Beaumont Ballard, my friend Margery Thomson, my friends Phyllis and Anne and Melanie, Bridget and Carole and Tommy, all my parish family who have scraped little bits of orange cheese on celery sticks, dumped a box of crackers on a plate, put another pot of coffee on. We know that power. My entire life, the go-to response to strong emotion is food.

I was at a memorial service recently, for a man deeply loved by his colleagues, students, and family. We spent the weekend together at Bald Rock Lodge on Cheaha Mountain. An army of people, from age ten to ninety, kept food and coffee and sodas and snacks piled high on tables stretching the length of the room. Waves of people came in and out, migrated to the patio, down to the motel pool, out to the lawn. They laughed and loved and remembered their friend. I watched, mostly. And although I didn’t know Dr. Olander or his family, I was nourished. In fact, when we left, I was flourishing. Renewed and reinvigorated.

Lucky me, I got to go to a wedding in early June, too. We sat under the summer trees near the Platte River, long rows of picnic tables, and ate pie and danced, celebrated love and family ties, and those tables, too, were overflowing with something, some power greater than mere calories, physical sustenance. All these long, laden tables I have been invited to, stumbled over, contributed to the bounty or not, they sustain me now.

I had my 90-day cancer check-up last week, and here’s the bad news: CT scans show five new lesions on both lobes of my poor old liver. Too much for surgery. Here’s the good news: I’ll be starting hormone shots soon, and these may shrink or slow the tumor growth, alleviate some of the nasty GI symptoms, and they’ll also act as markers for targeted radiation therapy if that becomes an option. My original prognosis, a 20% chance of surviving five or more years, hasn’t changed. I like my Emory docs; from what I can tell from my research they’re near the top in treatment of pancreatic neuroendocrine cancer.

If you know me well, you know I’m the most gullible person alive. I believed in jackelopes till I was thirty (what, my dad would mislead me on that??). I’ll spot fairies and djinn and angels at the drop of a pin. I prefer this world with a dusting of magic. Perhaps because I want to see it, I do. Even so, I have company in my capacity to believe. Any number of my cousins would swear to the presence of the Holy Spirit at sweet Olivia’s wedding in Omaha. Great clouds of angelic white moths swarmed the memorial celebration at Cheaha. Discouraged, aching hearts are renewed and encouraged and restored over and over, and simple kindness blooms underfoot in all directions. Beautiful things that should not happen, do.

Maybe it was just luck that allowed Kai’s schedule to fit in a trip to Atlanta. I think my Higher Power knew I needed my son to be with me and Michael when we got that news, and then to meet my great psychiatrist at the Winship Cancer Center, and my incredibly compassionate pain management doctor. I’m so very glad I could fry okra for Kai, and spread a tableful of love, nevermind that we ate off plates in our laps in front of the tv.

As a Christian, the Table with the deepest significance for me is the altar where I gather with my brothers and sisters to feast on Christ’s sacrificial love. One of my favorite preachers described that table once as extending, somehow, from my beloved parish home Saint Andrews, to heaven, through time and space, filled end-to-end with all whom we have ever loved and lost and all those who are to come.

That Table, now. It is in my heart. And so, dear friends, are you. I often don’t feel like eating at all these days, but whatever you’re serving up that can’t be tasted or seen yet warms the heart? I’ll have a double handful, please. Right now.

Will you tell me about a time when you’ve found more than food at a table full of folks? Or if you don’t feel like writing it down, just take a moment and remember what it feels like. We’ll make the world a little more beautiful, one thought at a time.

*My most recent favorite t-shirt slogan: “Because of bacon, I know Jesus loves me.”



Sharing Space In The South

Version 2I love my hometown. My family moved to Birmingham when I was ten, so I didnt have much say in the decision, but Ive made a conscious choice to stay here over and over through the years. Ive only regretted it intermittently, usually in August or a hellish hot September.

I saw poverty at close range for the very first time on our journey south, and it struck me to the core. With the advantage of hindsight and more than forty years, I recognize the irony: coming from an affluent suburb in the Midwest, poverty was in fact all around me; I just never saw it, since I never left the elevated interstate highway on my journey from one enclave of privilege to the next.

Since then, traveling back and forth to the Midwest to see family (and satisfy my wanderlust) has given me lots of time to think. I am always happy to go north and west, and equally happy to leave. Overstuffed with family, memories and togetherness, driving east and south toward Alabama, I never feel quite at ease until I hit Memphis.

In some inexplicable way, everyone who shares my Southern space is connected in a way that my blood relatives are not. That is, I think, at the root of something that is both a blessing and a curse for us Southerners. 

It took me years to figure it out: the Midwest is fairly homogenous and mostly light-skinned. I see people of color going about their daily lives just like me when I get back to the South. It feels good, somehow, to exchange a smile or a joke with people who dont look like me. Even though they dont look like me, they are somehow familiar, even comforting. In some inexplicable way, everyone who shares my Southern space is connected in a way that my blood relatives are not.

That is, I think, at the root of something that is both a blessing and a curse for us Southerners. (I hope you dont mind, in my better moments I do consider myself a Southerner.) Black and white, we live in such close proximity we dont have the luxury to pretend the otherdoesnt exist. Its easy enough to celebrate racial harmony when the nearest black person is in a different school district. In the decades since desegregation, living elbow-to-elbow naturally creates friction.

As ten-year-old me went swimming in the newly desegregated Birmingham City pool in Crestwood, I was astonished to observe the soles and palms of the boisterous black kids surrounding me. They were a vivid pink, just like mine. It quite simply blew my mind.

That was one of the first in a long series of tiny epiphanies about togetherness and otherness. Instead of only thinking about things which make me separate, without really knowing it, I also began to store up observations about what makes us alike.

My fourth-grade class at Comer Elementary School had a single black student. She and I both kept to ourselves, I noticed. I invited her to my birthday party, and she came with the rest of the girls, uncomfortably dressed in her Sunday best. That day I was introduced to the sweet-savage Southern nicety that theywere often happierwhen left to themselves.I only gradually came to understand that my isolation was temporary and self-imposed, while hers was not.

This unceasing patter of seemingly insignificant observations has changed me. Often I feel certain they are a gift from God, a source of spiritual growth. Sometimes its inconvenient, like the realization that the lady who beat me to a prime parking spot deserves it just as much as I do. No matter what, seeing these commonalities makes my love for my hometown deeper, richer and at times, more difficult to reconcile with easy platitudes about race and racism.

I want to go camping.

SerenityThisWay

Here’s why:

If you ever want to get outside yourself and just observe human nature, there’s no better place than an RV park.  We take along our tent, a 35-year-old relic my dad bought on a whim when his marriage was bright and shiny and his understanding of my mother was surging toward its high water mark.  To my memory we never used it.

I didn’t even know we had it, in fact, until my parents divorced and honored me with a explorer’s pass to the physical detrius of their marriage.  It’s boxy and square and makes a lot of noise assembling the aluminum poles.  I’m quite fond of it.

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