When Life Gives You Lemons, Put Them In Your Sweet Tea and Thank God You're From the South

I've been MIA for nearly a week because I made a little jaunt back to the homestead to celebrate the fourth with my family and old chum from my pre-college years, Christy. One week, over 800 miles, nearly $150 in gas, a whole slough of new teacher clothes, two fireworks shows, and a cooler full of homegrown food later, I'm back in Knoxville, preparing meals for the week and doing what I can to tucker myself out so I'll sleep well tonight. I have to wake up at early thirty tomorrow to be on campus by 8 o'clock and work in the Writing Center. Oh, the Writing Center. And I thought I was through with it. But hey, it's easy money for four weeks' worth of work.

Whenever I go home, I come back with a carload of crap, most of it really good stuff. Between Momma and Muffy, I can't make it across the state line without a boxful of kitschy junk from Goodwill and fresh food from the farm. I hit the motherlode this trip, acquiring so much food from Muffy that dear sweet Daddy had to sacrifice his new blue ice chest so I could get my goodies home without them spoiling. Here's the list:

8 homegrown tomatoes
2 gallons of freshly picked-and-snapped green beans. (I did the picking, Muffy did the snapping)
2 grilled chicken breasts (leftover from the fourth of July barbecue)
1 head of lettuce
1 dozen fresh eggs from Muffy's sitting hens
2 cucumbers straight out of the garden
1 quart jar of home canned tomatoes
1 pint jar of home canned fig preserves
1 pint jar of home canned orange marmalade
1 quart jar of what Muffy says is peach preserves but its clearly labeled orange marmalade
1 loaf of bread
1/2 bag of plain potato chips (left over from the fourth of July barbecue)
1 cabbage

Then

Momma gave me a 2 quart pitcher that holds just the right amount of iced tea for me, two large baskets I've used in my linen closet for organized toiletry storage, and a delightfully trashy recipe for Mountain Dew cake that I'll probably make only because mother dear ranted so much about it (recipe to follow).

And

Daddy not only gave me his new blue ice chest, but he also put a University of Tennessee vanity plate on the front of my little Civic, replacing the old, dented UCA one, and he filled my tank up with gas.

Plus

I hit the outlet mall in Tunica and got a nice pair of slacks, a green striped v-neck t-shirt, two oxford shirts (in pale pink and pale blue), a black sweater, a sea green zip up sweatshirt, and two pairs of argyle socks for only $41.37. My Muffy raised a bargian shopper indeed.

Today I've been cooking up a storm, preparing green beans and potatoes, cabbage soup (sounds nasty but tastes divine), corn bread, a baked chicken thigh, and seared mahi mahi (it was on sale at Kroger). I love cooking more than just about anything, except maybe eating and scribbling. Oh, and reading. And that's all I've done today, which is why I love my life. And I love my family, the good country people who make sure this Southern boy has plenty to eat, wear, and sit around his house to collect dust every few months when he rolls into town.

Now, some pictures from the trip!

I am the queen of this double-wide trailer


My seven-year-old cousin, Lily, modeling the fish goggles I gave her.


Action shot of my brother, Jeffrey, playing with Lily


Me, complete with battered nose, and Muffy. And Rosie the chihuahua.


Sunset on the Mississippi River, July 4th


Christy and me at the fireworks show. Note the green striped v-neck t-shirt and battered nose.


Fireworks over the River

Finally, Momma's Slap Your Momma Mountain Dew Cake

• 1 lemon cake mix
• 1 pkg. lemon pudding mix
• 1 (12 oz.) can Mountain Dew
• 3/4 cup vegetable oil
• 4 eggs

Beat all ingredients until smooth. Pour in a greased bundt pan. Bake 25-30 minutes, until done.

Momma knows I've been on a healthy eating kick recently and she told me in all earnestness that I could make a healthy version of this cake with sugar-free pudding mix and diet Mountain Dew. Bless her heart.

The Man I Have Not Become

One thing I know for sure: The Lord put my Daddy on this earth to be a daddy. It's taken me a while to come to that conclusion, but I think it's right, and I'd prefer not to be contradicted. For a long time, especially when I was a know-it-all teenager, I didn't know what to do with the man. Bald head, rotten teeth, incapable of uttering a sentence only once, my daddy the chronic repeater just didn't jibe with what television and children's books led me to believe a father was supposed to look like. He chews tobacco and paces the floors when he's talking to you. He has never said I love you before in his life. I'm nearly 100 percent sure of it, and that used to bother me endlessly until I came up with my Theory of Predestined Roles. At least that's the working title.

The thing my daddy is best at--and he's good at lots of things--is being a father. Not the handsomely trim, emotionally demonstrative soccer coach dad you'd see on Desperate Housewives (a DILF, if you will). He's a born caregiver. He doesn't have to look the part because he invented it. He doesn't have to say "I love you" because his body screams it with every muscle spasm and joint pop.

My daddy ran my bath water for me until I was ten years old. I think it hurt his feelings when I, in my decade's worth of grandiose wisdom, told him I would no longer need his services. He obliged me without an argument, but he was right there when, just after he left, I cranked up the hot water and yelped from the scald. Daddy cared about me, and he didn't want me to burn myself from the water that got much too hot as it traversed its way topsy-turvy through the persnickety pipes of our double-wide trailer. He cared about me enough to let me burn myself, though, and learn caution. Learn that maybe I still needed him after all.

He was at each of Jeffrey's home football games, and at most of the away ones, too, unless they were too far south in Mississippi, so far he couldn't make them in time after he got of work. Daddy loved watching those boys fumble on the field, particularly his own son, my brother, the 2nd string whatever who got little field play. Despite his love of sports and my disinterest in them, Daddy was there for all my adolescent rites of passage: choir concerts, school plays, countless academic awards ceremonies. Even the Momma I Adore can't say that much.

I took a composition class at Mississippi University for Women the summer before my senior year of high school and wrote a personal essay about my father, how he was born to drive. It makes sense. He drives a silver boat of a patrol car for a living, would spend evenings driving all about the county after he got off work, taking Jeffery to Taekwando and me to church. He always drove Aunt Mollie to the Methodist church at Pleasant Hill on Sunday mornings and picked her up just before noon since she never stayed for the invitation hymn. And the only two times I've ever known of him go to church of his own accord were the day I was baptized and the night I played Shepherd Number 2 in a musical at the Cedar View Baptist Church. My Daddy doesn't do religion, but when his youngest, most precocious went through that Evangelical Phase small town Southern kids are susceptible to, he took off his cap, tucked in his shirt, and sat right there in the back of the sanctuary to watch me take the plunge, make my joyful noise.

Jeffrey is so much like my father. He paces the floor when he talks just like Daddy, and he never quite knows what to do with his hands when he's conversing. He is restless now, constantly burning up gas bumbling down the road in his red pick up, finding some relative or another to get mad at. That's our Momma coming out in him, but he'll settle down when he has a child. Like our father, my brother was born to be a daddy, to care for another person more than he does for himself. In Jeffrey's case, like in Daddy's, I think the other person will have to be his own child, or the equation just won't work. Men like my father and brother make strange bedfellows. They aren't passionate lovers, which precludes them from being husband material for the types of women to which they are attracted. If I had a crystal ball it would tell me that my brother will marry right around 30, have a couple kids and remain completely enthralled with them through his divorce and high cholesterol diagnosis, right up until the day he dies. Just like our father.

More tenuous is determining the Theoretical Predestined Role for myself. I'm not like the men in my family, and those men closest to me, Daddy and Jeffery, have never treated me like I would grow up to be a man at all. Daddy still doesn't want me driving late at night, and Jeffrey calls to check on me when I'm sick, not like a brother would but like a father, to impart wisdom and utter proclamations of finality, words infused with healing, "you'll be alright come morning." I often feel like the daughter and sister they never had, because I'm the sensitive one. I am the son who loves in a different way than they know how. For me, love is my mother buying me a glittery star candle holder at Goodwill because she knows that my interior design taste tends towards a tacky-hippie infusion. It's my grandmother picking me up a John Grisham book at a yard sale for a quarter, not because she knows whether or not I like his work, but because she knows I'm a reader. Thoughtfulness, random acts of kindness, evidence of care beyond the conceived parameters of care giving: this is the style in which I love, and it's often gotten me in trouble with my male friends who, upon reflection, consider the cookbook or homemade banana muffins I gave them demonstrations of my romantic interest.

I don't love like men do, because I feel that love is contingent. It's something that can slip away unless little signs are shown to indicate it's still in blossom. I learn that from my mother, and I see myself in waking dreams like her, endlessly loved yet constantly aware that at any time the affection could slip away. Love is something we pine for, like school girls, longing for a kiss, who spend Sunday afternoons weeping in unmade beds. My father loves differently, constantly, unquestioningly. He is the only man I accept this type of love style from, because I believe more than just about anything else that he was born to love his sons with every movement of his body.

But I wasn't born that way. I was born for something else, yet to be determined.


This scribble comes from a discussion I had with my therapist (did I just demolish any credibility I may have had?) and from thoughts I've had while reading The Man I Might Become: Gay Men Write About Their Fathers. I'm thinking of polishing, tightening, and including this piece in the collection of creative work I'm submitting for my master's thesis, tentatively titled Learning To Talk.

NaFloScribMo 1

God bless Monda for giving me a reason to write. Here I was thinking of shutting the ol' bookspaz down in pursuit of lower, more pysically harmful endeavors. Let's do this.

Last time Jeffrey called, he sounded better, told me he put in for a transfer to Tupelo. "I'll be just right there," he said, of the town a hundred miles east of where we grew up. He has lived off for a while--first Lexington, now Pensacola--away from the steep bluffs of our hometown overlooking the Mississippi Delta, for five years now. He hasn't adjusted well.

I left home before he did, by 34 days. My exodus was different, though. I am always doing it differently from him. He left to drive an in-town courier van for FedEx; I left for college, with its mid-semester reprieves, fall break, spring break, not to mention Christmas and summer when I've had all the time in the world to do go back home as much as I want. As much as he wants to but can't with these gas prices and those 12-hour days. I adjusted to life away better than he did.

But was I ever really away? Not longer than a couple months. Not gone a full year before I got back to DeSoto County's sweetest water, Muffy's cocksure golden rooster. I keep trying to grow up, to say each August, "No, I will not go back until Christmas." But I can't stop going, especially when I really want to. I've never been any good at not doing what I want precisely when I want to do it. My brother has.

Jeffrey is stoic and brave--at least logical. Him with his work-a-day common sense, too much like our father, sacrificing himself for his job because if it doesn't give him purpose at least hard work makes him a man. I do not know what makes me a man, or if anything can besides biology. I like to hear my brother's voice deepening as he talks to me on the phone, as if he has just cleared phlegm from his throat. As if low tones are merit badges of self-sacrifice