Passing By

My friend for over four decades had open-heart surgery last March. His wife has been my tried and true soul sister since we met in the fifth grade at Cloverdale Elementary in Montgomery. Over the years, we'd gathered on many occasions both sweet and some sad. But this one was different. It had a new face and it was somber and it gave us reason to reflect. After hours of waiting, the doctor proclaimed the surgery a success. Ronnie's life would continue. All our lives would continue, but they would be changed, too.

Later over a glass of wine, tears, laughter, and thanksgiving, Libbo and I happened upon the subject of my book. She'd known I was struggling with what to do about "the box" and all that it represented. She knew I felt a bondage with what I had inherited and she knew I needed a release. And I knew I needed something to push me, to force my hand to begin the project. Ronnie's brush with death, and Libbo's constant encouragement gave me the impetus to begin the book I felt destined to complete before all my time had passed. The reality of time-limits urged me forward.

It's reasonable and true that the life of my book took form because of Libbo and Ronnie. The title not only relates to the four roads leading to Montgomery from Virginia, Kentucky, Tennessee and Georgia, but to the spared life of my friend after his quadruple bypass surgery. It represents roots as well as routes that lead to, surround, and ground life, families, and lasting friendships.

Just as Libbo has been my soul-rooted sister for all these years, her mother was like a mother to me. Bess loved me unconditionally like she loved all who knew her. Her requirements were small; her radiance quiet and unassuming. Yesterday, the earth seemed quiet and smaller as it allowed her passage from this realm to the next. She was 89 and she transcended as peacefully as she lived.
This entry is in honor of Bess.

I'll resume posts on "The Southern Bypass" beginning January, 2010.

Next Step

So. I had retrieved "the box" from a closet of memories and mess. Old Boy Scout uniforms and a wedding dress--gone, along with years of clutter. But the filthy insect-spotted letters and ancient paper had been rescued and waited in the car with the Old Paris porcelain and Waterford crystal.

I have been uninterested in old family relics and tales that have been stuffed down my throat since I was a baby. Being the only girl in a clan with three brothers, maybe I should have inherited the old family spirit. Alas! All these treasures, these family heirlooms, meant little to me. Nor had they ever. I had resented the constant reminders of the past and wholeheartedly blasphemed the family’s loyalty to “The Lost Cause”. Call me a heritage heretic. All the pieces of the past the family had cherished through the years were pieces of needless debris in my mind.

Traitor that I was, I felt no devotion to those people or things. To make me a bigger turn-coat, the thought occurred to me that I might be able to make some money off some of this stuff. Maybe, the old guys fortuitously waited to endow me with their things for my financial well-being. Funny how the mind goes in circles, especially when it's dizzy with dust, aching from such strain. And dealing with the loss of things that DID matter-like a family home and a mother.

These last four years as I began to organize the stacks of letters and documents, I realized why all the Southern history had been collected in one single place. The Sophie Bibb Chapter of the Daughters of the Confederacy, named for my great-great-great grandmother, stored their archives in the old Bibb home where the group frequently convened. When the home was demolished, most of its belongings went with my grandmother to my house on Thorn Place. The majority of the documents included in my book and on my blog are the remnants of those archives.

On the Path

Okay. So today, I think to get the story rolling,I'll venture back into my old home, the house of my childhood. Everything from it had to go or be assessed when my mother died. Already void of its soul, the old house would be sold, and I had become the keeper of things, great and small.


Much of the family's history remained in the cluttered spaces of bookshelves, closets, and the old oak sideboard filled with antique china, glass, and the abiding aroma of bourbon wafting from the omnipresent closed doors.

Onward to the task of cleaning (then) and proceeding (now), I must say that among the self-proclaimed debris was "the box" that could easily have met its end with one swift toss, had fate not protected it and its contents for centuries. What could I do? After a peak at a couple of ancient letters and documents,and a large sigh (just repeated in retrospect), I pushed "the box" aside and later wedged it into my car for its new journey and life. Four years later, I'm understanding why all that stuff was kept, and believe it or not, (I say to myself) the salvaging and transcribing and chronicling has been enlightening as I have recovered history and discovered my roots' impact on things, great and small.

Tiptoeing In

Well. This is my entrance onto the highway encircling time and lives from the days of dust to the present din of fast paced travels. I'll be adding editions to this labyrinth and by the end, will have covered a few centuries using letters, documents, photos...all in my personal collection of family archives. They say the Southern Bypass outside Montgomery, Alabama, takes a traveller quickly around and out of town, sometimes a good thing. But I say it misses the heart of the town, the town I know as home, the town my ancestors knew as home when they were among the earliest settlers in the town by the river. First edition coming soon, notwithstanding the holidays. Talk about fast paced travels! This should be fun and I hope to have some traveling companions who don't have the need to travel fast or direct my path. Hmmm. I may be traveling solo. Well, except for the old guys who'll give the direction I need to make this journey possible.