My Little Loquat  January 8, 2017

Today, the earth’s upper crust is frozen, as is the air above it, and the trees, flowers. All growth springing from the mother’s womb stands at attention unable to continue the ease of flow ordinary to life. The leaves on my loquat tree are covered in ice particles left from last evening’s snow flurries that came and went in a way synonymous with the category of white falling flakes.

Enough of a flurry to frost the earth and plants with a glistening reflection reminding this day that yesterday, it snowed. Today, though, the ice remains in play to thwart any mention of fluidity. My loquat tree has grown about as tall as I am but not without a struggle. Today, its leaves are bent with ice. Icicles drip from some, hanging on to the very tip like tears waiting to complete their descent but unable to let loose. Little stalactites bound to relent eventually as one natural pull or another causes their demise. My loquat, too, may have to relent to nature. It’s given life a good shot for about five years. 

Here’s my loquat’s story. She’s a transplant from Montgomery’s slightly warmer and decidedly more humid climate. She sprang from the ground beside her mother on Thorn Place where my mother lived for about fifty years. I spent my formidable years there from age ten to 21 when I married and left home. I have roots there, though. Deep ones, as did my loquat tree.  

The mother tree came from another family home, this one a great deal older. The ancestral mansion, of sorts, was built in 1828 in newly developing Montgomery, Alabama. Fig trees, pomegranate, magnolias, banana shrubs and loquat trees covered the grounds providing not only lush foliage of diverse greens and shapes, but succulent fruits from many. As years passed and  centuries changed, the once lovely wooden home fell into disrepair and the only remaining bastion , my grandmother “Nannie”, was unable to maintain the homestead. It had to be sold. The historic preservationists had little money to offer in the way of compensation if my grandmother chose to donate it for history’s sake. She simply couldn’t afford that option. It had to be sold. It had to be demolished to make way for modern times—a parking lot. Ugh! Nannie moved into my parents’ home on Thorn Place. Some of the old furnishings, portraits, china, silver came with her, but much was disseminated between her offspring and other family members. Needless to say, the day the house went down, so did my grandmother. 

Along with Nannie and a few reminders of the old days and home came some seedlings from the old trees. Among them, three loquat trees, a magnolia, one pomegranate, and one fig. The pomegranate eventually died, but not before producing a bounty of fruit I enthusiastically popped open, eating each red seed with gusto. The after-effect of consistent blackened fingers from the fruit never kept me from one more, and then another. Maybe the sight of the bundled, red seeds in lively clusters from each newly opened fruit gave me as much pleasure as the actual eating of the tart little morsels.  I love them to this day.  The fig tree grew well and produced, but the ubiquitous squirrels and birds feasted on most of the fruit before any human could get to it. The magnolia grew by leaps and bounds and soon filled a corner on the front yard on Thorn Place. The loquats flourished, all three and produced more tangy, small fruits that were a delicacy in my book of favorites. We fought the indigenous wildlife for a small crop each year. Eventually, they quit producing fruit, but held high their heads as they continued branching out and skyward. The three grew side by side. Eventually, my mother, the last inhabitant of Thorn Place, died at age 85.  Thorn Place was sold along with the trees.

Two years passed and I never set foot back on the grounds of my Thorn Place home until one day when I was visiting my brother and his family who happened to live across the street from our family home. The house was vacant again. I decided to walk the familiar path around the house, the path my brothers and I had walked many, many times as children and adolescents. It all felt so familiar: the windows; the mossy bricks of the old patio where I once salted (more appropriately assaulted) slugs as they slowly slimed along leaving behind a silvery trail; the old millstone out back brought from the ancestral home downtown; the loquat trees. Beside the three tall healthy trees were some tiny seedlings  shadowed but trying to find room beneath their parents. I dug up one. It was probably a foot tall, best. I transported her back to Birmingham, knowing her chances of survival were slim in the northern climate a hundred miles north. The loquat, categorized as sub-tropical, originated in China, but has been indigenous to Japan for over 1000 years. It’s often called the Japanese plum. In the 18th century, Europeans brought loquats to the new country from Japan for use as ornamentals. Today, California’s southern coastal plains offer a good climate in the USA, as do parts of Florida. 

The odds were not in my favor. But the desire over-ruled. I planted her in a pot and set her in the sun for her first summer in a new land. She perked right up and began to sprout fresh leaves. The winter rolled around, as usual, and I decided to keep her potted for at least that winter. She thrived indoors placed by a glass-windowed door until spring. By then, she may have reached two-feet. My next big risk—I planted her. Front and center in my yard.  I observed her in awe and appreciation that summer and watched her bloom with vigor. Two new limbs and bountiful leaves all curled open revealing more of the loquat’s characteristic appendages layered with a slight fuzz coating to counteract the severity of long pointed leaves.  By the end of that summer, she was at least 3 feet tall and proudly so. Me too. I loved watching her grow and told her story to any neighbor or friend who cared (or didn’t) to hear.  

Along came another inevitable winter. She was on her own. Out there in the cold. And then a snow was announced. I quickly googled “How to protect a loquat from a freeze” and found enough info to allow some protection for my little tree.  I built a two layered tent out of clothe and plastic and staked it around her. Inside it, I place boiling hot water to keep her warm and moist, and hopefully not frozen.  It worked!  I worked like a farmer protecting his crop from an invasion of locusts. That pan was filled more times than I can remember, but she stayed warm throughout the storm. She made it, save a few burned bottom leaves, through that winter!

Another summer and she grew at least a foot higher and two feet wider.  An another winter came and went and still she flourished.  One more summer and she took off. No fruit, but my loquat tree lived!

Presently, she stands five feet-four, just like me.  Only a few days ago, even though it’s January, I noticed more new leaves curling up from the top of her. She is tenacious from the roots upward. The weather changed drastically two days ago. The temperature dropped to far below freezing. The snow fell. The temperature remains around 15 degrees.  I had no way to protect her from this. It’s make-it or break-it time.  A remnant of snow ices her leaves. She is ever so still. The wind only causes a slight sway from her. She’s a stalwart, but even the strongest can only take so much. She’s given me all I could ask of her, and then some. She has ice in her veins today. That’s not what I would have planned for her, or wanted. All I can do now is wait until the sun shines and the temperatures rise to see if she remains able to continue being my little loquat tree. I’ve loved her tenderly. 5’4 is good enough, though.

Southern Bypass Comes to Life

Recently, my husband had shoulder replacement.
I'd heard the recovery would be tough, long, and would require lots of help from someone, like me. I knew I would be pretty near home and antsy for at least a month as I tended the recovering Don and his new shoulder. What would I do with all that at-home time? The answer was, "Finish your book, Southern Bypass."
 I had let it lie fallow for a year and a half with a copy on a disc and one in my computer. Its destiny was incomplete until I found a way to get it into the hard copy I'd originally planned  in the process of covering these long trails. My goal for my nursing free -time was set. But how?
About the time of the surgery, I happened to be in a group of  friends who gather regularly to discuss life and philosophy. One of the women is a life coach who has just published a book, Inspired and Prosperous. She told me about a self-publisher she had used, one that allowed lots of leeway in editing, assistance if wanted, and at the end,  a hard copy edition made available on Amazon. Create Space is the on-line company I immediately investigated.  I needed that missing piece of the puzzle and there it was, right on time. I had my publisher and way to accomplish my goal. I could get the seven copies I wanted to give my grandchildren and I had the time to do the final editing.
Having said that, I have completed the book and have it on Amazon. It has mistakes. There's a period in the middle of a sentence. There's a period beside an exclamation mark. And I'm sure a myriad more. But it's done and I worked hard to get it to this place. It's been a four year project, maybe five counting the hours I put into dusting letters and sorting documents. Was it worth it?
Yes. For me, yes. Eventually, for my grandchildren and children, maybe. My daughter has read part of it as she helped in proofing a copy and she told me she feels like she knows my grandmother, Nannie, for the first time. And likes her! Nannie would love that, and she would have loved Meriwether.   I had the same reaction as my daughter throughout the unraveling of my ancestors' lives. I got to know them and understand them. So,yes. It was a worthwhile effort if only for me. However, I sense congratulations from the women whose lives I covered in this chronicle. When I pass my great-great grandmother's  portrait,  I'm almost certain I see a slight nod of approval and a tiny wink of an eye.

Dismantling Curio Case

January 1, 2012. I haven't been active on this posting procedure for quite some time. Here I go again with a new year and new perspective. Well, not entirely new. But a re-vision of some things I've learned to accept and now find weariness as an attachment to them. For instance, the curio case of curious objects tethered to me for over 40 years. The thing is, I never wanted to be a curator of antiquities. These curios have been with me in this odd antique make-shift case for my entire adult life. Do we sometimes accept what's with us just because we blindly forget to re-visit if in fact we actually have to continue the relationship? Well, I have done just that with this parcel of curios I've packed, unpacked, packed, unpacked, etc. for way more times than I can count. And the truth is, I don't think I really like much of the stuff at all. They might be museum pieces. I don't want to host a museum in my house. I really want space and freedom from the old stuff. Here in 2012, I'm beginning by packing away the abundance of oddities. The snuff box that belong to my great-grandmother's grandfather, Hugh Dunlap. The eyeglasses, though quaint, stare at me with a longing look to be elsewhere. The broken porcelain pitcher. The lowestoft Chinese importware.The DAR brochures that belonged to my great-great grandmother. The Civil War relics. I know. Keep the old, but embrace the new. One is silver. The other gold. I don't want to throw it all away. I just want it out of my way. Out of my path so I can live more uncluttered in the present. I've been attempting the break for some time now and incrementally have succeeded. I take yet another step in breaking the bonds that, for me, hold me captive to ages past. My interest lies in the present and what each moment therein can teach me, offer me, usher me toward. In not making any specific resolutions for 2012, I have found answers already and unsolicited guidance into a new year. I look forward to the mystery of this year. So I'll pack away, carefully, the items I've cherished and protected for years. I'll save them and hope they won't be a burden to those who find them and might want to place them in another curio case. Perhaps I should rethink the destiny of these treasures before I pass on to my children and grandchildren an inheritance they might one day want to destroy or declare as a plague or menace. Maybe they'll be wiser than I and find a home outside their own home. Or maybe they'll toss these things into a futuristic dumpster and be done. I keep wishing for a voice from above to guide me in the choices I make regarding the future of these antiquities. I'm looking for the old bird who popped down from above and spoke clearly to Groucho Marks with a word of wisdom like,  "Send these to me."  For now, I'll go with the voice that said to me, "pack it in and move on". The space in my hall will be wonderfully, refreshingly empty soon.

Oil on the Road

When I was three or four, my parents began our annual pilgrimage down Highway 331 heading to "the coast", they called it. I've been heading like a lemming back to the beaches along the Gulf coast ever since and have a deep, soulful attachment to them and all they signify and embrace. Through the years, I've rented places in Panama City Destin, Pensacola, Ft. Walton, Navarre, Perdido Key, Orange Beach, Gulf Shores, and Ft. Morgan. I took my children there. They take theirs. I can't count the people I know who have followed 331 or I 65 down to the glorious beach along Alabama's and Florida's coastline.

About ten years ago, my husband to be and I bought a townhome at the very end of the Ft. Morgan peninsula and I considered it my home. We swung back and forth between Birmingham and Ft.  Morgan like yo-yos, but I stayed for longer periods since I could work from there and watch the Gulf and nature thrive before me. The Gulf was spitting distance from our deck and I adored it.

My husband, Don, ritualistically heralded the pelicans with a resounding "Hey Boys!"as they flew in a constant elegance of soaring or death-threatening plummets to catch their daily dose of sustenance. We marveled at their skill, their aim, their success. We watched the gulls salute the wind as they stood in a military formation, the general at the front leading the chorus of adulation to their home. The almost extinct skimmers, usually flying in twos, skimmed the margin of the shore barely allowing their bottom long pointed bill to scrap along the water's edge in search of food.

I danced with the waves, watched them dance in sync to The Nutcracker's Suite. We watched their anger as storms aggravated their normal ebb and flow. We puzzled over the myriad of sand crabs who scooted in rapid side crawls from one hole to the next, stopping only to gaze with their popped eyes on stems at us, the intruders lounging above their labyrinth of tunnels beneath the sand. We wondered how they came back after a hurricane that had left the sand flattened and bare, all holes barred. But they came back as did much of what was destroyed during those storm.

The dolphin never failed to perform in front of our townhome. Because we were near the mouth of the bay, they came and went with a constancy that spoiled us. We watched them circle their young ones tossing the baby dolphin into the air where the acrobat performed like a jubilant kid in a pool.  We saw tandem jumps by the graceful creatures more than we could count. I swam with them. I paddled out on a raft to be near them and I was exhilarated beyond belief or words. My best birthday brought me the gift of double dolphin jumping under a double rainbow. What a gift!

Each time I arrived to that place, my thin space in an arena so full of life, I felt resurrected, washed in the balm of Gilead. From the salt air, to the soft sand, to the gorgeous expanse of water always changing,  each of  those things were elements that welcomed me  home.

How can I not but feel the deepest sadness over what is happening to that sacred place? I am only one voice in a sea of depressed lives, human and otherwise. We are all connected, in my view.
We don't have our place any more but I've missed it like crazy. It's still a part of me. The coast is a part of me. And my soul grieves over this tragedy.

Woodlawn Gains Postive Energy

A segment from my book, Southern Bypass, mentions Woodlawn, a community at the core of Birmingham's earliest days. Once thought to be the residential area on the rise, Woodlawn has crumbled through the years. Poverty is prevalent, schools are disheveled and malfunctioning, and there is little to lift the spirits of the small community's residents.  But the foundation has maintained its integrity, though difficult to see in its decline.

The community is getting attention these days. A thrift store "55th Place" is packed with anything from suitcases to pillows to linens, furniture, and clothes for any size, age, or gender. The vast merchandise is supplied by donations and the store is run by volunteers.

The small Episcopal church in the area, Grace, has a core congregation of people who care and are willing to put their concern to work. Recently, a home next door to the quintessential church building was bought and is being turned into a home for homeless Veterans in the area, some 500 I was told.

A young couple, both writers, have bought an abandoned pharmacy and are converting it into a tutoring center with a tropical flare that should attract passersby to investigate the apparent activities happening inside. Elizabeth and Chip Brantley are also offering their assistance in any possible way to Woodlawn High School and are recruiting volunteers to further their vision of creating a love of writing in students young and old in the area.

Had I not read the letters from a family friend who wrote from Woodlawn in 1889 and spoke about the thriving community with such ardor, I might not have such a keen interest now in the resurrection attempts I see. Where there is this kind of passion, there are sure to be rewards, even if in small increments.  I'm encouraged, and frankly, am interested in jumping on the bandwagon in some capacity. These people who have vision and energy to create new life are the catalyst for the change Woodlawn has needed and deserves.

This is a PS since I'm writing it three days later. It's important, though. The YWCA of Central Alabama has invested $11 million in Woodlawn, building a shelter and renovating a huge apartment building. They are looking for other building to renovate. A local church has opened a Health Center and a private school is expanding into a renovated church building making way for more than the 250 previously enrolled students. People are beginning to opt for housing in the area in hopes of spawning further community growth. These are even bigger signs of the positive energy attempting to divert and disperse the negative lifestyle of a community with a good heartbeat.

The Old Town Lives

Late yesterday afternoon, I sat outside under a large covered dining area with a couple of friends, had a glass of wine listening to an acoustic guitar and pleasant singer, and enjoyed looking across the street at lovely old architecture, cleaned and occupied. There was such life, such energy along the street, people passing, cars looking for spaces to park among the many cars already landed there. A horse driven carriage with plumed horse trotted by. A trolley turned the corner and let people out, and picked up waiting ones. Around the corner on the river, a minor league baseball team played in the state of the arts field where a large crowd of fans gathered. We walked across the street to another new bar, dining area, where my friend showed me "the shot room", photographic in the way the bottles are placed in square cubicles in an icy cold room where shots are served in ice jiggers. This was "The Alley Bar", another popping place for 6 in the evening. Then we strolled down the alley behind the main street and looked at the many lofts with balconies and plants and umbrellas, all tucked on top the old renovated buildings. Another stop at a ZaZa's Pizza for delicious pizza and another full house of others who were enjoying the downtown experience of my hometown.  Yes.  Montgomery.

Montgomery is changing! My brother, Charles, gives a lot of credit to the new mayor, Todd Strange (he went to Montevallo with my good friend, Andrea, and me).

 They now run the trolley between downtown and Old Cloverdale and Maxwell on an hourly basis.  They are "redecorating" the corridor between Maxwell and downtown and the entire downtown is going through a facelift. The same is being done from the Capital Heights corridor to town.  What is so nice is the integrity of what still stands of the old town remains visible and is showcased by the innovations.  You will be totally surprised as I was yesterday when I visited Charles and Sheila. My nephew won a literary award for his essay on Retinitis Pigmentosa, his disease which ultimately leads to blindness. It was just an incredible, unforgettable afternoon and I wanted to share a special time with my old Montgomery friends.

May we meet by the river one day soon.

Missie

Learning from the Past

      Well, I thought I had ended. Seems not.
Soon, though, I’ll embark on my next voyage. Now the women--from Margaret Lynn Lewis, to Jane Strother Lewis, to Elizabeth Lewis Gilmer, to Sophie Gilmer Bibb, to Martha Dandridge Bibb, to Susanna Dunlap Porter Bibb, to Mattie Gilmer Bibb Edmondson, to Deane Jones Edmondson, to me—we all go our separate ways, but we don’t really separate at all. I could be trapped in this intense montage if some degree of exfoliation didn’t occur as a natural process. If I refused to learn from the amazing parade of unleashed spirits how to live better in the present, or how to better appreciate the past, I could be encased in lifeless cells. I opt for renewal.

       Before I do leave, I’ll retire “the box”. Maybe find a new home for all it has held sacred. This should be a wonderful period of relaxation. For now, I’ll pause, feel the inevitable let-down, and simultaneously, milk the satisfaction over completing this meandering journey. Then, I’ll remember how great it was to get us all together to have this heart to heart. After circling and searching for the routes that mattered, for me, for this moment, and for my family, it’s sweet to be home, Alabama. It’s also great to know the Southern Bypass awaits if I choose a rapid exit. Or re-entry.

End of Road

     After resurrecting these personal and illustrious antecedents, calling them forward, giving each a starring role, I now send them back to their peaceful places, hoping they’re not dizzy from the ride. I also hope the reunion served its purpose in giving each participant a respectful soapbox, a grandstand, and graceful exit, baggage and all. If I have been fair in my presentation, honest in my assessment, thorough in my coverage, and compelling in its delivery, I have exceeded my expectations.
     As an unsolicited bonus, I have a new intimacy with my father, mother, and grandmother, and beyond. The relationships had suffered prior to my in-depth exploration. By connecting the dots, not only did I track the lineage and define the line, but I made a personal discovery and a recovery as well. Each member, each memory, letter, poem, or picture formed a piece of the puzzle that now reveals the truth about my people and what formed them as well. Also, I am going out on a limb to say, in seeing them more clearly, they see me in the same light. A true catharsis has transcended time and allowed a soothed soul’s repose.

Down the Road

This is hard to believe, but my tale is winding down and approaching an exit on the Southern Bypass. It's time for me to introduce the last traveler on this particular journey.

Elizabeth Deane Edmondson (Patterson) (Cooper)

“Missie”

Daughter of George Bibb Edmondson and Deane Jones (Edmondson)
Born St. Margaret’s Hospital  July 20, 1946
Montgomery, Alabama
Married July 20, 1968
Richard Reginald Patterson, Jr.

Divorced July 20, 1990
Children—
Richard Reginald Patterson, III married to Lori Hackleman

Children: Lucy Porter, Sophie Huyen, George William
George Bibb Patterson married to Hope Henry

Children: Kathryn Evelyn, Camden Bibb
Elizabeth Meriwether Patterson Thurman married to S. Michael Thurman

Children: Seaborn Forrest Thurman, Elizabeth Grace

Married October 2, 1998
Donald Leonard Cooper, Jr.

When to Say “When”—
     I’ve hardly ever known when to say when, not even with pepper or parmesan. My segment, the ending one, should be short. My tale unfolded in a round-about way as this slow trek ensued. Most of me, or all I choose to reveal, can be found in-between the lines of the preceding words, passages, and people. The trails have merged onto the fast-paced interchanges of the 21st century and the bypasses skirting issues, times, and towns. My trail will continue to unwind in these modern fast-paced lanes that one day will be as outmoded as those of my earliest ancestors.

     Today, the southern bypass maintains its offering as an alternative passage around and outside Montgomery. It accommodates the rush of life most days. It’s lined with service stations, fast-food chains, medical facilities, etc. and etc. and it’s a great route, if you’re heading south, down 331 toward Panama City, east toward I 20 and Atlanta, or westward ho, just moving on. Most of the travelers in this written pilgrimage missed the modernity of four-lanes, interstates, and fast-tracks of any configuration. They actually wrote letters and documents with pens or pencils or typewriters, and did research solely at the library. I, on the other hand, sat at my computer to compile this chronicle and used the same to check points, identify unknowns, or correspond with vast resources available on line. To ask for editorial comments, I attached files to emails and zipped them to anyone and anywhere I chose. I “tweeted” my progress on Twitter and began a blog--the fast track at my finger-tips. How did the old guys manage?

85 Mays

May 7, 2005

My 59th May 7. Her 85th.

     This May, and the more recent ones, harvested fewer signs of new life than expected for the last month of the season. The hope of spring, or of anything, spoke less audibly in the haze of Mamma’s out-of-rhythm heart.
I was headed to Demopolis to see the live rendition of “To Kill a Mockingbird” in the actual courtroom of movie fame. It was to be my first viewing of this traditional yearly performance and I’d gotten tickets months ago, the day they went on sale. I stopped en route from Birmingham in Montgomery to check on Mamma and found her slumped in her chair saying, ‘Missie, I just don’t feel good.” I could see it. Her breathing labored for each quick intake of oxygen and left her exhausted in the effort.

Too weak to walk, she stayed on her sofa while my sister-in-law and I prepared her things and called the ambulance. It arrived promptly with two amicable attendants ready to assist.
The trip to Harper Lee’s town quickly faded into perhaps another future season as my trip re-routed to Jackson’s Hospital. That spring, that May belonged to my mother. Her humor remained as she said to me, “I guess I’m going to kick the bucket,” when the doctors announced pneumonia as a fateful diagnosis and complication in the already present heart arrhythmia.

I'll remember her last few days on earth as a group of the most difficult of any seasons to date. She wanted to hang on for a few more Mays, a few more seasons, for what reason I don’t know. Depression smothered her and blanketed her countenance with remorse over lost beauty, love, youth, and a child. Her mind held tightly to life with acuity, except for allowing her the reality of her own impermanence.

In a moment of melancholic pleasure, I wish to bring Mamma to a safe harbor with sprawling roots of truth and ease. Had she ever known a sanctuary at all? She has been dead for several years, but realistically, she was absent for much longer and I truly, deeply miss her and always have.

Love, If Only for a Day..

The angst continued to grow within Mamma as years passed. It changed colors to coincide with her moods that changed hourly but more predictably with time and repetitiveness. The following letter from my mother to me was written with the intent to congratulate. Her profound melancholy shrouded any real chance for joy.

September 4, 1969

Dearest Sister:

I am so happy for you and Reg.
It was wonderful of you to call me immediately, and like I told you last night, it will take me a few days or a week for it to really soak in that my little (not after gaining 7 pounds) girl is going to be a mother and that I am going to be a grandmother!
There is absolutely nothing in this world like having your first baby. Nobody in this world could have been happier than I was when George was born. He was so dear to me.
The children (William and Charles) seem quite blasé about the whole thing, but I am so excited. It will be wonderful having another member in the family, it seems to be dwindling so…

Much love,

Mamma

     There we were, Reg and I, expecting our first baby, of course not knowing then we would have Richard Reginald Patterson, III.  In April of 1970,  we had our first baby, a baby boy, and it was a magnificent occasion. I knew what Mamma meant. But I would never totally comprehend the words that were encased deeply in her grief and remorse. Truthfully, I didn't  want to understand or share equanimity of our loss.  I held my grief separate from hers, refusing to acknowledge what I had stored in my inner sanctum.

      I hate to leave my mother's segment here, but in the following decades, my life was separated from hers and though I frequently visited Thorn Place through the years,  my heart never returned to that house. Daddy went up in smoke, so to speak. He died in 1978 from emphysema complications and decades of chain smoking.   Mamma remained at the family home until 2005.

This poem encapsulates how my mother lived and loved.

Poem

By Deane Jones Edmondson

How beautiful if only for a day.

Where One Road Ends, Another Begins

Life went on without George, but not with ease and not for long in Nannie's case. By 1967, she was settled, yet always unsettled, on Thorn Place with Mamma, Daddy, my two younger brothers, and me, although I was basically living away as a college student. The political climate added to her discomfort as evidenced in a couple of statements from her letters. I quote her here.

July, 1967

...Everyone is deeply distressed over Gov. Wallace’s illness. I hope one of God’s miracles will heal her (Lurleen Wallace) trouble.
Love to all and more thanks than an antique mind can express...

And more of a concern to her was Lyndon B. Johnson. She made her thoughts very clear in this remark from a letter. I quote, in part--
"If that depraved, diseased Lyndon Johnson had any intelligence, he would know that it took centuries to produce..."

I'll leave it there. More of her words and thoughts and letters are quoted in their entirety in my book, Southern Bypass. Her last words here--

" I nearly made the grade two nights ago. I often feel the hot breath of the Grim Reaper blowing on the back of my neck. Hope he doesn’t let me linger long enough to be a nuisance. The currents of life are too swift and strong for me to fight while we have crooks at the head of our wonderful country."

Nannie lived long enough to see me marry in 1968, but she finally relinquished control to her "grim reaper" who ushered her out in March of 1969. Her many foreshadowing comments about death and her longing to go home finally came to fruition. 


The changes over those few years, 1966-1968,  left an indelible mark in history far beyond and not related to my family.  The country shifted in one of its most significant periods of unparalleled growth and loss.   But in my microcosm, our personal changes left  my mother, father, and two brothers, William, and Charles,  in the same old Thorn Place, but with a new set of circumstances.  When I married in 1968, I  left Montgomery, separating as far as possible from the home I had known.

Endurance on the Bumpy Road

    Ah, the sad events in this journey may be just and equal to the joys, but George's death -the death of a young person, a son, a brother, a friend- I think that jolt might count as a big one. It sure was in 1966. My grandmother speaks again via another letter to Sarah. I was in college at Alabama College, now known as Montevallo, the name of the small town in Alabama where the university has stood for a century.
Letters Continued…

By Mattie Gilmer Bibb Edmondson

To Cousin S.P.M

May Day, 1967

Dear Sarah,
…How sad can life get? Everything reminds me of George and I wonder if Deane (Mamma) can ever adjust to life without him… Missie is busy with tests. She and George were like twins, utterly devoted and congenial. I hope she will not marry too soon in trying to compensate for the companionship she last lost.
…Yard maintenance is a problem in Montgomery now. One neighbor says she pays her yard man $1.40 per hour, keeps him 10 hours on some days. Wish I could run a mower.
Devotedly yours,
Mattie

And another--

May, 1967

Dear Sarah,
…Missie was here for Mother’s Day. She is brave but life can never be the same for her or any of us. We went to dinner on Mother’s Day. I think Will and Charles must have used a dollar's worth of sugar because they liked to tear open the little envelopes to put sugar in tea.
Our Charles will be nine this month. He said to Deane a few days ago, “Mamma, you ought to feel honored because God wanted a fine boy like George.” It seemed to comfort Deane more than anything that had been said to her before. We must endure our heartbreak while life lasts.

This is a beautiful, cool day but the strong breeze reminds me of the disasters in Bham and other parts of Alabama and elsewhere. I must stop rambling before the “butcher cuts me down.”
…U.S. news and World Report keeps me posted on world affairs by printing facts instead of theories. Have just been told of the rioting in Houston. More and more blood will flow.
Devotedly yours,
Mattie

Life Slows Down in the Fast Lane

Continued...

Newspaper Clipping

Montgomery Advertiser

November, 1966

Descendant of Governors Fatally Hurt

"George Bibb Edmondson, Jr., 21 year old descendant of two Alabama governors, died in an automobile crash on South Boulevard early today….He was leaving a wedding party on the Southern Bypass.

Edmondson was a member of the track team as a freshman and sophomore and held several offices in his fraternity…"

     The newspaper’s mention of George’s ancestors incensed me back then as I read what I considered trivia in light of his true significance. In my egocentric and possessive state, I only saw headlines that read, “George Bibb Edmondson, Jr.- His Sister’s Idol, Best Friend, Confidant, Encourager. He Promised to Stay With Her Forever!”

     No consolation was available for such grief. His death jolted the innocence of my youth into permanent oblivion and me into a place of loneliness and melancholy. The loss of George in the family changed each of us more deeply, more permanently, than any other event we would eventually experience. My mother, convinced she was being punished by George’s death, carried the burden of guilt like a talisman until she died. My father retreated further into the abyss of his Civil War with his toddies. The internalized scream echoed in my decisions and relationships long after the death of my brother. I caress his memory loyally, yet after all this time, sometimes, still longingly. My second son, George Bibb Patterson, is affectionately named after his uncle and one grandson is also his namesake.

Hide and Seek

Continued...
     The games adults play aren’t quite as innocent or lovely as the childhood ones, but many are introduced on the playground of youth. The childhood games have rules, written on the box-top kind of rules. Passed-down-in-time rules. Breakable but defined. Maybe adult games are the same, minus the written. The instructions for my mother’s game must have been penned once upon a time by her on a dirt playground and then washed away like pollen somewhere back in Fulton. A secret set of rules gave her the edge as she championed her version of “Hide and Seek” making the endless hunt to no avail for the seeker, with one exception. But the event in 1966 drove my mother farther into hiding even from the one she most revered.

     At this crossroad, I'll set the stage for the next segment, perhaps the most difficult one, by resurrecting another of my grandmother Nannie's letters.  Here is another of her correspondences to Cousin Sarah in Birmingham.

Nov. 17, 1966

Thursday

Dear Sarah,
The old woman is being self-indulgent again—writing to you instead of working on the masses of family clippings. We think we leave this world. Instead, it recedes, so many of our loved ones gone, that one day more or less ceases to scare me.
This is one of those unseasonably warm days, sunny until now (noon) when the shadows softly come and softly go. Porter always told me that a deep freeze was apt to come to Montgomery about middle of November.
Am trying to build enough strength to go to the wedding of Missie’s beloved friend, Kitty Shertzer, who lives across from us. Missie is to be a bridesmaid, both girls are aged 20. Too young.

Always devotedly,

Mattie

My older brother George came home for Thanksgiving at my urging.  He had plans to spend the holiday with a fraternity brother, but I cajoled him into coming home to see my first walk as a bridesmaid. I believe it is fair to say that he and I would have done anything for each other. He changed plans, accepted invitations to the wedding and pre-wedding parties, but never saw me as a bridesmaid, not then, not ever.

Out of Sight Out of Mind

From Southern Bypass, continued...
     For a brief period George Bibb landed a sales job that took him on the road every Wednesday. Life actually eased in his absence and, other than the temporary excitement over pop-beads for me and a pecan log for George, it resumed its normal tension upon his Friday return. In his absence, when the lights were doused and the children had settled into their beds, flourishing secrets drifted from the crevices to begin their nightly brouhaha. A myriad of mysterious sounds floated through the halls punctuating the nights. Occasional whispers swirled from downstairs echoing long into the night.

     When G.B. was home, the night sounds clinked in tin tumblers where ice beat out the rhythm of spicy, saturated words. Mornings overflowed with stale smoke and full ashtrays as signs of the nighttime marauders.

       French glass doors divided the hall and the small kitchen, Deane’s cave, her hideaway. With fervor and diligence she conjured fine meals, night after night. After working all day, kitchen duty could have been shared or delegated, but she opted for the solitude. Alone she could recant the day, sigh over the spaghetti, and have more frequent and potent sips of sauce. Most nights, she served dinner to the children, four in count by that time with the addition of little Charles, twelve years younger than I.  After serving the children, Mamma added ice and a pinch of water to her bourbon and went to the den ostensibly out of ear range to complete the round of nightly drinks and disparaging words with George Bibb.

     My tentative yet frequent offers to help with the dishes were answered by a shattering clamor from the French doors making the panes and me tremble. Lucky for the inanimate objects, they took no personal claim or offense over her ritualistic slam.

A Short Walk to Faraway Places

     Wilma had no children of her own and no husband, but a host of kinfolk lived in the tiny dilapidated house on the “other” side of town by the railroad tracks. A city bus brought her within walking distance to the house five days a week. She stayed from early morning till late afternoon when Mamma returned from work and George Bibb resurfaced to prove the South could rise again. An occasional ride home in the family’s Chevy broke the monotony Wilma encountered from the daily routine and hassle of double bus rides. Her pay was fifteen dollars or less, a week, or less maybe, and she might have been glad for that. Deane and George Bibb were pleased to have dependable help from a kind woman, but Nannie complained that $15.00 exceeded the necessary wage for a “negro”.

     Each morning Deane walked a few blocks in her high heels and knee-length skirts to an office downtown. She was an eye-catcher for sure. Her life in Montgomery cultivated a new dimension as she began to realize the route to the office presented life beyond the confines of tradition and familial expectations, not to mention freedom from the watchful eye of George Bibb and his mother. This new autonomy at The State Abstract Company became both a boon and bondage.

The business card is one from a later date when things had changed quite a bit. The State Abstract Company was at 23 South Perry, downtown Montgomery for it seemed, eons, and it was owned and run by Jack Thorington, a local Montgomery attorney several years older than Mamma. She worked as a clerk, or a secretary for Jack in the early days and continued as a loyal employee and friend for over thirty years. Her tenure, experience, and dedication earned her the reputation as a top-notch abstract guru. When Jack sold the business after he had run his course,  Mamma saw some reward when she was asked to head the new State Abstract Company under new ownership of Mr. Ed, or Ed Azaar. The company moved a few blocks to Washington Street at that time.

Back to the old days and Wilma...

     On a typical Monday morning, after eight years and a couple of raises, Wilma did not come to work. An appointed friend called to break the news that our faithful companion was moving to Detroit and not returning to work. She just disappeared. Her abrupt departure shocked and afflicted the family in various ways-the little ones old enough to have a serious bond tasted their first indisputable rejection. Deane felt obvious disappointment and a sense of loss in not having the one person she had trusted all those years to help her with the children and house. Things would be difficult until someone could take Wilma’s place. Could anyone take Wilma’s place? Did she know how important she was? Was it too hard to say “good-bye”? Or was it a one-sided affair? Her puzzling departure left many unanswered questions and remained a mystery and source of sadness, especially for the children and Deane.

A Shaky Path and a Saint

1950

My father, after his illness, grew more content with his writing and study of the Confederate Navy, or with mediocre work. He had been well-educated and groomed for the easy life that never materialized. The cast enshrining him from his pampered youth and then from his more recent sickness became impenetrable. What caused his demise and girth of anger is hard to pin-point. Whether he grew cranky after his disease, or as a result of it, or just became more and more embittered over the years, no one knew.  His lack of initiative and apparent weakened condition, at least from his mother's perspective, precipitated Mamma's search for work as a money-maker.

       Since Nannie had worked for years at the State Highway Department, she felt no compunction about encouraging Deane to find work outside the home. In the 1950s, the vast majority of women stayed home and tended their families, especially white, young women with children. Reluctant to leave her two children, Deane nevertheless relented and found a job.

      Enter Wilma as the keeper of the house and children, better known as a maid, typified by her daily gray and white pressed uniform and white linen tiara. Kindness lined her angular face showing every bone beneath her yellow-hued skin. She showed no preference to either child, but thoroughly attended their needs, including the weekly bus rides that delivered six year-old Missie to and from Helen Thorington’s Dance School, George in tow.

In 1954, William was born, Mamma went back to work, Daddy floundered, and Wilma tended three children daily, from eight to five. The relationship between Mamma and Daddy continued on its shaky path to oblivion.

The Sweet and Sour Side of Romance

On Valentine’s Day, 1945, Deane and George Bibb produced a baby boy, George Bibb Edmondson, Jr.

From Letters, Images, and Newspaper Clippings and included in my book:
"A significant change in his health forced George Bibb to finally acquiesce to constant instruction and prompting from back home. G.B., Deane, and baby George left Wilmington and returned to Montgomery where hospitalization  for my father was eminent. Tests eventually revealed a dormant social disease had come to life and was attacking George Bibb’s body with ferocity. Prompted by her son’s “delicate condition” and eminent lengthy hospitalization, Mattie Bibb insisted that Deane take a leave of absence. Obediently, with mixed feelings of remorse and relief over her dismissal, she and her infant son left on the 5:45 to see her family in East St. Louis, Illinois.

Private Sonnet to My Love

Hand-written

1945

By George Bibb Edmondson

To Deane

I know you’re happy with your loving kin,

I’m glad you’ve made the awfully tiring trip

But I miss the ivory whiteness of your skin,

The chastity, fire, and sweetness of your lip,

The sky that’s in your azure eyes, the music of your voice

The fragrant, incandescence of your lovely hair,

One cannot fathom how you made your choice

When for the man you love, you learned to care.

We parted quickly at the train,

So quickly that we felt no pain.

But one detail was quite unforeseen

Now minutes get so slow,

It all just goes to show

A man can love, like I love my own

Deane!

Please darling, take whatever you like. Gosh, I love you.
GB

Upon their return, Deane and little George were soon reunited with G.B. on Moulton Street where they regrouped in the semi-privacy of their room for a brief period. But the process of recovery and elation over their reunion encouraged an alternative in their living arrangements. After a couple of months under the unwavering mantle of Nannie, they moved to their own apartment in a Victorian house only a few blocks from downtown and the ancestral home. Seventeen months later, little George had a sister when Elizabeth Deane Edmondson (Missie) was born."

So. I am born.
There was never any doubt on my part that my father adored my mother. His obsessive adoration smothered her and possibly had a role in his own downfall. My father's affection never extended beyond my mother, but the tender touches toward her were shaken off with disgust and not without reason. 
To be continued...

On the Road

Like I mentioned in yesterday's post, my father was soon to begin a new job that would take Mamma and him out of Montgomery for a while. Through family connections, he went to work for DuPont who moved them to Wilmington, Delaware.
From by book, here's a letter Mamma wrote Nannie from Wilmington.

7/21/44

(a memorable date)—four year anniversary

Dearest Mother:
Thank you so very much for sending the spoons to us and for the very nice gown. I intend to put it up and keep it until my trek to the hospital or until such time that I may need to look nice in bed. (if that’s possible!)
I haven’t written to you since we’ve had our glorious news, but you must know I’m as excited as can be. G. B. is exactly as I had expected him as a prospective father to be, kind, gentle, and quite ready to let me say things to him when I’m feeling badly that I wouldn’t say if I were well and he wouldn’t listen to if he were not the sweetest person in the world.

I made a visit to the doctor today and he said that I am getting on wonderfully. I make another visit on August 18th. He gave me the date for the birth as February 4th, ’45.
He measured me yesterday and I must say I felt exactly like a geometry problem.
If you were near me I could talk to you for hours on the subject but I’m really not that fond of writing...
End of excerpt

It's a strange thing to read a letter of apparent affection between Mamma and her mother-in-law. Of course I came on the scene later, but my recollections of the two of them are far from warm and fuzzy. I'll give a glimpse into that as the story unfolds. For now, I'll let Mamma, Daddy, and Nannie languish in the news of the forthcoming child. And I'll let them enjoy their time away from Montgomery. Had it lasted longer, who knows what might have happened?