Mother's Day Memories

My Mother's Day post from last year is here.

When my brothers and I were in elementary school, our mother would send Valentine's Day cards to us at school.  I remember this at least twice.  We'd get called to the principal's office.  Remember the principal's office?  I'd be all freaked out only to find out I had some mail.  I was in elementary school. I never got mail. And to get mail at school? Amazingly cool.

When I was in high school and needed a Social Security card for a real job (non-babysitting), my mother got me out of school for a few hours. We went to the SS office and got me signed up. Then we went to the top of the Woodmen Tower, which was then the only skyscraper in town, for lunch and had steak sandwiches and strawberry daiquiris. 

Prom night. My girlfriends and our dates meet at my house for pictures before we go. Mom walks into the room and says, "Who's got the joint?" So the boys smoke a little with my mother before prom.

Once I was home from college on a break and my mother helped me get into a club by telling the bouncer, "I'm her mother. Would I lie to get my underage daughter into a bar?" He let me in, but the answer was yes.

College graduation. Mom: "But why can't I wear a bustier and fingerless lace gloves to your graduation? If I lost weight, I'd look good. I would think most daughters would be proud of a mother who could look hip at their graduation." (This was during the Prince/Vanity 6 days understand, and evil child that I was I still demanded that she not show up dressed like Apollonia.)

I'm 26. I live in Colorado. She is in Kansas. We're talking on the phone long distance.  She has a problem and asks me what she should do. I say, "I don't know Mother. What do you think you should do?" She says, "Stop talking to me like a fucking shrink!" I say, "Then stop treating me like a fucking shrink." She hangs up. 

Two years later.  She has cancer. It's spread to her brain and she can't see. I've brought her home from the hospital and settled her into her chair. The TV is on.  She asks, "Who's in here in a blue outfit?" I say, a little freaked, "Um...nobody. Who do you see?"  She dodges the question, so I ask what if anything she can see. She tells me, "I see things in my mind's eye. Planets, mountains, rivers." And I'm amazed and wonder who is this person.  She goes on, "And clothes, furniture, jewelry." Ah, that's the mom I know and love.  The woman, who after she dies, I have to go to the mall in Topeka to break the bad news to all the shop clerks.  They mourn almost as much as I do. Almost.

Happy Birthday Hubby!

In memory

Today is a day I remember two women. The first: my mother, who died on this date 16 years ago. She was the age I will turn in May (God willing). Ever since I was 28, I've been haunted by the idea that I might die the same way she did (of breast cancer) and at the same age she did. It looks like I'm going to make it past the age she was when she died (God willing). And who knows how I'll go? Perhaps this is one fear it's time to let loose. A poem by Lucille Clifton says it better than I ever could:



poem on my fortieth birthday to my mother who died young



well i have almost come to the place where you fell
tripping over a wire at the forty-fourth lap
and i have decided to keep running.
head up, body attentive, fingers
aimed like darts at first prize, so
i might not even watch out for the thin thing
grabbing toward my ankles but
i'm trying for the long one mama,
running like hell and if i fall
i fall.



The other woman I commemorate today is Nina Simone, who was born on this date 75 years ago.



On the surface these two women seem to have nothing in common. Nina Simone, born in the south, a piano protege, a voice like no other, mother to one daughter. My mother, born and raised in the midwest, not famous, couldn't sing, mother of three children. But they were both larger than life characters. Each one just...herself. Each one an inspiration. Each one on my mind and in my heart today.

Omaha

I grew up in Omaha. I shopped, went to movies, and hung out too many times to count at Westroads. It's where I bought my prom dress. It's where my best friend, her boyfriend and I lied about our ages to see Felix the Cat. Our friend J went with us, but she choked when the time came to lie and didn't make the cut. The story on the front page of today's Denver Post from the Omaha World-Herald is written by a guy I went to high school with. The kid who entered the mall with a gun lived in the same suburb as one of my favorite aunts. Nobody I know was shot or a witness to the horror. Just the same, everybody in and from Omaha is affected. I guess we all are whether we're in or from Omaha or not.

I just needed to say this.

Standing tall

I spoke with my grandmother the other night. She's been living on her own for the first time in her life since April when Papa died. She's a tiny little thing, and while we all knew she was strong, I think we expected her to fall apart without him. She's an old-school woman who let her man run the household (even though like most black women of her generation she worked, and worked hard). But she didn't fall apart.

Someone shot at her house a couple of weeks ago. Shot bullets at her house! While she was home! She hit the ground and called the police. They told her that a house getting shot, even the house of an 85-year-old woman, wasn't a priority. They had cases where people had been shot and they had to investigate those first. They'd get to her whenever. Well, she didn't accept that. She called the daughter of somebody's cousin who knows so and so (this is how it works in small towns). This daughter of somebody's cousin is a forensics investigator. She went to the house and called the cops and told them to get somebody over NOW. And they did. After a thorough investigation (helicopters, squad cars, the whole shebang) they think it was some random idiot. (Lovely, aren't they? The random idiots.)

This is the big part: my grandmother didn't tell anybody in the family about this. She handled it herself. My father came into town to visit her and her next door neighbor told him what happened. This is what she told me about it on the phone: "I had to work through this myself and find some peace about it in my own mind before I told anybody else. I was afraid at first, but I prayed on it and I'm not afraid anymore. I'm really not. So please don't worry about me. I walked on Billy's [my grandfather] feet for 60 years. I was like a baby learning how to walk when he died. I didn't know how to write a check or pay any bills. But now I do. Now I'm standing tall. And I'm proud of me."

I'm proud of her too!

Yikes!

The Denver Post is coming to take a picture of me working in my home office. It's for an article on home offices. Yes, folks, I will be working in jammies (though I have to confess much nicer jammies than usual). Speaking of jammies, take the new Pajama Gardener poll over by the links.
Since my office usually looks like this, this article has sparked quite the cleaning frenzy, though there are still piles and stacks because...how could I survive without them? As I was cleaning, I unearthed the article on Cool Cat Billy, and it was like having a conversation with him. A takeaway:

"If people could get along and blend together in harmony like these musicians do, oh, man, would this be a great world to live in."

Papa, you're still the coolest cat I've ever known.

The finest place you ever saw

I just finished Devils in the Sugar Shop by Timothy Schaffert. It's a fun read with worldly, quirky characters you might not imagine could find Omaha on a map, let alone live there. But they do and so did I. It's where I was born and raised up. The neighborhood the story is set in is The Old Market, the hip part of town. I took the following photos of The Old Market in April when I went to see my grandfather before he died.

They got a thing for decorating windows!

This is my high school, Central High. It's downtown. I loved this place. It was what home should have been - stable, dependable - but wasn't. We moved a lot, and I went to 7 different schools, most for a year at a time. But for 3 straight years I went to Central. Nuff said.

This is the my grandparents' neighborhood, the North side. The most colorful and the most broke down part of town. It's populated with little popsicle-colored clapboard houses on rolling green hills, as if it was built by Caribbean farmers.

My grandfather loved this city. One of the last things he told me was, "Omaha's the best place on Earth." And in a moment of rare humility that confirmed my suspicions that he was on his way out, he added, "For me."

For Papa:

Omaha, Omaha,

Finest place you ever saw

And at night while you are dreaming

Dream of Omaha

Happy Birthday Yuh Yuh!

Channeling the Grandmothers

In my next novel, the sisters' grandmother plays a magical role in bringing them together (one was put up for adoption). I'm working on the first scenes the grandmother appears. Before she died, my mother gave me her mother's and her grandmother's wedding bands. I pulled them out of my jewelry box to call up the grandmother's spirit. I'll wear them while I write.

This is my father's mother. I'll see her this weekend during our family reunion. Ancestors, known and unknown, are important to the characters in my book. I'm looking forward to connecting with my own family this weekend. It'll be good for me and for my book.

USS Anne Arundel

This is the ship that took my grandfather to North Africa.

Remembering the Sweet 16

Sixteen young black men from Omaha fought together in World War II.

They called them the Sweet 16. All of them came home.

My grandfather was one of the last two.

Richard Headley is the last living member of the Sweet 16.

My grandfather was a Quartermaster in the 530th Battalion.

He participated in 4 major campaigns, including the invasion of France.

Extraordinary music

Check out Extraordinary Renditions. The new CD from the trio of Dirk Dickson (bass), Ron Bucknam (drums and guitar) and Mike O'Neill (guitar). "It's out of this world, back in this world adventures for ears that have no lids." Very cool music! (And I named one of the songs...#10)

From Ron on CD Baby:

Extraordinary Renditions is a serious trio of improvisers with many years experience together and individually, trying to be true to the impulse to make music on the spot, through grace and skills. The emphasis is not on what hot shot players we are (no slouches in the ranks however), but instead on group listening & interplay. All sonorities, rhythms and approaches are welcomed, but the basic activity is: listen & contribute / listen & hang back.On the first track I am playing what sounds like a guitar. It is a guitar. When you’ve listened to the music you will see that it is not altogether straight forward what is coming at you). On the cuts where you hear drums (me) you are most likely hearing Michael O’Neill on guitar – unless he is playing the percussion part through his guitar synthesizer. At most other times it is difficult for me to listen and tell who is playing what, when. There was no overdubbing. All of the bass playing and engineering is from Dirk Dickson, who you might catch on a jazz gig, playing with a dance company or doing whole shows of solo bass. Michael is involved in projects ranging from playing guitar in a group otherwise comprised of computers, a free improve Flamenco / jazz duo and solo extended guitar performances. I play drums and guitar, but have spent a lot of time in recent years composing for electronics. Check out CD’s by Dirk and me elsewhere on CD Baby.

Enough with the words, we very much hope you enjoy our efforts. Ron Bucknam.

Grandmama

Papa fell in love with her when he was 16. No big mystery why. Isn't she beautiful?

(notice the backing behind the photo)

Still is.
When I was little I used to call her "my M&M"
because her name is Martha Melton (and because I
loved M&Ms).

Cool Cat Billy Melton

On April 24, my grandfather, William Oliver Melton, passed away. He was 85 and had lived a full, joyful life. We, his family and friends all over the country, were sad, but that night we knew they were partying in heaven!

In his obituary he wrote, "Without music life is a mistake."

(Any wonder I married a musician?)

At Papa's house, you could listen to music,

look up at music (This is the ceiling in one of the basement

rooms.),

walk on music,

sit on music,

tell time by music,

party to music (My grandparents once had more than 1,000 people

attend a 24-hour-long party in their one-bathroom house!),

learn about the history of black music in America,

(Grandmama, Count Basie, Papa)

And simply appreciate music and life.

He was one cool cat and oh how I miss him.

I am the granddaughter who
graduated from KU
preferred hamburger to steak
didn't get pregnant in school
wrote all the books
married a musician
Carleenie baby

Goodbye Papa baby

In Praise of Nina Simone

The professor taught us to worship the great men of jazz, but it was the women who drew me in: Billie Holiday, Ella Fitzgerald, Sarah Vaughn, Dinah Washington, Bessie Smith, Mildred Bailey. They were queens, priestesses, goddesses — encouraging me, pointing me away from danger, schooling me in the ways of life. Especially Nina Simone.
From Orange Mint and Honey (Ballantine 2008)

That’s my character Shay Dixon speaking about the late Nina Simone, who would have turned 74 today.

Known as the High Priestess of Soul, Nina Simone was fierce, brave and maybe a touch crazy (actually, she might have been clinically depressed or might have suffered from borderline personality disorder).

She was a black woman who wrote “Mississippi Goddam” in 1963 after four little girls were bombed in a church in Birmingham. She was a dark-skinned woman who put the words “Young, Gifted and Black” together at a time when many black folks couldn’t imagine gifted and black being used in the same sentence. Raised in a tiny town in the Jim Crow South, she grew up to stand on stages around the world in front of wealthy white folks and command their attention (and sometimes berated them if they didn’t give it to her).

In other words, she did things you’d have to be brave and maybe a touch crazy to do. May we all be so brave and crazy.

At the beginning of my novel Shay listens to Nina Simone’s version of "House of the Rising Sun" and it sets her on an unexpected path back to her mother. (You can watch Nina Simone performing the song here.)

Interesting coincidence: Nina Simone is a mother-figure for Shay, and my mother died on Nina Simone’s birthday (which I didn’t know when Nina Simone first appeared to me as a character). So yes, today is also the anniversary of when my mother passed, six days after she turned 45.

Happy Birthday Dr. Nina Simone. And here’s to all our queens, priestesses, goddesses, mothers of the spirit, play-mamas and real mamas!

My mother's birthday

February is birthday month at The Pajama Gardener. Today would have been my mother’s 60th birthday. She died 15 years ago, and pictures of her can still make me cry. But they make me laugh too. These photos are just a few of her many incarnations. Clearly, we all have gone through some changes; that would be me with the groovy shag.

She and my father are so young in these pictures (my mother was just 16 and my father was only 18 when they had me--she is pregnant with me in the first photo, and I'm the littlest girl below her on the bike). I could have kids their age now. I want to reach into these pictures and pinch their apple cheeks, hold their unlined hands, tell them everything is OK. But I always felt more mother to my mother than mothered by her.

I try to imagine what it would be like if she was still here. At 60 she would still be lovely. Most assuredly, men young enough to be her sons would ask her to dance and men old enough to be her father would promise her she’d never have to work another day if she would just please baby baby please be theirs. She’d still be ready to rip and run (and shop and party and eat and drink) and leave sleeping for when you get old. She would still be great friends with all kinds of people: children, gamblers, dope men, lawyers, doctors, councilmen, ladies of the church, winos. She would be tickled to pieces by her grandchildren (and now one great-grandchild).

At 60, she would be changed by the change and would have learned all the lessons one learns from being on the earth 15 extra years. But she’d still call me to see if I was watching some show that wouldn’t air for another hour because she wouldn’t remember I was in a different time zone. She’d still ask “Is that what you’re wearing?” meaning “Please go and change.” She’d still watch me when we were together like she couldn’t get enough of looking at me. We’d still drive each other crazy and love each other deeply.

But she's not here, so I celebrate her without her. Over the years, to honor my mother's birthday I've lighted candles at the basilica, bought things I didn't need and drank tequila in a black lace mini-skirt. I'll spend part of today with the kids at the Head Start, trying to give them the love of reading she gave to me. And I'll spend part of the day editing my book about a daughter and the mother who drives her crazy and who she loves deeply.

Happy 18th Birthday Candace!!

To one of my all time favorite nieces,

I wish you a wonderful birthday and an even better year. Exciting things are coming your way, kid. Or, excuse me: Exciting things are coming your way, young woman. Enjoy!

Love,

Aunt Carleen