Can't Make This Stuff Up!

by Susannah B. Lewis

  He never rode on the outside of another train, but Daddy was always doing or saying something silly. He was known for his quick wit, one-liners, and ability to make everyone laugh. As a child, I remember looking up his tall, thin frame to watch him talking as all the men surrounding him laughed heartily. He knew a hundred old jokes and made up a hundred of his own. His sense of humor was brilliant, and I’m still reminded of it anytime I run into one of his old friends, who recounts a memory of my father. He was also known for carrying a huge video camera around and making hilarious skits that were SNL-worthy. He did YouTube before YouTube was even a thing.

  Daddy wasn’t just a tall, funny guy with a mustache that rivaled Tom Selleck’s. He was also a collector. He worked for the telephone company and often brought home things he found in the crawl spaces of homes. We had a stockpile of old Coke bottles he’d come across, antique tools, and even a Buddy Holly 45 record, but he also brought home countless strays. Mama liked dogs, so she tolerated the many he decided to adopt. But she drew the line at cats. Cats scared her.

  “I don’t like any animal I can’t hear coming,” she said.

  Stephen King’s classic Cat’s Eye sealed the deal for her, though. After watching the movie, she was convinced those furry felines sucked the breath out of people while they slept.

  So one summer day on his lunch break, Daddy brought home what mother called the “black spawn of Satan.” I will never forget, at age eight or nine, watching that ebony cat clawing the cushions on the wicker sofa in our sunroom. Daddy had dropped him off only ten minutes before, against my mother’s wishes and pleas, and that cat scratched and strewed stuffing all over the floor like a four-legged psycho. Once he was done with the poor floral cushions, he shot straight up the pleated curtains that framed the French doors on the back of the house and perched there, hissing, like something straight out of a horror movie. My mother, the godly woman she was, cried out to Jesus for help. She literally cried out for Jesus to remove the “black spawn of Satan” from our dwelling. Finally, armed with a broom and a cordless phone (in case she needed to dial 911), she threw open the French door and let out a bloodcurdling scream when the feline from hell charged at her, teeth showing, before disappearing into the woods behind our home.

  Daddy never knew the true story about how that cat disappeared. Mama just told him it “got away” when she opened the door to go outside. He quickly found a replacement, though. I think he brought home a new cat a few days later. It wasn’t quite the “spawn of Satan,” but it eventually managed to “get away” too.

  We never had a dull moment in our home, and I found it exhilarating. For my family, even a routine trip to the salon could be dramatic. I’ll never forget falling to the kitchen floor and laughing until I nearly urinated on myself when my always-blonde mother walked through the door black-headed like Morticia Addams. Apparently her new hairstylist was “an idiot who is clearly on drugs and doesn’t know the first thing about lowlights.” And I’ll never forget a run-of-the-mill fishing trip with my dad ending with the front two tires of his truck in the river.

  Even our holidays weren’t exempt from strange happenings.

  One Thanksgiving, while dining on Mama’s famous cornbread dressing (that’s stuffing, Northern friends), a farm egg in her fall table centerpiece began to move. We immediately jumped up from our dining chairs while that egg, resting in a nest of decorative straw and cattails, cracked. Mama cried out to Jesus, and suddenly there was a baby chicken in the center of the table—a dead baby chicken. I am not well versed in biology, so I’m not sure how a dead chicken hatched, but how many people can say they’ve had a dead bird on their Thanksgiving table? Well, a lot. But how many can say it was a recently hatched dead baby chicken instead of a turkey? Not many.

  This happened a few Thanksgivings after my father died, and my godfather, Mr. Charles, scooped that dead baby bird from the dining table with paper towels while my mother threw the entire centerpiece she’d worked on so diligently into the garbage can, put on rubber gloves, and disinfected the entire house with bleach. The whole meal was ruined, because who in the world can just resume eating turkey and mashed potatoes after a dramatic death scene?

  The craziness wasn’t just confined to our home, either. Visiting my aunt Cora and uncle Harvell’s house was an adventure too.

  Aunt Cora was always knocking on death’s door. Bless her bones. I don’t think she was ever admitted to the hospital, and she ended up living longer than half my relatives, but she constantly claimed she was being plagued with a new ailment, ache, or pain. When someone asked, “How are you doing, Aunt Cora?” she never answered, “Fine.” Her feeble, little voice always responded with something like, “Well, my bursitis has flared up again and I have this horrible ringing in my left ear and the palpitations are getting worse and my knee is numb and hey, look here at this toenail. Does it look ingrown to you?” Oh, but I adored Aunt Cora. I adored the way her rouge settled into the deep wrinkles on her cheeks. I adored her perfume-laden hugs. And I adored the homemade zucchini bread she served on daisy-covered plates. Yes, Aunt Cora complained a lot, but the one thing Aunt Cora never grumbled about was her beloved dog, a black-and-white feist named Lady.

  The name was ironic because Lady was no lady. She was ten pounds of terror. She snarled and growled and usually had to be put in the laundry room when guests came over because, as Aunt Cora, explained, “She gets real excited when company comes, and no one knows what she’ll do.” Except we all knew what Lady would do. She tried to decapitate anyone who walked through the door, even Aunt Cora. Aunt Cora would call, “Come here, sweet Lady,” in her feeble little voice, and Lady would charge her and grab hold of her panty hose and tug until they unraveled. Lady would gnaw on Aunt Cora’s liver-spotted arms until blood trickled from them. And she’d just say, “Oh, sweet Lady. You’re being too rough.” It was downright horrifying, yet comical, to watch this dog constantly attacking an eighty-year-old woman, but Aunt Cora never complained about the dog. Not once. (Uncle Harvell would wink at me before he intentionally turned down his Beltone so he couldn’t hear Aunt Cora’s complaints or Lady growling and gnawing on his artificial leg.)

  Because I grew up among crazy, humorous people and crazy, humorous events, I often felt as if I were living in a sitcom. I truly believe the good Lord was preparing my heart for things to come when He gave me those relatives and infused our household with humor. He knew during my darkest moments of depression and despair, I would recall a memory of my youth—the frog in the bathroom or the pressure cooker blowing up and nearly obliterating us all—and my burden would suddenly become lighter. He knew I would cling to those memo-ries—I would need those memories—when eventually most of my relatives were buried on a shady, cool hill on the southwest side of town.

  When I think about my childhood and the summer nights in my mother’s plush bed, as the box fan roared and crickets chirped outside her open bedroom window, I am immediately blanketed in peace. Knot’s Landing played quietly on the Quasar television while Mama, the godly woman she was, lit a Winston Ultra-Light 100 and the ceiling fan swirled smoke around her wallpapered bedroom. I’d rest my head by her feet as she shared stories with me about her baby sister. Aunt Linda had been killed by a drunk driver when she was twenty-one, but tears of laughter streamed down my mama’s face as she recollected fun memories of their youth, their Collie dogs, and being dragged along on sales calls with my granddaddy, the Watkins salesman. I realize now Mama shared those stories with me because they kept her sister alive. Although Mama was heartbroken over her sister’s death for so many years, her memories and the stories of her youth restored some joy to her heart. And even though I’d never met my aunt Linda, I felt as if I knew her.

  That’s the very reason I find myself telling you—telling anyone—tales about my childhood. Those crazy stories about the cat and the hatching egg and the train all keep my parents alive. Memories keep my beloved people alive. And that’s a beautiful thing, isn’t it?


  Now that I’m a mother, I have adopted my own version of storytelling in one particular way that my children appreciate: silly songs. I hate to toot my own horn, but I’m pretty good at making up silly songs. I can take any pop song from the eighties and twist the lyrics for whatever situation I’m in. For example, when my husband passes gas, I can break into a chorus of “Don’t You Fart on Me,” which is a parody of Simple Minds’ “Don’t You Forget About Me.” And I can go way beyond just the chorus. I can twist that entire song into two solid minutes about spousal flatulence. My seven-year-old son, Bennett, loves this about me. We often make up songs about our dogs, Nutella, Pepper, Tucker, and Bailey. (Yes, four dogs. I want one or two more, but I also want to stay married.) I find so much joy singing with the radio and looking in my rearview mirror to see my little boy laughing so hard no sound comes out. When he finally catches his breath, he says, “Mama, make up another song!”

  One day, when I’m long dead and gone, Bennett is going to remember that. He’s going to remember how I turned “Rosanna” by Toto into “Nutella.” When he and his own children are flying around in their Jetsons car, “Rosanna” will come on the oldies station and he will sing, “All I want to do is run and wag my tail and play all day. Nuteeeeeella, yeah!” He’ll be taken back to that joyful moment when he was seven and laughed so hard no sound came out.

  God knows we need our people. He makes our children solely for us, just as He made us for our parents. He knows the vision of our grandmother sitting on the edge of the bed in a mint-green hairnet while slathering Vicks on her neck molds us in some way. He knows the scent of our mother’s hair and the feeling of our father’s stubble on our cheek when he kisses us leaves a lasting imprint on us. He knows our uncle’s wink and our aunt’s love for a killer feist is something that will bring a little joy to our heart amid our darkest moments.

  I long to rest at my mother’s feet in that wallpapered bedroom while she tells me a story about Brownsville, Tennessee, in 1960. I long to ride shotgun in my daddy’s Chevrolet Silverado while his golf clubs sling around in the bed and Bob Dylan plays on the radio. I want Granny to fry up some salmon patties while she dances to bluegrass gospel in her kitchen. I want to sit on that creaky front-porch swing and rest my head on my great-grandmother’s shoulder while a Popsicle melts down my arms.

  But I can’t. That time in my life is over. I won’t hear their voices or hold them in my arms until we meet in heaven, but I’m so thankful I embraced every moment. That so many wild, crazy adventures took place in our home. That I memorized so many old stories. That my mother’s laugh and my grandmother’s wrinkled hands are forever engrained in my memory and will help carry me through the rest of my time in this temporary home. We weren’t the perfect family, as you’ll see, but I’m so glad God gave me those amazing people, those humorous people, faults and hang-ups and all.

  You may not have chosen your people, but praise God, He chose the perfect people for you. Even if your uncle steals hubcaps and your lady cousin refuses to wax her beard, love them anyway. Embrace the time you’re given with them. Cherish the moments.

  Love the ones you’re with.

  CHAPTER 4

  Tie a Knot Worth Tying

  Picture it. December 31, 2001.

  There was a tall, lanky guy standing in the corner of the bar. Every time I looked up, he was goofily grinning at me, and I assumed he was mesmerized by the glitter body spray I had so generously applied for the New Year’s Eve festivities. He appeared to be a pretty cute kid, but I wanted to get a closer look. I needed to make sure he was not a “full-on Monet.” Remember the 1995 classic movie Clueless? A Monet is “like a painting, see? From far away, it’s okay, but up close, it’s a big old mess.”

  I took a few steps closer, one of my dearest friends on my arm, and I was relieved to discover he was not a “full-on Monet.” In fact, he was handsome. He had all his teeth, there were no visible weapons hanging from his pockets, there were no tattoos on his forehead, and his cologne wasn’t overbearing. And most importantly, the boy was taller than me (I’m five foot eleven). I was immediately smitten.

  As we danced to Prince’s “Purple Rain” at that New Year’s Eve party, I came really close to falling in love. I don’t know if it was because he didn’t step on my toes once or because I actually had to look up to see his eyes, but that very night, I walked him over to my brother, Keith, and I introduced him as, Jason, “your future brother-in-law.” I imagine that was incredibly awkward for both Keith and the poor twenty-year-old kid I’d only known for about an hour, but I was right because we were, indeed, married in a quaint, country wedding chapel four years later. (This proves what I’ve known all along: I have ESP. I have predicted Wheel of Fortune winners before Pat even introduced the contestants.)

  Moments before I walked down the aisle, countless older relatives who still call blush “rouge” gave me advice and wanted to be sure I knew marriage is not easy. And I was all, “Whatever, Grandma. I don’t need your advice. We are in love. Love is never hard work. Being his wife will be a piece of cake. And speaking of cake, watch how good I’m going to shove a slice in his face at the reception.”

  Happily married for nearly twelve hours, we boarded a cruise ship for our honeymoon. All giddy and in love, we sailed around Hurricane Rita on our way to the Bahamas and somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic, the good Lord decided to give us a souvenir: a baby.

  Apparently, Dramamine is not a reliable form of birth control.

  When I looked down at the positive pregnancy test only five weeks into our marriage, I was in absolute shock. When I showed Jason those two pink lines when he came home from work on that crisp October afternoon, I thought he was going to pass out and I was going to have to break out the smelling salts. We were excited, of course, but we also wanted to get into the groove of marriage and enjoy spending time together before a child was brought into the mix. God had different plans, as He often does.

  We drove to Knoxville the following day to watch the Tennessee Volunteers play, and the ride was often silent. I was in the passenger’s seat wondering if I was really ready to be a mother, and I’m positive Jason was terrified and somewhat anxious about becoming both a husband and father within the same year. I mean, he could barely grow a mustache and I could barely microwave a meal without scorching it. Were we ready to raise a child?

  That cruise around Hurricane Rita foretold the difficulties to come. Like a raging storm, things were intense at times. It seemed a storm was always brewing beneath the roof of our first small home. I’d decorated with hand-me-down furniture (including a green sectional couch with built-in cupholders that I named Nessie because it reminded me of the Lochness Monster) and knickknacks from Dollar General. Being that Jason was a man-child and I a hormonal she-beast who craved chili-cheese tots at midnight, we argued constantly about finances and Jason’s overwhelming desire to party and sing karaoke until 3:00 a.m. while I sat at home with nausea and heartburn.

  In the early years of matrimony, our happiness continued to wax and wane. We spoke harsh words and made mistakes. I kept having visions of hitting him in the head with my grandmother’s cast-iron skillet. Because he continually placed his glass on the coffee table without a coaster, I often mentioned divorce. I mentally itemized everything I wanted in the settlement, but he could keep the table with the drink ring.

  At times I loathed Jason. At times I wondered if we’d made a colossal mistake in putting bands of white gold on each other’s fingers. I drove to my mother’s house many nights with a suitcase in the backseat next to a squirming baby because we’d had an argument and I wanted out. Mama had been married to a man who couldn’t seem to grow up and would rather spend time with friends, playing golf and drinking a six-pack, than being a “family man.” She often told me to hang in there for our daughter, Natalie Ann’s sake. She told me to keep loving Jason and praying for him, and that’s what I did.

  But he wasn’t the only one to blame for our marital probl
ems. Jason left tire marks in the driveway because he was so eager to get away from his nagging and disrespectful wife. I constantly yelled and screamed and talked to him like a dog. I sure wasn’t a supportive and loving woman, so who could blame the poor guy for opting to sing Merle Haggard songs down at the local bar with a bottle in his hand instead of staying home with that she-beast?

  The Enemy attacked our marriage fully, and we both threatened to leave the other more times than I can count, but we never did. We toughed it out. I refused to let the Enemy win. I knew the Lord brought us together (yes, He brought us together in a bar where we danced to Prince) and confirmed we were meant to be married when He blessed us with a child so soon after saying “I do,” and I clung to that for dear life.

  Fast-forward two children and thirteen years later, and I am in awe of how far Jason and I have come. What was once a marriage that consisted of yelling and sometimes downright disgust with each other is now completely different. Sure, our marriage still takes work (everyone’s does), but we aren’t doing it alone. We finally invited Jesus to be at the center of our union and vowed to pray for each other fervently, and the changes that have taken place in both of us can only be attributed to the Holy Spirit. I’ve watched a man who once ushered a twelve-pack down his throat every weekend become an usher at church, and a nagging and verbally abusive wife become one who speaks loving words of affirmation. I’ve watched a man who had the mouth of a sailor speak truth into seven-year-old boys in Sunday school. I’ve watched this man become the spiritual leader of our household by being the first one ready for church every Sunday and praying over our meals and speaking Scripture over our family. And the Lord gave me new appreciation and respect for Jason. I would never talk to him the way I did a decade ago. I cringe at the way I used to go off the deep end over the smallest things.