Some of you wandered for years in the desert,
looking but not finding a good place to live,
Half-starved and parched with thirst,
staggering and stumbling, on the brink of exhaustion.
Then, in your desperate condition, you called out to GOD.
He got you out in the nick of time;
He put your feet on a wonderful road
that took you straight to a good place to live.
So thank GOD for his marvelous love,
for his miracle mercy to the children he loves.
(That’s The Message translation, by the way.)
(And I think it’s important for all of us to acknowledge that whenever we quote a passage from The Message, the ESV totally rolls its eyes.)
I think I’d give twenty-two-year-old me a great big hug, and then I would gently grab her by the shoulders, look her straight in the eyes, and say, “Hey. You know when you used to go to church all the time and you sang that hymn called ‘Great Is Thy Faithfulness’? Remember that, sister. Because God is going to continue to prove Himself faithful in your life. And one day, when you’re at Mae’s wedding reception (Side note: she marries a guy named Scoot. SCOOT! Isn’t that fun?), you really will know who you are. But more important, you will know Whose you are. And you will marvel at the countless ways that you’ve seen the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.
“So go ahead and embrace the inevitable. No matter how hard you try to run, He’s not going to give up on you. He’s not. You can take that to the spiritual bank, my friend. And unlike your regular bank, your account at the spiritual bank is not currently overdrawn because of that check you wrote at the Starkville B-Quik for $2.94 worth of potato logs.
“But that’s probably another discussion for another time.”
CHAPTER TEN
Lordy, Lordy, Look Who’s One Hundred-y
ON SISSIE’S ONE HUNDREDTH BIRTHDAY, we celebrated with a luncheon at Martha’s house. Martha had recently relocated to a new patio home after selling the place where she’d lived for more than forty years, and by the time Sissie’s birthday rolled around, the family, I’m happy to say, was almost fully recovered from the Moving Martha project. There’s probably no need to share all the Moving Martha details—and besides, if I did, I’m pretty sure YOUR HEAD WOULD EXPLODE.
Suffice it to say that after David’s brother, Scott, and sister-in-law, Rose, had worked tirelessly to get the details of the real-estate transactions squared away, the actual move started with Martha asking David if he could install a phone line in her new garage—HER GARAGE—and ended with Martha asking me to make phone calls about a four-piece wrought-iron patio set from Target, a stepladder from Home Depot (but not with wide steps! not with wide steps!), and a large, two-door Rubbermaid storage container that “you can buy for less than $80! It’s less than $80!”
David would tell you that the Moving Martha experience changed him in ways he will never be able to articulate. He would also tell you that he need never hear the word sconces again.
Precious family memories, people. Precious family memories.
Since Sissie was living in a nursing home when she turned the big 1-0-0, we initially thought that we’d have to go there to throw her birthday party. But over the course of that spring her health improved, and we were thrilled when the head nurse gave her the go-ahead to spend her birthday at Martha’s. That Sunday morning David and Scott went to the nursing home to pick up the birthday girl, and I couldn’t help but picture the three of them ditching the party and heading off on some sort of Cannonball Run-ish road race. You know the drill. David and Scott would trail for three-quarters of the race, and at the last minute Sissie would knock one of them out of the driver’s seat, take command of the wheel, and then lead them to a stunning come-from-behind victory.
Apparently the subpar comedies of the early 1980s left a deep and lasting legacy in my heart.
I’m looking at you, Rhinestone.
Fortunately Sissie made it to Martha’s without staging a vehicular coup in order to overtake Burt Reynolds and Dom DeLuise, and her hair held up just beautifully in the six whole minutes it had to endure the wind and humidity. Once they were all inside the house, David and Scott moved Sissie, who was in her wheelchair, to the dining room, and the rest of us took turns telling Sissie happy birthday. Martha was concerned that Sissie wouldn’t be able to see or hear the person talking to her, so whenever someone would speak to Sissie, Martha would say something along the lines of “YOU HAVE TO YELL A LITTLE! YOU HAVE TO YELL A LITTLE! HOLD ON! I’LL TELL HER!”
And then: “MOTHER! IT’S ROSE! IT’S ROSE! AND SHE’S HERE FOR YOUR BIRTHDAY!”
My personal favorite moment was when my mama walked over to Sissie, leaned over, grabbed her hand, and said, “Sissie? This is Ouida. Happy birthday!”
And then Sissie said, “RITA?”
And Mama said, “No, it’s Ouida.”
And Sissie said, “RITA?!”
And Martha said, “YOU HAVE TO YELL! YOU HAVE TO YELL!”
And Mama said, “IT’S NOT RITA. IT’S OUIDA!”
And Sissie said, “Oh. Hey, Ouida. How are you?”
A few minutes later I asked Martha if I could take her picture with Sissie, and she said, “Oh, yes! Oh, yes! But just keep in mind that this isn’t my real jacket; it’s my cooking jacket. It’s just my cooking jacket!”
I’ll bet you a dollar to a donut that Martha’s cooking jacket came from the Stein Mart petites’ department. And as a brief side note, I would just like to ask you to please take a moment to really absorb the fact that my mother-in-law owns a jacket that is specifically reserved for cooking.
Thank you. Your life will be all the better for it.
The birthday meal was sort of a late brunch, which I guess you’d just call, you know, lunch, but we had brunchy food: breakfast casserole, hash brown casserole, fresh fruit, rolls, birthday cake, and ice cream. We also had a pineapple-and-apple casserole that Martha had bought at her church’s fall festival and then put in the freezer, but she was sixteen kinds of nervous about serving it since she didn’t know who had made it. The situation made me laugh because, well, there are always two or three people of questionable culinary ability in every congregation, and there’s no doubt in my mind that if I had thrown out one of those iffy names as the hypothetical chef, Martha would have dumped that casserole down the disposal and never looked back.
You can’t be too careful! You just can’t be too careful!
A few minutes before we sat down at the table, Rose and I were putting ice in the glasses when Sissie very suddenly yelled, “HELP! HELP!” and nearly scared us to death. Fortunately she was sitting only about six inches away from us, so Rose leaned over and said, “Sissie? Is everything okay?”
“Oh, everything’s fine,” Sissie answered. “I just wanted to make sure y’all remembered I’m here.”
Sissie yelled, “HELP! HELP!” one more time during lunch, and again, it was just to make sure we were giving her the attention she deserved. She had no cause for concern, though. I think on some level every one of us knew it was the last time we’d share a meal with Sissie sitting at the head of the table, and we all wanted to give the day the honor it was due. It was incredibly touching to see Martha’s dining room chairs filled with four generations of family, to sit back and take in the fact that there was a ninety-four-year gap between the oldest and the youngest person present. Every once in a while the six-year-old, Alex, would pop out of his chair to give the one-hundred-year-old a hug and a few pats on the shoulder, and it was a gift—a gift—to see them together. I didn’t know my great-grandparents, so I’m extra grateful that Alex understands the joy of not only knowing his great-grandmother but also adoring her—and having full confidence that the feeling is entirely mutual.
After lunch Sissie topped off her meal with several huge scoops of Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla ice cream. Rose and I kept waiting for Sissie to say that she’d had enough,
but she’d finish one scoop and immediately ask for another. I think it must be all kinds of wonderful to celebrate your centennial birthday and enjoy a bottomless bowl of ice cream while your daughter, grandsons, granddaughters-in-law, and great-grandchildren remind you how much they treasure and love you. That has to be one of those “blessings all mine, with ten thousand beside” moments, you know?
Once Sissie polished off the last of her ice cream, we all wanted to take a few more pictures with the birthday girl. Martha mentioned that she had a little something for Sissie in the next room, so Rose and I adjusted Sissie’s jacket while Martha assured us, “This will only take a second! Just a second! But I just have to have it! Have to have it!” as she walked down the hallway.
Martha was holding a nosegay of hot-pink roses when she came back to the dining room, and as she handed it to Sissie, she leaned down right next to Sissie’s ear, and in her most gentle whisper-scream, she said, “Mother? Mother? These flowers are for you, sugar. They’re for you! Now hold these flowers, Mother! Hold these pretty flowers! Hold these flowers and let us take your pretty picture! Pretty picture!”
Rose and I were a little puzzled about why the flowers were such a big deal to Martha. They were a thoughtful gesture, and they definitely matched Sissie’s hot-pink jacket, but Martha’s enthusiasm for the flowers was off the charts. Right about the time I was going to ask why the flowers were of such Critical Picture-Related Importance, Martha started talking to Sissie again.
“Hold the flowers, Mother! Turn them just a little bit toward me! Oh, that’s perfect, sugar! Just perfect! I want you to have your flowers so we can take your picture and put it in The Myrtlewood Tribune and everybody will see my beautiful mother holding those beautiful flowers! Every beautiful mother needs some beautiful flowers! And you are—well, you are just the sweetest mother in the whole wide world! The sweetest and most beautiful mother!”
When Martha finished her explanation, Sissie looked up at her with the faintest glimmer of tears in her eyes, and she smiled. In that moment, those two were a living, breathing portrait of the sometimes ineffable affection between a mother and her child.
And Martha was right. Sissie was, at least in our family’s opinion, the sweetest and most beautiful one-hundred-year-old to ever grace the pages of The Myrtlewood Tribune. She established a legacy that will ripple for generations, and she didn’t have to yell, “HELP! HELP!” at her birthday luncheon to remind us of that.
We knew it then.
We know it now.
And we will never, ever forget it.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
When Prayer Meeting Includes a Cocktail Hour
ONE OF THE HIGHLIGHTS of every summer is our annual beach trip with the cousins, a tradition that actually started by accident. When Alex was five, our little family happened to be at Scott and Rose’s beach condo the same time that Chox, Joe, Benji, Paige, and their families were at a condo a few miles down the road. After hanging out together for a few days and sharing meals and watching the little cousins play nonstop in the pool, we thought, Well, this is pretty much a genius idea. We should get together like this more often.
So we do. We find a week during the summer that works for as many of us as possible, and we go to the beach together. We even stay in the same condo—we feel like the kids make more memories that way—and even though it can get crowded and sleep becomes a precious commodity and we honest-to-goodness look like the Clampetts when we pull in the parking lot with a week’s worth of luggage and pool toys and groceries stuffed in our cars, the trip has become our version of a family reunion. We cook and eat and laugh and swim and sun and then laugh some more. It’s big fun.
Joe was a few years into his battle with Alzheimer’s when we started the beach trip tradition, and his absolute top priority was to be wherever Chox was, even if that meant he had to be away from home for a few days. Chox and Paige would spend most of the drive from Myrtlewood to Mobile answering Joe’s questions about where they were going, but eventually—usually around the time that he caught his first glimpse of Mobile Bay—he’d sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride.
Once everybody arrived in Orange Beach and Paige and I started the elaborate unpacking process, Joe liked to sit on our condo’s balcony and look out at the Gulf. He’d always loved the beach, and he’d stay out on that balcony all day if we let him. I think the sight of all that water must have been a comfort to him in the midst of otherwise unfamiliar surroundings.
Water always looks like water, you know? No matter where you are.
Joe had long relished the familiar, even before the Alzheimer’s started to take hold. Over the course of their marriage, Chox and Joe built some deep, lasting friendships with ten or twelve other couples in Myrtlewood, and for the better part of twenty years, one of their favorite things to do with those friends was to meet on Wednesday nights for supper at the country club. They’d initially gather at the bar for a glass of wine or a margarita, and then they’d commandeer the biggest table in the dining room so they could share a meal and catch up on the latest news in everybody’s lives. Since most of the folks in their group were Methodist or Episcopalian, they didn’t have Wednesday night church obligations like the Baptists did, so Joe jokingly started to refer to their meals together as their own personal “Prayer Meeting.” The name stuck, and if Chox and Joe ever mentioned that they were headed to Prayer Meeting on a Wednesday night, we all knew that we could find them at the country club.
The Lord can meet us anywhere, you know.
I tell you all that because on our second annual beach trip, Joe had Prayer Meeting on the brain. He told Chox over and over again that he wanted to make sure they were back in Myrtlewood in time for Prayer Meeting, and by the way, what day was it? And did they need to go ahead and leave for Prayer Meeting? And had she checked with the folks from Prayer Meeting? And was Prayer Meeting still on Wednesdays? And were their friends expecting them at Prayer Meeting? Because he really wanted to be at Prayer Meeting.
If you had overheard him without knowing that he was in the throes of Alzheimer’s, you probably would’ve thought he was the most devout man you’d ever met. You might have called him Reverend, even. Or at the very least assumed he was an elder.
And listen. That would’ve tickled him to no end.
In addition to the Prayer Meeting obsession, Joe also had a tough time finding his way around the condo that year. There were several times that first afternoon (and night) when he’d announce that he needed to go to the restroom, and instead of turning left to go into his and Chox’s room, he’d invariably head down the hallway past the kitchen, then turn to go in the room where Paige and her family were staying. Chox would chase behind him, saying, “No, Joe! Not that way! Come this way!” He’d finally turn around, mumble something under his breath, shrug his shoulders, and follow her.
And then, after a few seconds: “Chox? When are we going to Prayer Meeting?”
“Not right now, Joe. We’re at the beach, remember?” she’d calmly reply. And for a little while, at least, that answer would satisfy him.
The first night of our trip proved interesting. Since Joe tended to get up and fix himself a late-night/early-morning snack when he was at home, Chox and Paige anticipated that Joe might be prone to some nocturnal wanderings at the condo, too. They were a little fearful he might go out on the balcony and not remember how to get back inside, so they made sure to fasten the child latch on the sliding glass door before Joe turned in for the night. And even though the front door was heavy and extremely difficult to open, Paige flipped every available lock and lever. Just to be safe.
Sure enough, Joe made his way to the kitchen sometime after midnight. Chox left his usual snack on the kitchen counter so he wouldn’t rummage through cabinets and drawers, and after he’d polished off his Little Debbie Nutty Bar and half a can of Coke (or Co-Cola, as he called it), he turned to go back to the bedroom.
But somewhere along the way, he lost his bearings. We don’t kno
w exactly what route he took, but he ended up at the front door of the condo, where he unlocked the deadbolt, flipped the safety latches, opened the unwieldy door, and walked out to the fourteen-story atrium. Fortunately Paige had just dozed off, and when the sound of the closing door startled her awake, she hightailed it out of bed. She found her daddy a few doors down, near a bank of elevators, utterly confused about where he was.
Paige hugged his neck. And then she walked him home.
The next night, when Paige and I were putting the young’uns to bed, she mentioned her concern that Joe might unknowingly make a break for it again after everybody went to sleep. So before she turned in for the night, she moved four huge wrought-iron bar stools to block the path to the front door. She reasoned that even if Joe tried to move the bar stools, they’d scrape against the tile floor and someone would hear the racket.
My family was staying in the room across from Paige’s family, and about one-thirty in the morning we heard a loud “SCRRREEEEEECH!” as Joe tried to slide one of the bar stools away from the door. Within seconds I heard Paige say, “Daddy! Hold on just a second, Daddy!” as she walked into the foyer. And for the second time in two nights, she led Joe back to where he was supposed to be.
It’s a tricky thing, Alzheimer’s—or any debilitating disease, for that matter. Caretakers and loved ones know they have to adjust to a new normal, but that new normal is a shifty rascal. One day Chox would feel like everything was under control because Joe had responded well to a new medication or because he seemed better adjusted to his schedule or because he was acclimating to new environments a little easier, only to realize several weeks or months later that Joe’s condition was worse—again. Chox did everything she could to keep their lives as normal as possible, but caring for someone with a progressively debilitating disease is like trying to hold your balance on a high wire while juggling explosives. It’s possible, of course, if you set your mind to it and devote your life to the task, but you certainly can’t sustain the nonstop pace of the routine year after year after year. Because eventually, unless you’re some sort of superhero, you’ll fall down from sheer exhaustion, or something will blow up when you least expect it. And neither outcome is particularly desirable.
A Little Salty to Cut the Sweet Page 9