Family

I originally posted this back in September, but since today would have been my Mema’s birthday, I thought it would be appropriate for the occasion. Happy Birthday, Mema. You are missed.

On Sunday I was reading Parade magazine because I love to see what kind of tricky questions people come up with for Marilyn Vos Savant, the woman with the highest IQ in the world or maybe it’s the United States. I’m not sure. Anyway she’s obviously very smart and knows important things like what sequences of certain numbers mean or how far a train goes if it’s going 55 mph for 6 days…you know, real practical information that you can use in every day life.
But I digress.

So I’m reading Parade magazine and there is an article that asks the question if you could spend one day with someone you love who has passed away, who would it be and what would you do? And as I looked at the question, I immediately knew my answer.

In the last nine years, I have lost three of my grandparents. I miss them all dearly, but the person I would want to spend a day with would be my Mema, my daddy’s mama.

By the time I knew Mema she was already older obviously. She was plump, had graying hair that she kept dyed black, and wore a lot of polyester pantsuits, but in her younger days she was a real beauty. I have her wedding portrait hanging in my hallway and she is so thin, young and beautiful. She was also a true fashionista back in the day complete with great hats, purses and shoes. But by the time I came along, she had raised three boys and lived a lot of life so she wasn’t necessarily thin and fashionable but boy, she was comfortable in her own skin.

I can’t think of Mema without remembering the way she would come hurrying to the door to greet you. She’d always have on her aqua colored turquoise pants, a bright striped polyester shirt and some brown SAS orthopedic shoes. She would be wiping her hands on her pants because you can guarantee she was always in the middle of cooking something for lunch or dinner. She made the best spaghetti in the whole world and if I had one more day with her, I’d make her write down the recipe instead of just letting her vaguely talk about what she put in her sauce. When you left her house, she would always stand in the driveway to blow you kisses and to give you hand signals like a flight crew to help you navigate as you backed into the street. Nevermind that she never learned how to drive, she was an expert at directing traffic.

Mema grew up in a huge Italian family. Her parents immigrated to the United States from Sicily when they were young and finally settled in Beaumont,Texas. Mema spent all of her life living in a two block radius of her entire family. I vaguely remember her mother, a small, wrinkled old lady who I didn’t understand because everything she said was in Italian. Mema’s name was Lena but a few years before she died we found her birth certificate and it said “Carmela”. We asked about it and she said that was her real name, so we asked where Lena came from and she wasn’t sure but thought that maybe they had a horse named Lena growing up.

Mema married my grandfather against her parents wishes. She was a high school graduate and he was a 6th grade dropout. She was the daughter of Italian immigrants who had raised her to be a good Catholic girl and he was a bootlegger. Her younger sister, Josephina (Fina for short) was scared of Papa until the day he died. If he answered the phone, she would just hang up. I wish I knew more of the story. I wish I knew how she met Papa and fell in love with him. I wish I knew what gave her the courage to marry him even if her parents didn’t necessarily approve. Those are just a few things I’d ask if I had one more day.

Mema raised 3 sons. My dad was born in 1945. She had several miscarriages and then six years later had twin boys. I would love to know what it was like when she delivered those twins. In the days before sonograms and weekly visits to the doctor, what was that moment like when they said “Oh, there’s two of them!”? Was she happy, was she scared, was she overwhelmed?

Her 3 boys all turned out well. They graduated from college, married and had families of their own. They were a close knit family and everyone came to her house for a huge spaghetti lunch every Sunday. I don’t know that there was ever a Sunday when someone wasn’t at her house eating spaghetti and meatballs. I’d love to know how she raised her boys. What were her prayers for them? What did she instill in them while they were growing up? How did she discipline them because honestly, some of the stories from their childhood would lead you to believe they could have ended up serving time instead of becoming productive members of society.

Mema’s best friend was her sister Mamie. Aunt Mamie drove the half mile over to Mema’s house every morning so they could have their coffee together. I remember when I was little, Mema had a little coffee cup for me so that I could join them. Mema never learned how to drive so Aunt Mamie chauffered her everywhere. They were always heading off to “Beall Brothers”, or “the Market Basket” to see what was on sale. I’d love to know what they talked about. What were their thoughts on their family? Were they happily married? Did they even think about those things?

She had a formal living room that was separated from the rest of the house by a wooden pocket door. She never used that room unless she was hosting a wedding or baby shower. I can count on one hand the number of times people actually sat in there, but as a child I loved going in there and looking at all of her pretty china figurines and playing with a little table that opened up to reveal a copper interior. She also kept a secret stash of premium snack items in the china cabinet and she would pull you aside like a Keebler drug dealer and say, “psst…come see what Mema has in here for you” as she pulled out the Nutter Butters or Little Debbie snack cakes.

Family was everything to Mema. She was surrounded by the people she loved and who loved her the most. She knew what was truly important and her home reflected that. It was very rare that there weren’t at least 20 people in her house at any given time. She was always there to laugh at a good joke or old story, to cook a great meal or to read a story to a grandbaby. I can still hear her reading me The Little Match Girl over and over again to help me fall asleep. She was a night owl and a scaredy cat like me, so she always understood how hard it was for me to go to bed.

Mema slipped away from us unexpectedly. The summer before I got married she apparently had a stroke that just changed something in her. She was okay physically, but something changed inside that never really came back. I guess that’s one of the reasons that I wish for one more day with her because everything changed so suddenly. She lived four years longer and would have good days and bad, but was never quite the same.

Now that I’m married and have a daughter of my own there are so many things I wish I could ask her about her life. When you’re younger you just don’t realize the richness of a life well lived and don’t question how it all happened. I would love to have one more day to ask her about her hopes, her dreams, her heartbreaks and disappointments and just to make her happy I’d let her make me some of that world famous spaghetti.

I have one younger sister named Amy. I don’t mean that I have other younger sisters whose names aren’t Amy. I think what I’m trying to say is I have one younger sister and her name is Amy. She is 3 years and 9 months younger than me, which means I was exactly Caroline’s age when she was born. That’s hard for me to believe because Caroline seems so old to me right now, and when I look back at my life, I can’t remember a time that I didn’t have a sister.

Today is my little sister’s 32nd birthday.

32.

How is that possible?

I realize since I will be 36 in August, that obviously she must be turning 32, but in so many ways I still picture her as a 12 year old with enormous hair in a private school uniform yelling at me, “Slow down! You’re driving too fast! I’m going to tell on you as soon as we get home!”

When I was little, one of my favorite games to play was Wizard of Oz. I loved to be Dorothy and I could always count on Amy to be my faithful little Toto. She followed me everywhere I went, so I figured I might as well make the best of it. I’d spread out my mama’s old yellow comforter on the living room floor and travel down the yellow brick road as my little “Toto” crawled behind me barking.

Later on, I discovered the book “Freaky Friday” and loved that the main character called her little brother “Ape Face”. I quickly decided it would be a great name for my friends and me to call my poor sister.

Obviously, I was really nice. A doting big sister.

However, in my defense, Amy did have quite the reputation on our street. She was known to make grown kids come crying to our front door to ask our mom if she would please make Amy give their Big Wheel back because she had commandeered it and wouldn’t let go without a fight. Everyone was a little bit scared of her.

She got me back for making her play Toto and the whole Ape Face thing the summer before I started 5th grade. My mom had gone back to work and my friends and I had some boys ride their bikes over to the house while the babysitter was there, which was strictly forbidden. Amy took blackmail to a whole new level and used this information against me for years. It got her more nights of me scratching her back before she went to sleep than I can even tell y’all. Finally, in about 7th grade, I decided the statute of limitations had surely worn out on this offense and finally told her to go ahead and tell. It was a relief like I have never known.

We could be the best of friends one minute and then turn on each other in an instant. In fact, one fight is so legendary that, to this day, it will bring up a heated discussion.

We call it The Black Sock Debacle of 1988.

It was fall of my senior year of high school and I was truly a pleasure to be around. Like most 17 year olds, I had the world completely figured out and certainly didn’t need anyone telling me how to live my life or breathing air in my presence. Amy was in 8th grade and attended a private Christian school which required her to wear a uniform. However, one day a month was “Free Dress Day”.

Since I attended public school, my wardrobe was significantly larger than Amy’s so she usually borrowed something of mine to wear on Free Dress Day. It seems on this particular Free Dress Day she wanted to borrow my black socks.

Now, we could spend a few hours discussing why I even had black socks, but that’s beside the point. And honestly, I have no explanation other than to say that the late 80’s were an unfortunate time in fashion.

I told her no. The black socks were off limits.

I am telling y’all I was the picture of sweetness and generosity.

Well, lo and behold, she snuck into my room and had the audacity to wear my black socks. I was infuriated. I was enraged. I threw a fit about the thievery of my black socks, and though I am sure my mom thought this whole thing was one of the dumbest incidents she had ever witnessed, she was forced to punish my sister.

Amy got grounded for wearing my black socks.

And I was glad.

So, today on my sister’s 32nd birthday, I would like to publicly acknowledge that perhaps I pushed the sock incident too far. Maybe I should have been a little more forgiving and understanding about how a 13 year old girl, forced to wear a hunter green plaid skirt and matching vest on a daily basis, could have been driven to steal a pair of black socks.

When you think about the unspoken freedoms a pair of black socks can convey, it’s totally understandable.

Little did I know then that the same little sister who borrowed my socks would be the same person who would help me keep my sanity after Caroline was born. At that point, Amy didn’t have children of her own and was more than happy to come over on a daily basis and hold Caroline for hours while I did such novel things as shower and brush my teeth. She’d sit on the couch with me, listen and hold Caroline, while I sat in my purple, spit up stained, chenille robe and cried due to sleeplessness and a potent cocktail of postpartum hormones.

I will be forever grateful for the afternoons she spent on that couch. And watching her hold my baby girl and seeing how much she loved her, just because she was mine, made me love my sister that much more.

Happy Birthday, Amy. I still can’t believe you’re old enough to drive, much less to have a husband and sweet baby girl of your very own.

On Friday afternoon, a package arrived for P. He was hunting all weekend, so I never opened the package. When he got home Sunday afternoon, he was excited to see that his order had come in and immediately opened the box.

Let me state for the record, that P is the hardest person to shop for, EVER. I never know what to get him for birthdays or Christmas, and I usually just end up getting him a shirt because at least then he’ll be well dressed, if not excited over his present.

I even asked him a few days ago what he’d like for Christmas and he told me he’d already bought a scope mount and that could be his present. I know…it’s like a real old fashioned Christmas.

So, when he opened the package and revealed what was inside I was honestly shocked by the simplicity and the redneckness of what he had ordered for himself. This, THIS is what he bought.

Please notice that “food” is in all capital letters with an exclamation point, as if to say we’re not talking about squirrel, we’re talking BIG GAME!

Also, take note of the mesh backing complete with adjustable strap.

Here I’ve been shopping at Gap all these years picking out a different version of basically the same shirt, when I could’ve just been ordering online from www.Backwoods.com.

I have always tried to live my life with some semblance of grace and style, and obviously now that this hat has taken up residence on my husband’s head, all that is out the window.

The worst part (as if it can get any worse) is that Caroline walked in and said, “Oh Daddy, what a cool hat!”, which means I’ll be spending hundreds of dollars in fashion therapy trying to rehabilitate her.

Or maybe I’ll just hop on board and make it my new tagline.

Big Mama…will hunt for FOOD!

Or maybe not.