Yesterday’s teardrops have dried.
And, though her face may be stained,
She will scrub it clean and again try.
The dagger may still rest in her heart,
Lodged deeply and permanent,
But she will stand tall and firm
And, as today’s tears stream her cheek,
Another small step will be taken.
On another day, they shall meet,
But for now, she stands, even if alone.
As I look at the simple and classic gem on your hand, the first words that come to my mind and continue to come to my mind over and over again is “I was the first.” I was the first woman to look into his deep brown eyes and wonder what he was thinking. Most of the time, he will not tell you. He keeps his secrets close to his heart.
I was the first to kiss those cheeks and feel my heart melt away. Over the years, they have slimmed up some and sometimes they have facial hair. But once upon a time, his cheeks were the most smoochiest part of his face and I pray your children have those same cheeks.
I was the first to kiss his boo boos and comfort him when he got hurt. He puts on a brave face most of the time. He won’t tell you he is hurt until it’s almost unbearable. He’s always been like that. That little scar under his chin was his first major boo boo. He barely cried then. But when he is hurt, your best reaction is to remain calm; no matter how much it kills you to see him in pain. He feeds off your calm energy. I think that’s what made him fall in love with you.
I was the first to teach him new things. He was always afraid to learn new things, for fear of failure. He was afraid to learn to walk, to ride his bike without training wheels and to swim. But, he learned everything except how to swing. I used to push him in the swing and sing “I love a little bitty boy and his name is walker.” He would giggle mischievously and say “I’m not walker, I’m Batman!” I love that you still give him a corner of the house for to proudly display his Batman memorabilia. Don’t push him too hard. He will come around in his own time and has always mastered everything he has attempted.
I was the first to scold him when he was in the wrong. He can be hard headed but has always been able to admit when he was wrong. Don’t be afraid to point out his wrongdoings. He needs it.
I was the first to love this baby of mine. From the moment he was born, my heart belonged to him. And it always will. But now he has yours too. I was the first, But you will be the most defining love of his life. I was the first to cry over him and cry for him. The days may come that you will do the same. Just know that his love is pure and my baby is someone to treasure. His heart is BIG but he keeps it heavily protected. When he lets you in, it is a true gift.
Tonight, as we celebrate your engagement, remember these things I am passing down to you: you may never know everything that goes on inside his mind, that’s okay. He will let you in on the most special thoughts. Trust him. Kiss his cheeks. Always remind him how smoochable he is. Everyone likes to feel loved and wanted. Be there for him when he’s hurt. He may not always show his pain, but will always need to know that you are there for him. Be patient with him when it comes to change and trying new things. He’s somewhat of an old soul. He has a tendency to overthink things. But he will come around in his own time. Always let him keep his little mischievous side- never take away Batman. Everyone needs a hero; and everyone needs to hold on to a part of their childhood. Don’t be afraid to call him out on his wrong doings. No one is perfect. Remember that. And promise to always treasure the heart that was once only mine.
Sharing your baby boy is hard for a boy-mom, especially if he is your only son. But there is truly no one else I would be willing to share him with. Welcome to the family!!!
It’s about 1:00pm on a Friday afternoon, my 47th birthday, and we are only about 6 miles into our 30 mile hike up the Art Loeb Trail in the Appalachian Mountains; and we had already gotten lost. I had called myself training for this hike for about 6 weeks now; and I was already hurting. Of course, it’s kind of hard to train for mountain hike in the Mississippi Delta; but I thought it would help more than this! Every inch of my ass was throbbing; and I kept checking my inner thighs to see if it was blood dripping down my leg from them rubbing together; or if it was just sweat. It felt like the friction from my thighs rubbing was about to start its own fire; but no blood. I kept calm on the outside; and tried to control my breathing. But on the inside, I was already freaking out. I had wanted to do something like this for over a decade; and I it all planned out; and it was all instantly falling apart. I came here desperately seeking peace and solace in the arms of Mother Nature but, at this point, the canopy overhead was so thick as we hiked deeper into the mountains, that I could barely see the sky! My heart was crushed; and my soul was blind to any beauty left in the world. I was old. I was carrying a rose from my best friends casket on my backpack. I was in the most emotional pain I had experienced in a long time; and now every muscle in my body was shaking from pure physical exhaustion. ‘It couldn’t possibly get worse,’ I thought. “Mom, the damn sole of my hiking boot just came completely off!” Of course it can get worse.
So how does a 47 year old woman, heartbroken, and at her very bottom, find herself lost in the Appalachian Mountains with her daughter wearing only one boot? Well, to answer that, we have to start at the very beginning. Not just the beginning of the day; I mean the very beginning. We have to go back to a time before married the best man around (my Slingshot), back before children, back before my first marriage, back before both my best friends died unexpectedly; and I went from a trio to solo.
I’m weird. I’ve always been weird in everyone else’s eyes. In my eyes, I’ve just had an intense urge to try everything and anything to avoid the mundane days of living in the Mississippi Delta. While I appreciate the purples and reds that paint the sky with a Delta sun set; and the millions of stars that sparkle in the night, the expansive Delta crop fields that stretch to the horizon can feel somewhat smothering. When dirt is all there is for as far as the eye can see, the Mississippi Delta can make you somewhat of a prisoner of the system with literally no hope for change in sight.
I’ve never been content with my surroundings. So I’ve always wanted to experience new things, whether it be a new hairstyle, new music, new religion even- which is the most taboo one could ever do in the middle of the Bible Belt. But, I can’t help it. I am who I am and my friends (as small of a group as they are) have always just accepted my weirdness. They embraced it actually and we had lots of plans to grow into old women and do weird things together and go on weird trips together.
We had so many plans, but it always seemed like something would come up and we would have to put them off until “next year”. And haven’t we all been there before? “Let’s take a girls trip to the beach this summer!” And then a month later, “Sorry. Brian’s got to get braces; so I won’t be able to do a girls trip after all. Maybe next year.” Over and over again, this is what would happen. And then, Eden died at 37 years old and shook everything up. But, still, we were moms and wives now and everything else took a backseat. And again, plans were made; but most were cancelled almost immediately. And then, a few weeks ago, Vickey died at 47 and shook my world yet again. The trio was now solo.
When your two best friends die before the age of 50, there is one glaring lesson you learn- the freaking dishes can wait! The dishes can wait, the overflowing garbage can isn’t going to hurt a fly, and while your kids need you to be present; they don’t need you to hover over their every move. In fact, your kids need to see you thrive and enjoy life to its fullest. Otherwise, they will only grow up worrying about the damn dishes too. Easier said then done. I know. I spent the first 47 years of my life, putting off all the adventures my little weird heart desired to make sure the dishes were put away and the floors mopped; and my kids will tell everyone that I was a “Helicopter Mom”. And I don’t regret any of that. I only regret missing out on those plans that got cancelled as a result.
So, that’s how I wound up lost in the Appalachian Mountains with 4 ounces of water and my daughter with one boot on. I had wanted to go on a solo hike for over a decade now. Growing up in the flatlands of the Delta, I was always fascinated with mountains. They seemed so majestic against the horizon, yet so mysterious. I always wanted to know, ‘What goes on amongst those trees?’ I knew people lived up there, hidden from the world. And I am absolutely convinced Bigfoot is there somewhere! So, I’ve always wanted to go hiking up a mountain. And this year was the year I was going to do it! I had found a trail (of course being a newbie to the whole scene I chose one of the most difficult trails around- The Art Loeb Trail); my husband bought all the gear to cover any possible emergency scenario and I had taken vacation time off from work. I was set. Then a couple days before I was to leave, Vickey didn’t wake up.
For a day or so, I couldn’t fathom leaving. But, as I watched them lower my best friend into her grave, all I could think about was all the plans we had made; but never got to do together. I took a rose from her casket, attached it to my backpack and hit the road 20 minutes later. At the last minute, my daughter decided to come with me and met me there.
We got off to a great start; but things went south fast. I had underestimated just how steep the trail would be. My backpack kept slipping, no matter how tight we tried to fasten it. The marking for the trail, the “blazes” as they are called, were white; and it was sometimes hard to tell if the trees had blazes or just random white spots on them. So, we kept getting a little turned around. We found our first water source and gained a little more physical and mental strength. Onward and upward we pushed. I’m 47 years old; and began to feel every bit of it. My thighs were killing me, the elevation was making my asthmatic lungs work double-time and there were no views! All you could see was trees and more trees. The canopy was so thick, the sun couldn’t even get through well enough to get my solar charger to work. We were losing the batteries on our phones quickly and drinking way too much water.
When we came to what should’ve been our second water source, it was all dried up. A little taken aback, but not too worried we pushed on through; hoping to find water around the next bend. It was about then that the sole of Jane’s boot came completely off. I don’t know if it was steepness of the trail, the rough terrain or just God’s sick sense of humor. But there we were, two females, 3 shoes, 4 ounces of water and 1 working phone with very little battery left. We siphoned through our emergency kit and found some gauze tape and improvised. That didn’t even last another mile, before we had to stop and retape. About 3 miles later, we took the hair ties out of our hair to hold the sole on. This method proved to be alot better and we trudged on. Hours later, still no water to be found and I was scaring the birds away as I moaned and groaned with each step taken up yet another mountain. It was getting late in the afternoon and we were exhausted.
We came to a slight clearing; still no view, but there was a nice spot to set up camp. After hours of not seeing anything else besides a snake that refused to cross the trail and let us by, we finally came across a couple fellow human hikers. When we asked them about the nearest water source, they informed us that we would need to get off the Art Loeb and follow another trail with orange blazes for a few miles and we would find a nice creek with plenty of moving water. As the sun was falling behind the trees, we set up camp, ate a nice dinner of tuna and jerky and called it a night. Is it spooky sleeping on the side of a mountain, amongst bears and the bigfoot that has continued to allude us? Of course it is! We even pulled up our campsite and tried to make a quick dash off the mountain when we were certain we heard a skinwalker laughing. But, after just a few yards back into the forest in the pitch black night, we quickly decided that we would go back to the clearing and hunker down for the night. We popped a few Valerian Root capsules and knocked ourselves out, with the intention of waking up at dawn, finding water and getting the hell off the mountain!
After eating more jerky and putting Jane’s boot back together again, I left a couple petals from Vickey’s rose; we headed off. After a couple miles, we realized that a couple miles to mountain hikers meant about 4-5 miles in our terms. But we could hear water running and were on a decline, which made all the difference in the world to us physically. So we trudged on with more enthusiasm than the day before. And just like magic, there it was! The cutest little creek with running water and nice clearing big enough for sun to come through! As I filled our water containers and filters, Jane worked on chasing the sunlight to charge our phones. I dropped a few more petals of Vickey’s rose at the creek. We ate yet more jerky; replenished our souls and our bodies and embarked on a new mission to getting off the mountain. We weren’t even worried about the boot any more. The trail was leveling out and that had to mean that we were coming off the mountain. We still had no view; so we couldn’t really tell. But the water was getting louder and louder and we knew there was a river at the bottom of the mountain. We turned the corner, and there is was….. a dam. A dam and a river- it was a dead end and we had no idea where we were. None of the trees had any colored blazes on them and we were stuck again.
This would be the moment Jane finally lost it. “Where the hell are we? I want off this damn mountain! I can’t take it any more! This stupid solar charger is shit. My boot sucks! I am sick of jerky and tuna. I just want to go home, eat a pizza and take a shower!” Even Vickey lost it! I bent over to put the food back in the backpack and most of her rose petals dropped to the ground. “Give me a minute!” I yelled, “Vickey fell!” Jane retorted, “Even Vickey wants off this mountain!”
We crossed the river, and got to the bottom of another mountain, Jane’s foot soaked to the bone. A few hundred yards later, we came across our new best friend, David, who led us off the mountain and back to civilization. Coming out of the mountains, Jane hobbling on one boot with a dirty bandana holding the other one together, holding the solar charger over her heard, me limping and groaning with every step, we looked like we had just stepped off the set of the next “Wrong Turn” movie. David, our new best friend gave us a ride back to our car (which would’ve been a 20 mile hike back) and we were home free!
The next day we drove to the other side of the Art Loeb and hiked Black Balsam, which was our goal to begin with. As I stood there, over a mile in the sky, trees below me, a city in the distance, I began to feel tears stream down my face. I didn’t even realize I was crying. It was beautiful. There were other hikers there too, but no one was speaking. No one, except a man that appeared to be in his 60s. He was openly crying and just kept saying aloud, to no one particular, “We are on top of the world. We are on top of the world. This is beautiful. It’s just so beautiful.” And it was. It really was the most beautiful moment I had ever shared with perfect strangers.
And, even though I came home with blisters on my feet and thighs; and Jane came home with one less shoe, I would do it all again. Even as I cried out from the physical pain of climbing those mountains, I felt more alive and closer to my best friends than I ever did. They were both there with me. We had finally gotten to go on an adventure together.
Growing up in Mississippi, we’ve all heard the story of the Witch of Yazoo. And if you’re lucky enough to pass through Yazoo City, finding the grave of the witch is the biggest thrill a 14 year old can have! But for those of you who aren’t familiar with the tale of the Witch of Yazoo, let me cue you in.
According to legend, in 1884, an old woman lived on the Yazoo River, was caught torturing fisherman. The sheriff chased her through the swamps, where they found her half-submerged in quicksand. AS she was sinking to her death, she vowed revenge on Yazoo City. “In 20 years, I will return and burn this town to the ground!!”
Fast forward to 1904- twenty years later, a fire broke out in Yazoo, rapidly spreading throughout the entire city. The Fire of 1904 destroyed over 200 residences and almost every business in town. Witnesses claimed the flames “jumped” through the air, as if driven by some out-of-this-world, supernatural winds, even though weather reports for that area make no mention of high winds for that day. Weird, right?
And so the Legend of the Yazoo Witch began. The long-accepted narrative is that this scorn, evil woman that tortured and killed innocent fisherman along the river, was served her due justice and came back for revenge. The woman’s name is still a mystery; but her legend lives on.
But, what if we have it all wrong?
Let’s think about it…… between 1692 and 1693, 200 people were accused of being witches, inducing mass hysteria across the nation. 19 people were executed, 30 were found guilty, and the livelihoods of all those accused were tarnished for generations. These witches were women who just had the balls to be different from the rest of society, who wanted to think for themselves; experiment with holistic medicines and were just a little different.
And, if you had a vagina back in the day, you never stood a chance!
In fact, centuries later, women in America were STILL fighting for their right to be heard. Hell they couldn’t even vote! The 19th amendment to prohibit the United states from denying a citizen the right to vote on the basis of their sex was first introduced in Congress in 1878; but was not ratified until August 26, 1920!!! 1920!!! That’s 42 Years!!! And still, Mississippi voted against ratifying the 19th Amendment. And, believe it or not- It wasn’t until March 22, 1984 that the Mississippi Legislature finally ratified the 19th Amendment.
So, you see? Women have had a tough go at it….. especially in Mississippi. We were not supposed to be independent, have our own thoughts or live our own best life. And if we dared to do so; we were demonized by society, being labeled as everything from a lesbian to …. you got it…. a witch!!
Knowing all of this, do we still think the lady by the river was a witch that came back from the dead to seek revenge on the entire city? Do we really believe this one little old woman was luring men off the river, torturing and killing them? I mean… if she was a witch, capable of all these things, how the hell did a little quicksand take her down?! And I find it exceptionally peculiar that we don’t even know her name… after all these years.
Hear me out on this…. but I have a theory on the legendary Witch of Yazoo. And I must preface this by saying it is directly inspired by a cult classic movie from the 80s, “I Spit on Your Grave”. If you haven’t seen this movie- I HIGHLY recommend it. Though some of the scenes a horrific and graphic, the moral of the story is that you shouldn’t mess with a strong, independent woman, for we will always come out on top!
Now back to my theory on the Witch of Yazoo….. I think this creature of femininity and strength was probably living her best life on the tranquil banks of the Yazoo River, tending to her herbs and roots, completely free from the reigns of the colonial society in town. The “innocent” fishermen, most likely stumbled upon her humble abode one drunken night and took advantage of her and left without another thought. After all- what’s a woman going to do, right? Well… maybe, just maybe, she gathered herself back together, remembered who the F she is, and made a little trip to town to seek justice. Of course, no one believed her! Of course, she was labeled a witch, hunted down like an animal and they permanently shut her up. God forbid the upstanding menfolk in town have their precious name tarnished at the expense of some trashy woman on the riverbank.
As with any secret, the sins of those men haunted them day and night…. they knew what they had done and lived in fear of God’s vengeance. That why they chained the grave and began to tell the horror story of the Witch of Yazoo. They knew the wise old saying of “whatever happens in dark will come to light”. They knew one day, they would have to pay for what they had done. They lived and died in fear…. and rightfully so… because Karma isn’t a Bitch…. She’s just a badass woman that will always come out on top. Those flames that consumed Yazoo City in 1904 were not manifested by some supernatural evil spirit resurrected from the chained up grave in Glenwood Cemetery. Those flames were to remind us that we will all eventually pay for our sins.
The saddest and most perplexing part of this whole story to me is the fact that we never even knew who this woman was. She has been a legend over a century now. Her gravesite is must-see in the South. She has been the face in a million nightmares. Yet we don’t even know her name; and we will never know her real story….. To instill such fear in an entire community, she must have been a woman of strength (whether she used it for good or bad we will never really know). Yet, they thought so little of her that they didn’t even share her name. Sadly, this is just a clear depiction of how society viewed women during these times.
So I am declaring her the baddest of them all. Mirror mirror on the wall- who’s the baddest bitch of them all. I’m gonna say, “The Witch of Yazoo for we don’t even know who she was but we still fear her all these years later.
So what can we take from the tale of the witch of yazoo? I guess, as a woman, it is to have no fear in being your true self. Just like the witches of Salem and Mississippi’s own witch of yazoo, we must not let society dictate who we are; and we must be so strong that they’ll want to put chains on all our graves!
So for all my fellow white witches out there that loves their roots and herbs and love to dance under a full moon, I raise my broomstick and leave you with a little diddy from my favorite witch of all….
Since Eve ate the apple, women have had to bear the shame and consequence of not just herself, but for society. We hold the responsibility for bringing life into this world, for prevention of life, for mentoring and guiding little lives into adulthood. Society blames us if we get pregnant out of wedlock. They blame us if we choose not to give birth. They blame us if we choose not to raise those we birth. But then blame us when the ones we raise do not live up to society’s standards.
We are blamed when the spouse seeks love in the arms of another. We are to blame if the dishes aren’t done. We must not age. We must not gain weight. We must stay graceful through all the shit life throws at us. We cannot drink too much. But we have to fun enough to drink a little. We cannot smoke. But we mustn’t complain about it either. We have to cook; but cannot eat too much. We have to clean; but cannot nag or complain about the messes.
Over the past several decades, society’s expectations of a woman have not evolved. They have only added more to our plate, making it impossible for us to be the perfect woman. But men’s roles haven’t changed a single bit. From the beginning of time, man has been only responsible for working. Nothing more. This was the case back when we lived in caves; and it is still the case today. Men can get fat. Men can go gray. Men can drink too much. Men can smoke. Men aren’t judged for not changing diapers. In fact, they are overly praised if they do change a diaper. Men aren’t expected at every school function. And sadly, we have normalized the absentee dad.
Now for the ugly part of life….. sex. A woman is expected to wait until marriage before participating in an absolutely natural act of sex. If she is to give into her own body’s urges, she is deemed a whore. And once she is married, sex is viewed as an act of service to her spouse; not an act of self pleasure for herself. Society’s views on women and sex are inherently engraved into our minds to the point that girls turn on other girls, creating a witch-hunt for the “school slut”. Men, on the other hand, are praised in the locker rooms for their weekend “conquests”.
Now take all of these unattainable expectations, bundle them up in a big, pretty pink monogrammed bow, and set it down in the heart of the Bible Belt- in the deep rural South. Now I’m talking the REAL south, not Atlanta, or some other big city. I mean the REAL south, smack dab in the middle of a soybean field in 2 red-light Mississippi! Pile all those expectations onto the tired backs of the southern women, who are already dead tired from working the garden, pickling peas, cutting the grass and driving a back-hoe, while carrying a baby on their hips. And if they are a black woman, you must tack-on racism to their list of bullshit to deal with.
Being in the South already has women at a disadvantage. The weather is unkind with smothering summers and wet winters. The economy is poverty level and opportunities are slim to none. And our damn accent doesn’t help one damn bit either! With these added on disadvantages, it takes not just a strong woman to survive, it takes a DAMN strong woman, the strongest of the strong. A southern woman is not a creature to reckon with. We are raised in fire and come out stronger than steel.
Because of our upbringing and pressures society has put on us, we are the most complex people you could ever meet. You will never fully understand us. Hell, we can’t even understand ourselves most of the time. I am a Southern woman raised in a Southern Baptist Church. I love my babies. I love your babies. I love my husband. But, if I am pushed to it, or my babies are hurt, I will not hesitate to take a charge for trying to kill your ass. And we will just pray about it on Sunday in a church that wouldn’t even allow me to be a preacher because I was born with a golden vagina. I love to cook my man a good home-cooked meal; but he better not demand it of me, or I’ll spit a little extra seasoning in it and serve it to him with a smile. I love to work in the yard; but I’ll cuss like a sailor on a drunken Saturday night the entire time I’m pulling weeds. I will bitch about cooking a Thanksgiving dinner for the entire family, but I am not gonna eat your casserole if you offer to bring one over. Like I said, we are complex creatures. I don’t know why I do some of the things I do. I’m Southern, it’s just who I am.
And I am not alone. All throughout the South, there are women handling things and getting shit done that no other person could ever imagine doing. If I should be so bold, I would say that the Southern woman is what has kept the lower half of this country together. We are the ones knocking sense (sometimes figuratively and sometimes literally) into these men’s heads. We are the loud ones (with quiet tones) fighting everyday to be seen, to be heard, and to be respected. We are the ones that always has to make the age-old decision, “Should I stay or should I go”. We are the ones that will get up early, clean the house, feed the babies, and then hop on a tractor to help our men in the fields when needed. We are the ones that will sit in the shower after everyone has gone to sleep and dream and plot for a better way out of today’s troubles. When the men get beat down, it is our laps they lay they heads in. When the men’s backs are sore from work, we are the ones to rub them. The men build the house; but it’s our nails that hold it together. And we’re baking pies and shit doing too.
So, that’s what this podcast is going to be about…. the Southern Woman. We are good; we are bad; but we are too strong to ever be ugly. I want to share the stories of the southern women who have faced the most tragic of storms and come out on the other end. I want to share the stories of the southern women who finally snapped, lost their damn minds and wreaked havoc. I want to share the stories of the southern women who fought the man and society, whether they won or lost. I want to share the stories of the southern women that walked so others could run.
“If This Kitchen Could Talk” is now a podcast on Spotify. Stay tuned each week as a share and speak with a special southern woman as they share their stories with me. You may hear a familiar voice; or that voice may be yours.
PREFACE
“A woman’s heart is made of 4 chambers and 1000 secrets.” I knew a woman’s heart was the most complicated organ but I had no idea how deep it could be.
By the time my mother was 18, she was the mother of a 2 year old (me), working on her second marriage and battling an addiction to prescription pills that would eventually evolve into a nasty heroin habit. Needless to say, my grandparents took on the responsibility of raising me. And for that, I will always be grateful. They must’ve done something right, because, in spite of my unconventional upbringing and stereotypical white trash family dynamic, I grew up to be a responsible, mildly successful marketing manager for a multi-million dollar company.
My grandfather lived to see me graduate college before cancer took him away when I was 21. Sarah, my mother, showed up to the funeral with her 5th husband and dilated pupils. She stayed long enough to fix several to-go plates at the reception before skipping back out. At this point in our lives, though, no one expected anything more from her. My grandmother and I spent the rest of the summer together, just the two of us. For two months, we passed the days away with champagne brunches, Wheel of Fortune, Judge Judy (my grandmother loved her sassy comebacks), walks around the lake and dinners on the back porch. That was our routine and I loved every second of it.
For once, I got to know my grandmother as a woman; not just as my caretaker. She would tell me stories of dating my grandfather and how they once broke up because she found him dancing with Mrs. Loper at the annual Delta Ladies Dance. I learned that as a child, she dreamed of being an Olympic gymnast. She was feisty, funny, and far smarter than I ever gave her credit for. She had become my best friend, not just my grandmother. That’s why I was so shocked to learn of the dark secret she had kept from all of us. I thought I knew my grandmother better than anyone. But, I found out that none of us ever really knew the her. We only knew the Martha Jean she wanted us to know.
I was at my desk when I got the call. I had been preparing for this call since grandma had fallen a couple months back and broke her hip. Since the fall, her health had taken a drastic turn for the worse, both physically and mentally. Most days she would lie in bed, yelling for my grandfather- not knowing that he had long passed. As much as it pained me to see her this way, I still showed up every Saturday with her mimosa, hoping for a miracle. It just never came. So I knew how the phone call was going to go before I even picked up the receiver.
Actually hearing the words “I’m sorry to say that Mrs. Martha Jean has left us,” came with a lightening bolt to my heart. As prepared as I thought I was, those words still stung like a million bees. “It’s okay. I’ll be right over.” A numbness washed over me. I set the receiver down, gathered my things, and headed out. Flashes of my life with grandma filled my head on the drive over. I could vividly see her pushing me on the swing in the backyard, of shelling peas with her, and I could clearly hear her voice yelling, “Make good decisions!” as I headed down the drive.
Her room at the retirement home looked exactly the same. Nothing had changed. It was as if she had just stepped into the bathroom. I’m not sure what I expected. But, I thought it would somehow be different, that the world would be different without her. Everyone was going on with their normal lives, not realizing what a magnificent soul just left us. How could my world look the same without her?
As the nurse helped me pack her things, she reached in the back of the closet and pulled down a little metal box with a lock. “The key is in her wallet, tucked behind her driver license. She told me the day she moved in.” I had never seen this box in my life. But, it looked like your typical hand-held safe in which you would keep your important papers, like marriage licenses and birth certificates. I put it in a box with little thought. I would go through it later on.
After loading up all her stuff in the trunk of my car, thanking the staff for caring for her and giving them a final hug, I headed to the funeral home. I was lucky that grandma had already made all the arrangements herself with specific details; and all I really needed to do was sign some papers. I went through the motions with little feeling. In a way, I was grateful for this numbness. I didn’t want to deal with this yet. I just needed a little more time.
Later that night, as I lay in the tub, Eddie Vedder playing softly in the background, the tears came…. slowly at first…. with just a single tear slipping from my eye, running down my cheek. Then, before I could stop it, they came in a flood. There I lay, naked and wet and bawling my eyes out like a baby. I needed the only mama I had ever known. I needed my grandma.
A feeling of desperation came over me and I lept out of the tub, running as fast as I could to her pile of things lying in the bedroom floor. I flung shirts and skirts around the room until I found it. There it was at the bottom of a box, the mysterious little safe that my grandma had kept in the back of her closet. Still wet and naked, at my most vulnerable state, I dug for her wallet, find a tiny key tucked safely away just as she had said it would be. What was so precious to my grandmother that she had kept it hidden and locked away from the rest of the world for all these years?
Suddenly a knot appeared in the pit of my stomach. I was anxious and shaking; but I wasn’t sure why. Something told me that what lie in this box would forever change my life. I was right. It would change my life. But it would not just change my life……
“My dearest Jack. I love you. I love you. I love you. No matter what I do or say, the love I have for you in my heart will not diminish. It won’t go away. It’s been so many years now. I’m married. I have a child. But I’m not married to you. My child is not yours. And for that, my heart will always be broken. I love them. I do. But I cannot love them like I love you. I am so sorry…… Yours Forever, Martha Jean”
That was it. That was all that was locked away- a single love note. I must’ve read it over and over again a thousand times. But still, I had so many questions. When was this note written? Why didn’t she ever mail it? Who was Jack? I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. My grandmother loved another man. She didn’t just love him, she loved him desperately. She loved him so desperately that she kept a note to him sealed away for over 40 years. She kept that note sealed away from my grandfather, from everyone, even Jack? What did this mean? I wasn’t sure how or why; but I knew I needed to find out who Jack was.
Koko had been my sidekick for the past five years. We started our days together every morning at 5:00am with him licking my face awake and then sitting on the front porch with me as I sipped my coffee. But this morning he was pacing up and down the bed, panting and whimpering…. dying to go out as I just laid there, staring at the ceiling. I had not slept a wink. With every toss and turn, the vision of a young Martha Jean writing that letter stung my heart. I had never known my grandmother to be down about anything. Even when my mother was at her worse, my grandmother always had a smile on her face. She never once gave the slightest hint that her heart was broken. Yet, now I know that it was and it killed me.
I knew I had to deliver this letter to this man. But how could I find out who he was without spilling her secret. I had no idea who knew about him; so I couldn’t ask just anyone. ‘Thank God for Google,’ I thought. I would just have to start there and see where it takes me. I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of man this guy was that had captured my grandmother’s and held it hostage for all those years.
I had been in love before. I was sure of it…. kinda. I’ve had strong feelings for men. I’ve had the butterflies and the knots in my stomach. I’ve felt the excitement of that first kiss. But, those feelings always faded and I sure as hell never wrote a note professing my love and held on to it for decades. ‘Who was this man? Who was Jack?’ I finally got up, let Koko out and proceeded to find the perfect dress to wear to by grandmother’s burial.
I couldn’t hear much of what the preacher said, I was too fixated on scanning the room for any unfamiliar faces, for Jack. There were a few people I didn’t recognize and I was determined to keep my eye on each one until they could be identified. If my grandmother had loved this man for so long, surely he would show up for her now. Jack had to be here somewhere.
“Thank you for coming.” I had said it what seemed like a million times with little to no emotion standing at the exit. Face after familiar face passed by, offering their most sincere condolences. Finally, a new face came up. “Thank you for coming….How did you know my grandmother?” I could hardly contain myself as I asked.
“I was an old neighbor. My name is Harry. Pleasure meeting you. Your grandmother was a fine lady.” He passed on by me without much more emotion. It wasn’t him. It couldn’t have been him. A few more dozen people passed by and then another new face.
“Mr. Hendrix, ma’am. My deepest sympathy. Martha Jean was a fine woman.” There was a deep sadness in his voice. Little hairs on the back of my neck perked up. ‘Jack?’ Were there tears in his eyes? There were!! There were definitely tears in his eyes.
“Thank you so much Mr. Hendrix. My grandmother was a gem. That’s for sure! How did you know her?”
“We were in the same prayer group. My wife passed last year. She made me a casserole every week since.”
‘Damn.’ “That’s great. I know you were fed well, then. She was a fantastic cook.” ‘Not Jack. Move along.’
The rest of the day was a blur. People passed in and out with their condolences, but not Jack. Before I knew it, the day was coming to an end and I was eating my feelings with three pieces of chocolate cake. Aunt Peggy was loading the dishwasher. “Aunt Peg, did grandma ever have any boyfriends before grandpa? Any that you remember?”
She never looked up, mechanically rinsing dish after dish and finding just the perfect place for it. “Who knows, honey? A woman’s heart is made of 4 chambers and 1000 secrets. You’re a woman. You should know that.”
“I just can’t imagine having just one love your entire life. Surely someone else caught her eye. She was gorgeous. Surely other men noticed.”
“Oh they noticed. They all noticed. I have vivid memories of walking down the road with your grandmother. Every man in town noticed her at some point or another. The problem was that your grandmother didn’t ever notice a damn thing! She couldn’t care less. It took a helluva lot to get her attention.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “Well, that explains why grandpa was such a great man!”
It had been 3 days since the funeral. The hype had faded in everyone’s heart. The calls had dwindle down to just a couple calls a day from out-of-town friends who had just read the obituary. That’s how life goes. You live the best life, be the best person on the entire planet, you die, and everyone forgets you. I wasn’t mad about it. If I were honest, I would admit that I was grateful to be left alone. I always kept my circle small and my grandmother took up 2/3 of that circle.
We are all granted just an itty bitty piece of space in this world. You have to choose wisely about how you fill up your space. “Some people are just the dirt in the bottom of a flower vase. Don’t make the mistake of giving them too much space; you gotta save room for the flowers that will take root in that dirt, grow with every curve and angle of your vase and blossom into full bloom for you over the top.” Martha Jean had told me this years ago when I was hanging out with the wrong crowd. This piece of advice stuck with me more than anything else. From that moment on, whenever I met someone I always tried to imagine them as a flower. If I couldn’t find a flower that matched their personality, I labeled them as just a little dirt and quickly let go before they could take up more space.
I sat there in front of the computer, my eyes glazed over from a mixture of the best weed I could buy for $20 and the pure exhaustion of reading obituaries from the surrounding counties searching for any and every Jack I could find. After approving my grandmother’s own obituary, the idea came to me that maybe Jack had died too. Maybe that’s why the letter was never delivered. I had found eight different Jacks. Still, none of their names or living relatives’ names rang a bell or jarred any kind of memory for me. I just felt in my heart that somehow my grandmother would point me in the right direction and I felt nothing when I saw these men’s names.
Within the next couple weeks, I went back to work and fell into a new routine of work, sushi for one, Wheel of Fortune and an hour of searching for Jack. I was in bed by 9pm every night, but always woke up just as exhausted as I was when I threw myself into bed the night before. Life just felt heavy. The thick, humid Mississippi air was even thicker. The sweat no longer just beaded on me; it beat me down. The dark circles under my eyes were black. My shoulders ached constantly and my back was hunched over. I felt like I had aged 20 years in two weeks. I didn’t like being in the world where my grandmother didn’t exist and my body was reflecting it.
“I’ll have a double-shot expresso please.” It was the third time today for me; but I had to get on with my life. If that meant becoming an expresso addict, well that’s just how it had to be. Staring the barista’s judgmental glare head on, with grand stoic, I took my expresso and sat down by myself. Checking my phone, I noticed the date. It was the 30th. I had not had a period at all. ‘Great!’, I thought, ‘now I guess my uterus is gonna die too.’
Mr. Aderholt had been my OBGYN since I was 17 years old. He had been my grandmothers and my mothers. Even though it had gotten to feel somewhat weird having an 80 year old man see my vagina, I couldn’t bare to go to anyone else. After all, this man had been with my vag through it all; and he has been the only one to stick around. I knew better than to turn my back on a faithful man.
As soon as the cold instrument was inside me, the awkward small talk began. “I heard about Martha Jean. She was a good lady.”
Staring at the ceiling, counting the 64 ceiling tiles for the 3rd time, I repeated my well-rehearsed response. “Thank you. She thought the world of you too.”
“Really? She mentioned me before? What did she say?”
Now all the hairs stood on end. I felt a warmth wash over me and I felt my grandmother all around!! This man wasn’t Jack, obviously. His name was Dr. Joachim Aderholt, 3rd generation German. But he may know Jack; and he DEFINETLY knew my grandmother better than I thought.
“She just mentioned your name from time to time. How well did you know her, Dr. Aderholt?”
Clearing his throat, “Well, Susan, we are all done here. She’s gonna help you from here, Lady May.” Before I could prive any further, he was out the door. I got my clothes back on as quickly as I could, keeping my eyes peeled for the doctor as I went through the check-out process. Of course, he was hiding out in another patient’s room, prying vaginas open, squeezing tits, whatever he could to avoid me. ‘That’s okay, Dr. Aderholt. I’m on to you now.’
I didn’t even bother with Wheel of Fortune. As soon as I got home, I jumped on the computer to uncover everything I could about Dr. Joachim Aderholt. The Aderholt family had come to the United States before the 1st World War. Four brothers had come over, bid each other good luck, gave one last embrace and all went their separate ways in search for the American Dream. Joachim Aderholt was of the third generation. This generation didn’t have nearly the struggles of the first; but they still all had that Aderholt Ambition. As with most immigrant descendents, Joachim still had that fire burning (though not quite as fierce as his grandfather) to do it all.
Before becoming a prominent doctor in small town, Joachim spent his days in the army and his nights in the bar, shooting dice and talking shit. He had a spunk and a charm about him that made him seem smaller than his 6’3 stature; and relatable to all walks of life. It didn’t matter if you had one million or one single dollar to your name. Everyone enjoyed a good laugh with Aderholt. The name Aderholt is hard to come by, so there was no need in bothering with a first name. Everyone knew who Aderholt was, and they all had a crazy story and crazy memory with him.
He was smart. There was no doubt about that. He had a photographic memory and never had to write anything down. And that was a good thing too. Though no such diagnosis existed back then, Joachim suffered from a crippling case of dyslexia. He was probably the only doctor to actually take his time signing his name and it still looking like typical “doctor chicken-scratch”.
He had graduated from Ole Miss with job offers all over the world. But Dr. Aderholt only had one thing on his mind- go back home. And so, despite the economic trenches our little small town fell into with cotton’s fall from the throne and the sinking of the catfish industry, Dr. Aderholt’s Women’s Clinic remained in the same little building on the corner of Jackson and Oak.
There was nothing outstanding that I could find about Dr. Aderholt. According to Google, he was as clean as a freaking slate and it was pissing me off!
“So, went to the gyno the other day. Apparently my period’s off from stress.” I eased my way into a conversation with Aunt Peggy. “Do you go to Dr. Aderholt?”
“Yes. Against my better judgement, I still go to see Joachim.”
“What does that mean? He’s a great doctor, right?”
“Oh yeah! He’s probably the smartest man I’ve ever known. He’s just an idiot.”
“Hmmmm. Yeah, I’m gonna need you to explain how a man can be an idiot, yet the smartest man you know that you have trusted your vagina with for decades.”
Aunt Peggy couldn’t help but grin. She closed her eyes; and I could literally see her drift back to the past, back to yesteryear. “Joachim was always brilliant. He has this crazy photographic memory. I don’t care what you say, even if it’s just in passing, he remembers it. But, when we were all young, he was the craziest, most reckless fool around these parts. He always came up with the craziest ideas and was always doing the craziest things! You know what that fool wanted to do one time? He wanted to run off to California and start an orange orchard. He was always coming up with these “get rich quick” schemes; from oranges to breeding rabbits. He’s an idiot; and a crazy one at that. But he’s also brilliant. The man can fix anything from a broken radiator in your car to a your damn vagina! How many men can say that, right?”
I couldn’t, for the life of me, imagine old Dr. Aderholt like she described. He was always so collected and contained, whether in the clinic or out about town. He was always calm and collected with a gentle voice, in spite of his huge German stature. But, then again, it’s always hard to imagine any old person young. I don’t know why, but it just seems like they were born 50 years old and just aged from there. Even after getting to know my grandmother at such a deeper level, I couldn’t bring myself to see her kissing or drinking or being reckless. I guess we just never know people, my grandmother and her little note were drilling this into my head again and again.
“Hell, you know he didn’t even court Judy before they got married? Rumor has it that he went out to shoot dice one night after work, and woke up the next day married. Of course, he’s a gentlemen and he didn’t want her reputation ruined; so he stayed married. And they’ve made a good life together. I’ll grant him that. He’s an idiot. But he’s smart and does have a good heart; so I guess that’s why I let him penetrate me with foreign objects once a year!” Dear old Aunt Peggy always had a way with words; and a very thin filter. I now see why my grandmother worshipped her.
I knew, deep in my gut, that Dr. Aderholt held the key to my grandmother’s secret. I could literally feel her pushing me to him. I just had to figure out a way to get to him.
There was a slight crisp in the air, and the smell of rain was off in the distance. If I was gonna manage to get a quick run in today, I better get going now. I hated to run. I hated to exercise. But I hated love handles even more; and I loved food too much to diet. Popping in my headphones, searching for just the right musical inspiration to get my ass in gear, I headed towards Jackson Street.
As I got closer to the clinic, I noticed the nurses, all in their matching green scrubs heading out the back door, already puffing away on their cigarettes. I couldn’t help but smile at the irony of healthcare workers smoking. I guess it was your classic case of “Do what I say; not what I do.” Time to put on the charm.
“Hey Nicole! How ya been girl?” Nicole and I had gone to school together. Her sense of humor was drier than a Mississippi field during a drought, but her heart was big. She was a succulent in my flower vase. Our friendship had lasted for over 20 years. I didn’t have to dote on her at all; but I knew I could count on her when I needed.
“Is Dr. Aderholt in there? I’ve been meaning to get this Thank-You note to him. His wife brought over a veggie platter when my grandma died.”
“Oh yeah. He’s in there, in his office. Third door on the left.”
As soon as I opened the door, my mouth went dry, my throat closed up and my heart began to pound against my chest. I wasn’t going to rob or kill the man; but the thought of confronting him made me a nervous wreck. I just didn’t understand this reaction at all. It wasn’t like I was accusing him of murder or something crazy. I just wanted to ask him about Jack. This is what my mind kept screaming; but my body instinctively knew that something more was about to happen.
My hands were trembling as I tapped on the opened door. “Dr. Aderholt, can I talk to you for a second?”
It seemed like an eternity before he mustered the strength to offer me a chair and invited me on in.
“I gotta say, I’ve been expecting your return.” I knew that your grandmother’s stubborness rubbed off on you when you refused to cross your legs in church at the age of 8.” This was certainly not the side of Dr. Aderholt I had ever seen before.
There was no small talk or lead-up questions. I wanted to get right to the point. I couldn’t handle it another second. “Who is Jack?”
I was sure I could see the lump growing in his throat. I, without a doubt, could see the tears welling up in his eyes.
“What did you just ask me?”
“Who is Jack? My grandmother left me something. It’s for “Jack” but I don’t know who he is?”
“What do you mean she left something?! What did she leave?!” he was practically yelling at me at this point.
“I can’t tell you. It’s a secret. I can’t betray her trust like that. I ca….”
Dr. Aderholt clinched my wrists tighter than he should have. I was a little scared and taken aback; but his desperation was greater than any slight fear I may have had at this moment.
“Tell me PLEASE!! Tell me what she left.”
“Tell me who Jack is and I’ll tell you what she left.” He could have put a gun to my head and I wasn’t backing down. My grandmother had held on to Jack for all these years and I was determined to find out who he was.
There was an eerie silence that filled the room as we stared into one another’s eyes, neither of us willing to break the gaze; both of us as stubborn as the next.
“Me.” He finally spoke. “I’m Jack.”
I couldn’t hear. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t speak. Surely I wasn’t hearing what I was hearing.
“What do you mean you’re Jack? How could you be Jack, Dr. Aderholt? Your name is Joachim?”
“Joachim is my German name. Jack is the Americanized for diminutive Joachim. No one called me Jack…. except Martha Jean.”
A thousand questions were swimming in my head; yet nothing came out of my mouth. I just sat there, dumbfounded.
“Martha Jean was the only person in this world that called me Jack. She loved me…. once upon a time anyways. So tell me. What did she leave?”
I knew what I had said. But I was going back on my word; and I didn’t care. I needed to know more. I needed to know the whole story.
“What do you mean, my grandmother loved you once upon a time? Were ya’ll …. friends?”
“You said you would tell me what she left if I told you who Jack was. You said that.”
I could tell that he was getting angry. But I was too. In some weird way, I was getting mad that I was the only one in the room that didn’t know the whole story. I was feeling betrayed by my grandmother all over again.
“Please… what’s the secret? What happened between you and my grandmother?”
“Life. Life gets in the way sometimes. Hell, I get in the way sometimes.”
His gaze was on the floor now and he never raised his eyes. “I get in my own damn way sometimes. We had alot of plans, Martha Jean and me. We were gonna go out to California, grow some oranges, buy some goats and a little house out in the country, and raise a bunch of babies, eight of them, and just live a quiet simple life. We were gonna ride all over this country and go see random things that no one else cares about, like the world’s biggest ball of yarn. Did you know there’s a huge crater out in Arizona where a meteorite hit the Earth? As soon as I heard about it, I immediately thought of her. We would’ve gone to see it. But life got in the way a long time ago. I made a mess years ago that I never got the chance to clean up.”
“It was a letter. It was THIS letter. She kept it under lock and key in a little safe in the back of her closet with all her important papers. I think this belongs to you.” After seeing this prominent doctor and his image and pride die right before my eyes, I knew I had to give him the letter. Whatever happened between him and my grandmother was deep and private and none of my business. Right now, I didn’t see the upstanding doctor that everyone else in town saw. I didn’t see the young and reckless fellow my Aunt Peggy talked about. I only saw a broken man still clinging to a life interrupted.
I handed the letter I had held on to so desperately for so long and walked out the door without another word. Some how I knew my grandmother wanted it that way. Those two needed a moment to themselves for once. Whatever tore them apart so long ago must’ve been significant; but the love they shared must’ve been even greater because it felt intrusive for me to stay there. Even though she was no longer here physically, I could feel her presence and they needed to be alone.
I sat down on the couch with a glass of wine. I didn’t watch Wheel of Fortune. That was a thing I did with her and I didn’t feel her with me tonight. But that’s okay. I knew where she was. She was with him; and with that thought, I had to smile. She would come back to me when I needed her. This I was sure of.
I never knew the love story between Dr. Aderholt and my grandmother. I never knew what tore them apart. And I never went back to his clinic again. He died a few months after our exchange that afternoon. I noticed his car parked at the cemetery a couple times; and saw him from a distance once at the casino. I guess old habits die hard. But we never spoke again. I didn’t want to pry; and I guess he didn’t want to divulge. It was their story to share and it was only my job to help the finish the last chapter.
After his death, the yellow roses stopped showing up at her gravesite. I took that as a hint, and began to buy a dozen yellow roses each week- 6 for her gravesite; and 6 for his. And during the winter months, I just buy plastic roses and touch them up weekly with a little paint.
DEDICATED TO THE FUNNEST, ODDEST, MOST INNOVATED AND COURAGEST MAN I EVER KNEW…. My pawpaw, Bud Aderholt.
He taught me that life is hard, but a little paint and a good sense of humor can make it all better. He never stopped at a stop sign; thought red lights were only a suggestion; and always had the craziest schemes going. But he drug me right along with him and made me feel like I was his partner in crime- whether it was raising pigs, raising rabbits, frog gigging, picking cotton or just going for a ride. He would yell, “Come on Wee Wee!” and I jumped to my feet cause I knew a groovy adventure was waiting on us.
PS- he did marry my grandmother; and he DID get to go to California and he did get a little house out in the country and raise 8 babies. I tried to imagine what life would have been for him if he had not married her and I just can’t. I guess that means that’s how life was supposed to be….. God only knows that no one else would’ve been able to handle him and his crazy ideas!
“Being on heroin feels like you have crawled into Jesus’ lap and he’s rocking you to sleep.” I was sitting in my apartment with all my friends, talking to a new guy we had just met. He was charming, rich, with interesting stories of growing up in Seattle, Washington and hosting a dinner for John McCain during his campaign. But he was also telling us how he had landed in the Mississippi Delta when his parents sent him to rehab in Hattiesburg in a last-ditch effort to get him as far away from heroin as possible.
Growing up in Belzoni, a small Mississippi town know for its catfish and many stop signs, heroin was completely foreign to me. I had only seen it on ABC after-school specials and had certainly never known anyone to try it. Yet, here was perfectly respectable looking guy, sitting in my living room, frankly telling us about the depth of his addiction and his family’s drastic attempt to rid him of his demons. He attended NA meetings multiple times a week and was so appreciative of his new release on life. Several months later, he totaled my friends car and nearly died after relapsing. The last we heard from him, his father was flying in to take him to another rehab facility far away.
This year has been the year of the Covid pandemic. You can’t turn the television or the radio on without it being mentioned. Heated arguments are ensued daily over the proper precautions to be taken. The pandemic is on everyone’s mines daily. While Covid 19 has definitely left a tragic impact on our world, the real pandemic is still only discussed in hushed tones, and only when triggered by family tragedy. No one wants to acknowledge it; certainly not publicly. And it is killing hundreds of thousands every year.
Opioid addiction is the real pandemic we need to be concerned about. According to CDC Reports, approximately 130 die from opioid overdose DAILY. With the recent nationwide mandatory shut-downs and short supply of medical care for many, over 40 states have seen an increase in its overdose deaths. The problem is being neglected and people from all walks of life and every social status are dying.
While I personally have never had an opioid addiction, I have loved many addicts. These people are not your stereotypical addict. These people are professionals, artists, church-goers, and entrepreneurs. If you were to pass them on the street, you would never know the demon that lies within. You would never know about their daily struggle.
I was fortunate enough to speak with an addict in recovery and an addict in active addiction. And, even though they are on two opposite spectrums of addiction, they both share the same experience and the same outlook and both want the same things- help and compassion. To keep respect their wishes, I will use an alias for their names.
Britney has been clean and sober for over two decades now. At the age of 13, an older cousin’s boyfriend bought her alcohol and her spiral into addiction began immediately. It wasn’t until after several failed marriages and two children later that she reached her rock bottom and decided to seek help. Now she spends her days helping her fellow addicts recover too. For her, it doesn’t matter how they recover (whether they use the old 12-step program or fancy rehabs with goat yoga in Malibu. For Britney, “Rock bottom was being tired of lying and hiding from my parents. I was depressed and tired of the pain I was causing myself and my family. I think if a person is ready, the type of facility doesn’t matter. But with that being said-you can get sober whether it cost $0.00 or $50,000 if you really want to.”
What “Britney” has seen throughout her years of recovery, is that addicts can look like any other person, because addiction can happen to anyone. “No one intends on becoming an addict but once addicted, it is really hard to stop and they will do anything to keep from having the withdrawals. Addiction can happen to anyone. People don’t become addicted on purpose. It starts out as just a little something fun or something “everyone” is doing or peer pressure. But once you become addicted (and you don’t know when that will happen) it is almost impossible to stop without help.”
On the other end of the spectrum is “Jason”, someone I know in active addiction. He may certainly tell you he’s clean on any given day. But, it is a lie. He will be dressed to the nines at all times. He will be clean-shaven without a hair out of place. But, he will swallow a handful of painkillers or shoot heroin in the bathroom throughout the day. He is deep in his addiction, always tethering that fine, often blurred line between functional and opioid abyss. But “Jason” agrees with “Britney”. “Addicts are sick. We don’t need jail. We need help.”
When asked if “Jason” has any regrets for what he has done to support his addiction, he only had one. “Being mean to my family during withdrawals. They were the only people that loved me and I lost them cause I was so mean.” He was not apologetic or regretful for the many lies he told or the money he has stolen from friends and family. He only regrets losing his family to drugs. But he still has his drugs, and he is okay with his life for now.
That is what addiction turns our loved ones into- walking zombies with no real emotions or connections to others. Just like the first heroin addict I met many years ago, an addict begins to equate the love of the high with that of Jesus. In an attempt to seek love and escape and understanding, they find themselves disillusioned with the real world and trapped within the confines of their drug of choice. All the while, we turn away from them, careful not to look them in the eye. To protect ourselves from violence or manipulation or distrust that comes along with loving an addict, we cut them off and throw them to the wolves to fend for themselves.
And we have no other choice in the matter. This is the way things have to be. You don’t want to admit that your loved one is a drug addict; and a drug addict in active addiction will take full advantage of that. As “Britney” said, “the addict is that good with lying and the family is in denial. Addicts will not stop using unless they have consequences that cause them pain. Pain is a great motivator. When the family member takes away their consequences thereby taking away the pain, they won’t stop using.”
At this point, the only thing we can do to really combat the damage opioid addiction has done to our nation, in to first acknowledge it. This should no longer be a dirty little secret kept within the confines of our home. Drug addiction is an issue that needs to be openly discussed with our children, and with each other. Without talking about it and learning about it, any war on drugs we conduct is redundant.
I believe it is safe to say that drug addiction has affected every household in America. Yet, it is still viewed as shameful and dirty for anyone that admits it. Until this issue is addressed openly and honestly and as passionately as Covid-19 has been in recent months, we will continue to see overdoses and broken families. September is Recovery Month. Let’s start it off with openly acknowledging the cries of help from those affected by addiction and seeking recovery.
I’m a big nerd. Everyone knows that. I love to read classic literature, reading and analyzing poetry. I love to see how others put their feelings into words. It’s exciting! Last week, I was sitting on my front porch reading an old Lit 101 book from college (yes, I kept it all these years), studying my favorite poet, Emily Dickinson, and came across something I had never noticed before that is still relevant even in today’s society.
Because she is now considered one of the most renowned American poets today, most people do not realized that no one even knew she wrote when she was alive. It wasn’t until after her death, that her poetry was found on scraps of paper in her room and shared with the world. She had this God-given talent that she evidently treasured and valued enough to write down and keep, yet she never had the nerve to show it to anyone. It was enough for her to just keep in tucked away for her eyes only.
Why would anyone hide such a gift? It could have been because she was notoriously shy and reclusive. Coming from a prominent family, Emily was set up to be a socialite, well-groomed and cultured, with a respectable husband, grooming a picture-perfect family. But she never married, and only had a few significant friendships. She lived most of her life at home, in her own imagination, relishing in the simplest beauties of nature. Her writing was not for show. It was just for pure love of the simple life.
Now enter Robert Frost. Robert Frost is just as known and respected as a literary genius as Emily Dickinson. Throughout his lifetime, Robert Frost worked hard fine-tuning his craft , perfecting each rhythm technique, and reaped a multitude of literary awards before his death. He hosted countless public poetry readings, generated a wide following, he taught at the most prestigious universities, and branded himself as the nation’s poet. He was talented and he shared it with everyone.
Two poets, living in two different times, living two very different lives, with two very different styles, each just as talented as the other. Yet, Robert Frost often criticized Emily Dickinson’s poetry in his classes for her lack of technique and ambiguous rhythms. There was a sense of envy and anger towards Dickinson’s lack of care for society’s expectations of what poetry should look like or sound like. While he admitted that she had a talent, he was aggravated by the way she hid it away and her flippant approach to poetry. It’s almost as if the fact that she only wrote for herself was lost on him.
Robert Frost died a decade before I was ever born. But you can still see this same scenario playing out today. We have the hippie, free-spirits (that may be me) that isn’t worried about making the most money, climbing a corporate ladder, or seeking notoriety. We don’t care about the Instagram followers or the number of likes we get on a selfie. We just want to walk around our backyard, smell the flowers, eat a good meal, drink a glass of wine and be happy within the confines of our home. We are the dreamers of the world that find beauty in the simple things.
Then there are the Roberts of society that have an image in their heads of what success looks like. They get up an hour early and dress to look the part. They push to get into the right schools. They push to join the social groups. They live and breath, never taking their eyes off the goal. And they succeed. They bleed victory, failure is not an option. They are the dreamers of the world that find beauty in glory. And that’s perfectly fine too.
This world needs both an Emily and a Robert. It’s the difference in our rhythms that make the most beautiful music. We can each dance to the beat of our own drum. The dance floor is big enough for everyone. It’s when we shame the other’s approach to happiness that causes a skip in the beat. Until we can appreciate each other’s work and contribution to society, until we learn to see the beauty of the remix when we come together, we will never be able to truly appreciate the song of life.
No matter the approach, we all ultimately have the same goal in life- happiness. If we find happiness on our front porch, or speaking before the masses shouldn’t matter. It’s the gift God has promised us that matters. My children are vastly different. God’s children are vastly different too. It’s the difference that makes this world just a little bit spicier!! Be kind. As Emily Dickinson said, “To make a prairie, it takes a clover and one bee.”
Every afternoon, just like the rest of the living world, I spend an hour or so aimlessly scrolling through all the social media outlets for the latest gossip, funny dance videos and cute kitten pics. But, God, that Man, always has a way of bringing me what I need. No matter how many times that happens, I am always amazed.
So, I had decided that every interesting and inspiring person was connected to the great state of Mississippi in some sort of way. Here I was scrolling through Instagram and an extraordinary painting caught my eye. I click on it and see my God-wink. For those of you that don’t know, a God-wink is when God gives you exactly what you need through what would seem like just a coincidence.
And there she was, my God-wink, Karen P. Cannon, “a Mississippi artist at heart who now lives and works in Delaware.” Her art is so exquisite, so full of character, of course she was within 7 degrees of Mississippi!
Karen grew up in Laurel with 3 sisters, living a picturesque, small-town childhood. They lived life surrounded by their entire family until Karen’s father accepted a new job and new adventure in Maryland as a television station sales manager. Within a couple months, the family was reunited and life began in a new world.
An artist is born, not made. This is evident, when Karen talks about her journey through the art world. “I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t interested in art. I got a set of pastels from my godmother when I was 5 or 6 and I remember feeling like a ‘real’ artist.” Since those first few pastels, Karen’s interest, style and technique have changed and evolved and grown. From her first official oil lessons with local Laurel artist, Jean Carter to whimsical to hyper-realism, Karen has explored all aspects of the art world unabashedly.
You can take the girl out of Mississippi, but you can’t take Mississippi out of the girl. Delaware is over 1000 miles away. There are several nearby beaches, some of America’s most famous cities are just a short drive away, including Philadelphia, Washington DC, and Baltimore. There is always something fascinating to do. But, “I do miss Mississippi. My latest collection is called, ‘Sweet Magnolias’, a direct reference to Mississippi. There is no place like it!”
And she is right. No matter where the road takes us, no matter how far away from home we go, just like the roots of the kudzu, our Mississippi roots take ahold of our hearts. Mississippi is not just a geographical dot on the map of the world. It is a state of being. You can leave, if you want. But you will always stagger back again.
Please, take a moment to relish in our beloved fellow Mississippian’s work. Show her the love that we have come to be known for. You can find her at: karenpcannonart.com, and on Instagram: @karenpcannon, and on Etsy: karenpcannonart.etsy.com.
How I Rebuilt A Life Of Ruin
So, there I was. It was 5am, still dark, but stifling hot. The Mississippi Delta heat is unwaivering. Hoot owls, random insects and random rodents can be heard echoing through the isolated stillness of the Mississippi Delta. Drenched in a mixture of sweat and bug spray, wading through the garden in my water boots, I went back to picking my squash. After moving back to the Delta, I quickly learned that the earlier you got in the garden, the better off you’d be. At this rate, I would have enough for the Farmer’s Market by 10am. If I smiled just right and had enough squash, I could make enough gas money for the week. I was in complete survival mode. I wasn’t thinking. I felt no emotions. I was just going through the motions to get from Point A to Point B, just putting one step in front of the other without any idea of my destination.
Less than a year ago, I was living on the Gulf Coast, working as a corporate manager importing and exporting steel. So, how did I get here? How did I go from making upwards of 50k, living in a coveted neighborhood and living my best life to being homeless, jobless, and carless with 2 kids in tow? It’s a long, twenty year old story.
Twenty years. At that point, I had spent over half my life in such a chaotic, toxic relationship with “D”. We got together right before my 18th birthday. Immediately we were submerged in a deep, intense relationship. I was his only focus. He was my only focus. Every emotion was to the extreme. When we had a good day, he would just repeat, “I love you” over and over again. Nothing else would be spoken. When it was a bad day, it was the worse day. There was never a happy medium. That was my life for 20 years.
Things would happen. Drugs would pop up. I would get mad and take a stand. He would get mad and take a hit. The hit would either be a verbal below-the-belt; a slap across the face, a shove into the wall, or just choking me to silence. I would wind up feeling stupid for trying to take a stand, sometimes weak for being put down, and always mad at myself for just going back to normal as if nothing ever happened.
There would be times when I just wouldn’t waste my time or energy to try to fight. I moved into my own room. I went back to school. I volunteered as Girl Scout Leader. I volunteered as “Dugout Mom”. I started running. I took Zumba classes on Saturday mornings. I even tried out for Roller Derby. I did anything and everything I could to ignore the elephant in the room.
Other times, I would sit on the couch, fuming, waiting for him to come home. I would practice what I was going to say over and over again. I would pump myself up like a fighter heading into the ring. Essentially, I was a fighter heading into the ring. I knew what was going to happen. I knew what the end result would be. But, I couldn’t help myself. I wanted more. I deserved more. I would get so tired of keeping silent. I had to let it out, no matter the consequences. And, just as expected, he would come in the door, drunk, high or both. I would go in on him. He would go in on me. He would pass out in the bedroom. I would wind up on the floor, nursing a black eye, pulling myself together.
I would leave…. often. But there was always a reason to go back. The kids had a school function. I couldn’t leave such a great job. He was going to rehab. I missed him. There was always a reason to go back. Each time I walked back into that door, though, the weight on my shoulders got heavier and heavier. But, I guess that’s how it goes. When you have a cross to bear, the weight gets heavier over time. “D” was my cross to bear. When I went back the third time, I made a conscious decision that he would be my cross. I would have to stick it out til the end. I had made my bed and I would lie in it. Hell, I would die in it if it came to that.
But, as the years passed, I watched the kids grow and develop aspirations. They had dreams. They had goals. My dreams may have be long-dead and gone. But their dreams were just blossoming. I would look at “D” coming in, telling the same lies he had practiced for years and years now. It had gotten to the point that I knew what he was going to do before he even did it. There was no hope for change. There was no hope for me. But there was hope for the kids. You could see it in their eyes. And I knew that if we stayed with “D”, he would kill all those dreams too.
It took months of planning and strategizing. At times, I felt like such a horrible person for deceiving my husband. But I knew there was no other way we would escape. I knew that I had to try to save him one more time before I left; otherwise I would never be able to forgive myself if he were to die. I begged and cried and promised him, swore to him that I would never leave his side if he just went to rehab for 30 days. I looked my husband in the eye, unflinching, and promised him my undying devotion. But in the back of my mind, I knew he would never complete the 30 days stint; and I knew we would never be together again. I had no other choice. He had been my captor for most of my life. I had to stick to the plan to escape; to help my children escape.
It was dramatic. It was emotional. It was raw and scary. But it was real. It was the only way. I no longer cared about being thought of as the “bad guy”. I knew that I could break his heart. I had to break off all ties to him, emotional and physical. I had gotten so tired and beatdown by “D”, my corporate job, and crushed dreams, that I was unfeeling. There were no more real tears. There wasn’t much of a heart left. My only goal was to get the kids out of here and finally choose the kids over the addict.
So, with 2 kids, 1 cat, 1 dog, and a carload of clothes, I came back home. I had no job, no home, no money because I spent my last paycheck to send “D” to rehab. And I had no idea what the hell I was going to do. But I knew this had to happen.
I had to get to this point. I had to get this low. As long as there was an ounce of hope with “D” I would’ve never been able to leave. It had to get to the lowest point ever in order for me to find the strength to leave. So, I just threw my hands up at the universe and began to float.
Where ever the wind blew me, that’s where I went. Whatever opportunity presented itself, I jumped at it. I tried it all. I had to. I had two children to take care of. My dad let us stay with him rent free for the summer; and gave me his garden to tend. Until I found a stable job, whatever money I could earn off his crops, I could keep. Each morning I would wake up before dawn, pick as much as I could, and try to be the first at the Farmer’s Market. Whatever money I earned went towards fuel to get me from job interview to job interview. I would job hunt during the day; and teach fitness classes at night.
And what happened to “D”? Well, after 10 days in rehab, he left and called me, demanding that we come back. We had been evicted from our home. Neither one of us had a job at that point. He was angry and blamed me for “running”. Calmly I just replied, “You didn’t keep your end of the deal. We aren’t coming back.” Of course this made him even angrier. He wouldn’t give us any of the kids’ bedroom furniture. He would call and cuss all three of us like dogs. Then he would call and apologize and cry about how he just wanted his family back; the same old routine he had used for years. He admitted himself in the hospital for undiagnosed stomach pains; another one of his favorite ploys for sympathy and manipulation. I was able to correctly predict every move he was going to make. And each time I did, I grew a little stronger.
It took me three jobs, three written divorce drafts and three years before he finally signed the papers. All of this was at my expense. But he finally did it. I met him on the side of the road, gave him a warm embrace, and handed him the divorce papers and an ink pen. I had 5 other pens in my purse for backup. He looked at me a minute; and I think he finally realized that he had lost the war. He signed the papers; and I’ve never seen him since. He never really wanted to speak to or see the kids. He said they abandoned him too. He never apologized for the years of abuse. He never said “Thank You” for paying for his rehab. He has never acknowledged the 20 years of devotion I gave him. But I guess I never really expected him to do so.
It’s been six years since I packed up and left. Six years of rebuilding a whole new life for us. And, I must say, this life bears absolutely no resemblance to the one we left behind. I have a totally different career. I started dating an old silly friend of mine; and now we are married. We have a rule of no yelling at each other. We are best friends and really like to help each other out. It’s a real partnership. He’s very sensitive and so patient; and pretty perfect.
About twice a year, I get a random email from “D” asking me how things are, promising to send the kids money. But he never does. I never even tell the kids. I learned years ago to not get their hopes up about their father. Since he realized that I finally had him figured out; and that he no longer scares me, “D” has pretty much dropped off the planet. That’s how all bullies are though.
Leaving “D” was the hardest, most exhausting thing I’ve ever done; and I’ve birth two kids! But I can’t even imagine living the way I once did now. Sometimes I get so frustrated with myself for staying as long as I did. Starting over with nothing after 20 years has been the most bitter pill to swallow, but it’s been the most rewarding too. The first half of my life was lived on “D’s” terms. The next half will be solely on mine. He may have my past, but he can’t touch our futures. The dreams he once killed and buried in the back yard are resurrecting stronger and brighter.
On almost any day of the week, my neighbors can hear Fleetwood Mac blaring out the windows while I’m cooking dinner for my family. I love to fill my house with good music and good food. It is unapologetically loud and obnoxious when my favorite lyric of my favorite Fleetwood Mac song is playing, “Been down one time. Been down two times. Never going back again.”
Leaving a life built on a broken foundation is not easy. Rebuilding a new life on a new foundation is not easy. It takes time and patience. It takes sweat and tears. You just have to keep your eye on the goal and slowly build the life you want.
Lessons Learned From The Rainbow 