The writer widely known as William Shakespeare, possibly a pen-name, put these words in the sweet mouth of his character Juliet:
'Tis but thy name that is my enemy;
Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.
What's Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot,
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part
Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!
What's in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet.
I entered Paw Paw Bill in my browser. Some results directed me to postings about opera at the movies in HD, others to personal accounts of hearing loss and cochlear implants, satire from the second U.S. President, whose wit is burried safely in the vaults history, memories of my first week in Cairo brought to mind by this year’s uprisings in Egypt.
I could invite the Paw Paw Bill on Facebook to be my friend, because the user of that name I recognize from his picture is not myself. Might he be interested in John Adams, Placido Domingo, and/or Hosni Mubarak?
A touching testimonial from a grandchild says “My Paw Paw Bill is one of the most incredible men I’ve ever known. He is everything you would imagine a grandfather to be.” This is not from anybody related to me.
The Alabama House of Representatives passed legislation 99-0 standing up for the rights of grandparents, whatever sort of mess the parents of grandchildren can create. The bill protects grandparents' visitation rights with their grandchildren. Democratic Rep. Yusuf Salaam of Selma said the issue was important because often grandparents are the "stabilizing force" in the lives of their grandchildren. Salaam called the legislation the "Paw-Paw bill."
I must have had grand-parents. My daddy was an only child, raised by his step-mother. His father walked with a limp from unknown sources, sometimes a stagger from an origin known all too well. My daddy never touched a drop of alcohol. "That's like your grand-daddy Cotter" was the worse accusation anybody in my family knew.
My mother did not get along with her mother. Grandma Varner visited us once. Her bottom lip was puffed out with Tube Rose Snuff, and I had been warned to be careful and not tip over her dip cup. She cooked chicken and dumplins and an apple pie, the best I can ever remember. I saw a photo of my grand-daddy Varner, when I was about 17. He was about 50 in the photo. Seeing the photo was like looking in a mirror and seeing the future. DNA is more amazing than time-travel.
I think the name Cotter Pen suggests a persona more worldly than Paw Paw Bill. Maybe after I get used to my new blog name, I will do some traveling in real time. It is a big, wide world.
I know the stork brings babies, but I do not know where decisions come from. You just wake up one morning and see something different from the day before.
Showing posts with label Family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Family. Show all posts
Monday, August 1, 2011
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Our Fathers
I was wrong to wait so long to read Cormac McCarthy’s novel THE ROAD, which has been out a couple of years. I have believed that Cormac McCarthy should be the next American winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature, but I had concluded since All the Pretty Horses that like Hemingway after For Whom the Bell Tolls, his best writing was behind him. Also, I am not a big fan of post-apocalyptic sensationalism. I respect Dr Strangelove, A Canticle for Leibowitz, On the Beach, some others well enough, but they are so few and far between.
Heading south down THE ROAD, a father and his young son, seek relief from the desolate cold of their torched and ruined world. Cormac McCarthy goes out of his way to omit exactly which pointless human vanity befell planet earth. Father and son scavenge abandoned houses for canned food, shoes, blankets. They push a grocery cart from out of the mountains to the sea, evading bands of marauding cannibals. They carry a pistol that contains only one last bullet, which the father saves to prevent his son from further suffering when the time comes. When the father’s time comes,
Just take me with you. Please.
I cant.
Please, Papa.
I cant. I cant hold my dead son in my arms. I thought I could but I cant.
You said you wouldn’t ever leave me….
If I’m not here you can still talk to me. You can talk to me and I’ll talk to you. You’ll see.
There are lots of things fathers cannot do for their sons. Nothing they can provide is more enduring and powerful than their genetics and their own example. Often when I am working, concentrating intensely, perhaps even straining with some physical effort, I suddenly become aware of a way of holding my mouth that I recognize immediately from my Daddy, who looked like John Wayne. As a lanky young man, he could have passed for the handsome star of Stagecoach. In the fullness of his life, he looked like The Quiet Man. He grew old at John Wayne’s pace, all the way to the booze-bellied, one-eyed has-been of True Grit. In my mind, John Wayne and my Daddy might as well have been the same person. My Daddy was a Marine Corps veteran of WWII in the Pacific. He was very much the strong, silent type. Still waters run somewhere nobody ever knows. Although he only graduated from the seventh grade, he took great pride in the fact that he could read and write. He enjoyed working the jumble word puzzle in the newspaper. He loved a good joke. He loved a bad joke. He took me to Atlanta Cracker games at Ponce de Leon Ballpark. On hot days and nights, he would say, “They need to turn on the fans.” My love for baseball made me a reader.
One Saturday, my sister and I sat at his bedside in the hospice with Sisters of Mercy scurrying in the halls, as he lay dying. My Daddy, the anti-Papist and past master of the Grant Park Masonic Lodge, had not spoken for days. My sister and I were remembering the women’s softball games on summer nights in Piedmont Park long before the days of Title IX requirements of equal opportunity for women’s athletics. “What was the name of that team that was so good?” my sister tried to recall. After a long silence of neither she nor I being able to come up with the answer, from my Daddy’s pillow came the last words I ever heard him say: “Dixie Darlings.”
Heading south down THE ROAD, a father and his young son, seek relief from the desolate cold of their torched and ruined world. Cormac McCarthy goes out of his way to omit exactly which pointless human vanity befell planet earth. Father and son scavenge abandoned houses for canned food, shoes, blankets. They push a grocery cart from out of the mountains to the sea, evading bands of marauding cannibals. They carry a pistol that contains only one last bullet, which the father saves to prevent his son from further suffering when the time comes. When the father’s time comes,
Just take me with you. Please.
I cant.
Please, Papa.
I cant. I cant hold my dead son in my arms. I thought I could but I cant.
You said you wouldn’t ever leave me….
If I’m not here you can still talk to me. You can talk to me and I’ll talk to you. You’ll see.
There are lots of things fathers cannot do for their sons. Nothing they can provide is more enduring and powerful than their genetics and their own example. Often when I am working, concentrating intensely, perhaps even straining with some physical effort, I suddenly become aware of a way of holding my mouth that I recognize immediately from my Daddy, who looked like John Wayne. As a lanky young man, he could have passed for the handsome star of Stagecoach. In the fullness of his life, he looked like The Quiet Man. He grew old at John Wayne’s pace, all the way to the booze-bellied, one-eyed has-been of True Grit. In my mind, John Wayne and my Daddy might as well have been the same person. My Daddy was a Marine Corps veteran of WWII in the Pacific. He was very much the strong, silent type. Still waters run somewhere nobody ever knows. Although he only graduated from the seventh grade, he took great pride in the fact that he could read and write. He enjoyed working the jumble word puzzle in the newspaper. He loved a good joke. He loved a bad joke. He took me to Atlanta Cracker games at Ponce de Leon Ballpark. On hot days and nights, he would say, “They need to turn on the fans.” My love for baseball made me a reader.
One Saturday, my sister and I sat at his bedside in the hospice with Sisters of Mercy scurrying in the halls, as he lay dying. My Daddy, the anti-Papist and past master of the Grant Park Masonic Lodge, had not spoken for days. My sister and I were remembering the women’s softball games on summer nights in Piedmont Park long before the days of Title IX requirements of equal opportunity for women’s athletics. “What was the name of that team that was so good?” my sister tried to recall. After a long silence of neither she nor I being able to come up with the answer, from my Daddy’s pillow came the last words I ever heard him say: “Dixie Darlings.”
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Drummed In Your Ear
During the Great Depression of the 1930‘s, my Daddy worked for 50 cents a day. He supplemented his income in the pool hall, as a snooker shooter and numbers runner. By the time I was born in Atlanta, we lived in the Capitol Homes on Butler Street, directly across the from the Georgia Legislature and Governor’s office. I thought the Capitol lawn was a park for us neighborhood kids, because we played there and romped on the old cannons. The statue of Eugene Talmadge pointed a threatening finger across the street at the FDR New Deal Housing Project where I lived. My Daddy referred to FDR as “Rosenfeld,“ despite the housing project and the WWII GI Bill, through which Daddy went to trade school and became an air conditioning repairman and a first-time homeowner. My part of Butler Street was replaced by an Interstate Highway and parking decks for state employees. The Capitol still stands, as does the ominous memorial to Gene Talmadge.
In his final years, my Daddy owned a 1,700 square foot brick ranch house in Cornelia, Ga., as far as he could get from the increasing urbanization of Atlanta. That is not exactly how Daddy explained it; he used the N-word. He set aside 144 square feet of the cement floor basement for his workshop. He built a workbench and pegboard walls to hang tools, always cleaned and oiled when he finished using them. Before he died, he insisted that I take home with me the collection of wrenches, pliers, drills, hammers, saws, screw drivers, and air conditioning specialty tools, names and purposes unknown to me. I protested embarrassed, saying he would use them yet again. Eventually, I inherited them all, along with an amount of pride and pleasure in using them.
Some of my cousins, aunts, and uncles on my Daddy’s side tell me President Obama is a Communist. Or a Socialist, depending on whatever floats to the surface at the shallow end of the gene pool between Hatteras and Hattiesburg. They avoid using the word in their hearts and are unaware that all the Communist and Socialist countries have capitulated to capitalism, unable to resist the powerful lure of profit motive. I try not to get into arguments. They do not understand the way you can tell when President Obama is formulating a new policy initiative, because he gives away the store to his opponents, like when he approved off-shore oil drilling as an opening gambit for a new energy and environmental program. And just like he took the Public Option off the table at the beginning of the Health Care debate. Of course, this does not get Obama any support from the not-so Grand Obstructionist Party. When President Obama talks about bipartisanship, he is only talking about himself. The bipartisanship only exists within Obama, both Democrat and Republican, Liberal and Conservative. Classic middle of the road. Somebody at Harvard should have told him if you are standing in the middle of the road you get run over by traffic from both directions? Still, this does not calm the virulent opposition Obama gets, not so much based on anything he has done but just how some people feel, prejudice pure and simple, passed from generation to generation sociologically and geographically, if not genetically.
Oscar Hammerstein II wrote this South Pacific pearl:
You've got to be taught to hate and fear,
You've got to be taught from year to year,
It's got to be drummed in your dear little ear
You've got to be carefully taught.
You've got to be taught to be afraid
Of people whose eyes are oddly made,
And people whose skin is a diff'rent shade,
You've got to be carefully taught.
You've got to be taught before it's too late,
Before you are six or seven or eight,
To hate all the people your relatives hate,
You've got to be carefully taught!
In his final years, my Daddy owned a 1,700 square foot brick ranch house in Cornelia, Ga., as far as he could get from the increasing urbanization of Atlanta. That is not exactly how Daddy explained it; he used the N-word. He set aside 144 square feet of the cement floor basement for his workshop. He built a workbench and pegboard walls to hang tools, always cleaned and oiled when he finished using them. Before he died, he insisted that I take home with me the collection of wrenches, pliers, drills, hammers, saws, screw drivers, and air conditioning specialty tools, names and purposes unknown to me. I protested embarrassed, saying he would use them yet again. Eventually, I inherited them all, along with an amount of pride and pleasure in using them.
Some of my cousins, aunts, and uncles on my Daddy’s side tell me President Obama is a Communist. Or a Socialist, depending on whatever floats to the surface at the shallow end of the gene pool between Hatteras and Hattiesburg. They avoid using the word in their hearts and are unaware that all the Communist and Socialist countries have capitulated to capitalism, unable to resist the powerful lure of profit motive. I try not to get into arguments. They do not understand the way you can tell when President Obama is formulating a new policy initiative, because he gives away the store to his opponents, like when he approved off-shore oil drilling as an opening gambit for a new energy and environmental program. And just like he took the Public Option off the table at the beginning of the Health Care debate. Of course, this does not get Obama any support from the not-so Grand Obstructionist Party. When President Obama talks about bipartisanship, he is only talking about himself. The bipartisanship only exists within Obama, both Democrat and Republican, Liberal and Conservative. Classic middle of the road. Somebody at Harvard should have told him if you are standing in the middle of the road you get run over by traffic from both directions? Still, this does not calm the virulent opposition Obama gets, not so much based on anything he has done but just how some people feel, prejudice pure and simple, passed from generation to generation sociologically and geographically, if not genetically.
Oscar Hammerstein II wrote this South Pacific pearl:
You've got to be taught to hate and fear,
You've got to be taught from year to year,
It's got to be drummed in your dear little ear
You've got to be carefully taught.
You've got to be taught to be afraid
Of people whose eyes are oddly made,
And people whose skin is a diff'rent shade,
You've got to be carefully taught.
You've got to be taught before it's too late,
Before you are six or seven or eight,
To hate all the people your relatives hate,
You've got to be carefully taught!
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Our Fathers
I was wrong to wait so long to read Cormac McCarthy’s novel THE ROAD, which has been out a couple of years. I have believed that Cormac McCarthy should be the next American winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature, but I had concluded since All the Pretty Horses that like Hemingway after For Whom the Bell Tolls, his best writing was behind him. Also, I am not a big fan of post-apocalyptic sensationalism. I respect Dr Strangelove, A Canticle for Leibowitz, On the Beach, some others well enough, but they are so few and far between.
Heading south down THE ROAD, a father and his young son, seek relief from the desolate cold of their torched and ruined world. Cormac McCarthy goes out of his way to omit exactly which pointless human vanity befell planet earth. Father and son scavenge abandoned houses for canned food, shoes, blankets. They push a grocery cart from out of the mountains to the sea, evading bands of marauding cannibals. They carry a pistol that contains only one last bullet, which the father saves to prevent his son from further suffering when the time comes. When the father’s time comes,
Just take me with you. Please.
I cant.
Please, Papa.
I cant. I cant hold my dead son in my arms. I thought I could but I cant.
You said you wouldn’t ever leave me….
If I’m not here you can still talk to me. You can talk to me and I’ll talk to you. You’ll see.
There are lots of things fathers cannot do for their sons. Nothing they can provide is more enduring and powerful than their genetics and their own example. Often when I am working, concentrating intensely, perhaps even straining with some physical effort, I suddenly become aware of a way of holding my mouth that I recognize immediately from my Daddy, who looked like John Wayne. As a lanky young man, he could have passed for the handsome star of Stagecoach. In the fullness of his life, he looked like The Quiet Man. He grew old at John Wayne’s pace, all the way to the booze-bellied, one-eyed has-been of True Grit. In my mind, John Wayne and my Daddy might as well have been the same person. My Daddy was a Marine Corps veteran of WWII in the Pacific. He was very much the strong, silent type. Still waters run somewhere nobody ever knows. Although he only graduated from the seventh grade, he took great pride in the fact that he could read and write. He enjoyed working the jumble word puzzle in the newspaper. He loved a good joke. He loved a bad joke. He took me to Atlanta Cracker games at Ponce de Leon Ballpark. On hot days and nights, he would say, “They need to turn on the fans.” My love for baseball made me a reader.
One Saturday, my sister and I sat at his bedside in the hospice with Sisters of Mercy scurrying in the halls, as he lay dying. My Daddy, the anti-Papist and past master of the Grant Park Masonic Lodge, had not spoken for days. My sister and I were remembering the women’s softball games on summer nights in Piedmont Park long before the days of Title IX requirements of equal opportunity for women’s athletics. “What was the name of that team that was so good?” my sister tried to recall. After a long silence of neither she nor I being able to come up with the answer, from my Daddy’s pillow came the last words I ever heard him say: “Dixie Darlings.”
Heading south down THE ROAD, a father and his young son, seek relief from the desolate cold of their torched and ruined world. Cormac McCarthy goes out of his way to omit exactly which pointless human vanity befell planet earth. Father and son scavenge abandoned houses for canned food, shoes, blankets. They push a grocery cart from out of the mountains to the sea, evading bands of marauding cannibals. They carry a pistol that contains only one last bullet, which the father saves to prevent his son from further suffering when the time comes. When the father’s time comes,
Just take me with you. Please.
I cant.
Please, Papa.
I cant. I cant hold my dead son in my arms. I thought I could but I cant.
You said you wouldn’t ever leave me….
If I’m not here you can still talk to me. You can talk to me and I’ll talk to you. You’ll see.
There are lots of things fathers cannot do for their sons. Nothing they can provide is more enduring and powerful than their genetics and their own example. Often when I am working, concentrating intensely, perhaps even straining with some physical effort, I suddenly become aware of a way of holding my mouth that I recognize immediately from my Daddy, who looked like John Wayne. As a lanky young man, he could have passed for the handsome star of Stagecoach. In the fullness of his life, he looked like The Quiet Man. He grew old at John Wayne’s pace, all the way to the booze-bellied, one-eyed has-been of True Grit. In my mind, John Wayne and my Daddy might as well have been the same person. My Daddy was a Marine Corps veteran of WWII in the Pacific. He was very much the strong, silent type. Still waters run somewhere nobody ever knows. Although he only graduated from the seventh grade, he took great pride in the fact that he could read and write. He enjoyed working the jumble word puzzle in the newspaper. He loved a good joke. He loved a bad joke. He took me to Atlanta Cracker games at Ponce de Leon Ballpark. On hot days and nights, he would say, “They need to turn on the fans.” My love for baseball made me a reader.
One Saturday, my sister and I sat at his bedside in the hospice with Sisters of Mercy scurrying in the halls, as he lay dying. My Daddy, the anti-Papist and past master of the Grant Park Masonic Lodge, had not spoken for days. My sister and I were remembering the women’s softball games on summer nights in Piedmont Park long before the days of Title IX requirements of equal opportunity for women’s athletics. “What was the name of that team that was so good?” my sister tried to recall. After a long silence of neither she nor I being able to come up with the answer, from my Daddy’s pillow came the last words I ever heard him say: “Dixie Darlings.”
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
King of the Road
Craigslist is a great place to buy and sell things on-line. Too bad for the incredible shrinking want ads in The Atlanta Journal-Constitution. I’ve been looking for a small utility trailer. Some asking prices, near retail new, make me wonder if I’m the only one who heard the news about hard times. I found two trailers listed to my liking, so I answered the ad by e-mail.
I would be interested in taking a look at these. I live near Stone Mountain but am in your area several times a week. When would be a good time?
about any time just give me a call.
I would like to try to come by at 10 a.m. Monday. Also please provide an address, with directions, if possible, via US 78 and Hwy 316. I am severely hearing disabled, so I do not use the telephone if I can avoid it.
any day after 3 pm. take 441 toward Madison around 15 miles from loop 10 you will come to a convient store on left just past it there is a old train depot turn left go to stop sign turn right when it forks take your left and look for the trailers on the right.
I never found your place. I want to try again Wednesday I understand current law requires registration of utility trailers. Do you have titles? If not, I think an affidavit that it was "home-made" is acceptable.
i do not have no titles both of them will be homemade trailers.
I am interested in the little green metal one. Since there are no useable tires on this one, could you swap the tires from the other trailer. If you can do this, and I could pick it up and drive off with it one day next week, I can pay $150.
i will put the tires on it but i will need $200.
OK. That's a deal. I can come pick it up on Tuesday after 3 p.m. For filling out Homemade Trailer Affidavit, I will need Your Full Legal Name, day, month, year trailer built, trailer weight empty.
i dont know what year it was built or the weight i got the trailer to pull behind my golf cart and was not planning on putting it on the highway if this is a problem i will understand.
I will just fill out the form with my best guesses, age of the trailer about 12 years, weight 600 lbs. I assume your full name is what’s on your e-mail address. One other thing. I have a 2 inch ball on my hitch. Is that ok, or do I need a different size ball?
That my name and it takes a 2 inch ball.
The seller and his four strapping teenage sons coupled the trailer and hooked the safety chains to my hitch. I drove about 30 miles pleasantly surprised how smoothly the trailer pulled behind my car. I have rented trailers from U-Haul, and sometimes it is hard to know who is hauling who. At the Monroe intersection of US 78 and Hwy 138, a wide cloverleaf like the interstate, a school bus whooshed along side me, and I could feel the wind resistance differential between my car and the bus. Then my car got heavy, and I looked in my rear view mirror. The trailer bounce twice and took off in a direction which was not the same as the one towards which I was driving. The trailer twirled like a Cossack dancer with one leg extended and spun across the wide median and into the two lanes for oncoming traffic, miraculously unpopulated at that moment. Finally the trailer came to rest on the opposite shoulder of the road. I pulled into the median about the time two blue-light specials appeared. The first Georgia State Highway Patrol Officer said he saw everything. “Looked like the wind just picked you up,” he said. Both Officers were absolute heroes. They directed me to a turnaround, re-connected the trailer for me. This time, I added a second safety chain. I thanked the Officers for their help. “You be careful,” they said.
Come the weekend, I purchased a one and 7/8 inch trailer ball, scraped the flat anthills of rust from the trailer, and my grandson Chance helped me paint it for five, maybe ten minutes. First we spray painted our names in the bed of the trailer. To christen it and bring good luck, I told Chance. I do not get many projects he can participate in at age five, but I thought about plastic Coke bottles, a moment on the lips, a lifetime in the landfill of memories.
Copyright 2009 by William C. Cotter
I would be interested in taking a look at these. I live near Stone Mountain but am in your area several times a week. When would be a good time?
about any time just give me a call.
I would like to try to come by at 10 a.m. Monday. Also please provide an address, with directions, if possible, via US 78 and Hwy 316. I am severely hearing disabled, so I do not use the telephone if I can avoid it.
any day after 3 pm. take 441 toward Madison around 15 miles from loop 10 you will come to a convient store on left just past it there is a old train depot turn left go to stop sign turn right when it forks take your left and look for the trailers on the right.
I never found your place. I want to try again Wednesday I understand current law requires registration of utility trailers. Do you have titles? If not, I think an affidavit that it was "home-made" is acceptable.
i do not have no titles both of them will be homemade trailers.
I am interested in the little green metal one. Since there are no useable tires on this one, could you swap the tires from the other trailer. If you can do this, and I could pick it up and drive off with it one day next week, I can pay $150.
i will put the tires on it but i will need $200.
OK. That's a deal. I can come pick it up on Tuesday after 3 p.m. For filling out Homemade Trailer Affidavit, I will need Your Full Legal Name, day, month, year trailer built, trailer weight empty.
i dont know what year it was built or the weight i got the trailer to pull behind my golf cart and was not planning on putting it on the highway if this is a problem i will understand.
I will just fill out the form with my best guesses, age of the trailer about 12 years, weight 600 lbs. I assume your full name is what’s on your e-mail address. One other thing. I have a 2 inch ball on my hitch. Is that ok, or do I need a different size ball?
That my name and it takes a 2 inch ball.
The seller and his four strapping teenage sons coupled the trailer and hooked the safety chains to my hitch. I drove about 30 miles pleasantly surprised how smoothly the trailer pulled behind my car. I have rented trailers from U-Haul, and sometimes it is hard to know who is hauling who. At the Monroe intersection of US 78 and Hwy 138, a wide cloverleaf like the interstate, a school bus whooshed along side me, and I could feel the wind resistance differential between my car and the bus. Then my car got heavy, and I looked in my rear view mirror. The trailer bounce twice and took off in a direction which was not the same as the one towards which I was driving. The trailer twirled like a Cossack dancer with one leg extended and spun across the wide median and into the two lanes for oncoming traffic, miraculously unpopulated at that moment. Finally the trailer came to rest on the opposite shoulder of the road. I pulled into the median about the time two blue-light specials appeared. The first Georgia State Highway Patrol Officer said he saw everything. “Looked like the wind just picked you up,” he said. Both Officers were absolute heroes. They directed me to a turnaround, re-connected the trailer for me. This time, I added a second safety chain. I thanked the Officers for their help. “You be careful,” they said.
Come the weekend, I purchased a one and 7/8 inch trailer ball, scraped the flat anthills of rust from the trailer, and my grandson Chance helped me paint it for five, maybe ten minutes. First we spray painted our names in the bed of the trailer. To christen it and bring good luck, I told Chance. I do not get many projects he can participate in at age five, but I thought about plastic Coke bottles, a moment on the lips, a lifetime in the landfill of memories.
Copyright 2009 by William C. Cotter
Saturday, December 6, 2008
First Line
En route to age 90, my mother, without a second glance at a second-opinion, had journeyed as a faith healer, unlicensed counselor, and mystic, but when she arrived in the nursing home involuntary and incontinent, she converted to x-rated declarations of love for Nurse Mary, announcements ever after known in the family as, “Mother coming out of the closet on her walker.”
I entered this long sentence about my mother in the ZIRDLAND.COM ThatFirstLine Writing Contest. When the judges, whose terrestrial address is Oakton, Va., announced the results, I was a top-ten finalist. I congratulated the writer who won first prize and admitted her First Line was more subtle, with powerful aftershocks. First prize was $500. Second through tenth prize was not.
I sent my First Line to the contest just for the fun of it, although I certainly would have cashed the check. If you can’t stop yourself from writing something, nobody else will, but if you are going to let somebody else read it, pray for thick skin and an unbreakable funny bone. According to the rules of the contest, the First Line could be from an essay, novel, poem, anything. Only First Lines were submitted, so strictly speaking, how would anybody know if there was no second line, just a one-liner joke, or another clever opening line with no where to go. Every word of my First Line entry was, as Huck Finn says, “The truth, mostly.”
My mother lived most of her adult life in Atlanta, Georgia. She had five children, including a set of twins, one of whom died as an infant. I was the only boy and the youngest. After her children were grown, my Mother set out to see the world. She traveled coast-to-coast several times via Greyhound Ameripasses, visiting everywhere from the Grand Canyon, the Grand Tetons, and Grand Rapids. She came to Europe, while I was living in Brussels, and we took her to Paris and Amsterdam. She was, as I pointed out in my First Line entry, a person insatiably interested in religion and spirituality. Throughout my childhood, she was a Christian Science Practitioner but was eventually excommunicated from the church due to insubordination, if not outright heresy. For a while, she studied the teachings of Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh. She wanted me to buy her a ticket to Puna, India, to visit him there. This is probably the only thing my mother ever asked me for that I refused. At that time, I was living in Cairo, Egypt. I believed that my mother would be genuinely shocked and inconvenienced by the absence of automatic washers and dryers in Puna. Even more, I knew in my heart she had no intention of studying at the feet of The Master. She would want to point out to him a place, here and there, where he had not gotten it quite right. The followers of Rajneesh eventually founded a settlement in Antelope, Oregon, accessible by Greyhound. However, by then, my mother had moved on to other things, a fortunate circumstance for her, as the Antelope, Oregon, followers fell very seriously afoul of the U.S. judicial system.
My mother later was involved with a group of free thinkers who mixed health food and mysticism, and their headquarters was in the very part of Maryland where I was then living. They planned a retreat in the serene Maryland woodlands in small cabins for single occupants, several days long of fasting and solitary meditation. I drove her to the remote location and carried her bags inside the cabin for her. One of her bags was accidentally dropped upon entering the cabin, and out spilled dozens of jumbo packs of Snickers Bars, one of her lifelong favorites.
I entered this long sentence about my mother in the ZIRDLAND.COM ThatFirstLine Writing Contest. When the judges, whose terrestrial address is Oakton, Va., announced the results, I was a top-ten finalist. I congratulated the writer who won first prize and admitted her First Line was more subtle, with powerful aftershocks. First prize was $500. Second through tenth prize was not.
I sent my First Line to the contest just for the fun of it, although I certainly would have cashed the check. If you can’t stop yourself from writing something, nobody else will, but if you are going to let somebody else read it, pray for thick skin and an unbreakable funny bone. According to the rules of the contest, the First Line could be from an essay, novel, poem, anything. Only First Lines were submitted, so strictly speaking, how would anybody know if there was no second line, just a one-liner joke, or another clever opening line with no where to go. Every word of my First Line entry was, as Huck Finn says, “The truth, mostly.”
My mother lived most of her adult life in Atlanta, Georgia. She had five children, including a set of twins, one of whom died as an infant. I was the only boy and the youngest. After her children were grown, my Mother set out to see the world. She traveled coast-to-coast several times via Greyhound Ameripasses, visiting everywhere from the Grand Canyon, the Grand Tetons, and Grand Rapids. She came to Europe, while I was living in Brussels, and we took her to Paris and Amsterdam. She was, as I pointed out in my First Line entry, a person insatiably interested in religion and spirituality. Throughout my childhood, she was a Christian Science Practitioner but was eventually excommunicated from the church due to insubordination, if not outright heresy. For a while, she studied the teachings of Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh. She wanted me to buy her a ticket to Puna, India, to visit him there. This is probably the only thing my mother ever asked me for that I refused. At that time, I was living in Cairo, Egypt. I believed that my mother would be genuinely shocked and inconvenienced by the absence of automatic washers and dryers in Puna. Even more, I knew in my heart she had no intention of studying at the feet of The Master. She would want to point out to him a place, here and there, where he had not gotten it quite right. The followers of Rajneesh eventually founded a settlement in Antelope, Oregon, accessible by Greyhound. However, by then, my mother had moved on to other things, a fortunate circumstance for her, as the Antelope, Oregon, followers fell very seriously afoul of the U.S. judicial system.
My mother later was involved with a group of free thinkers who mixed health food and mysticism, and their headquarters was in the very part of Maryland where I was then living. They planned a retreat in the serene Maryland woodlands in small cabins for single occupants, several days long of fasting and solitary meditation. I drove her to the remote location and carried her bags inside the cabin for her. One of her bags was accidentally dropped upon entering the cabin, and out spilled dozens of jumbo packs of Snickers Bars, one of her lifelong favorites.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Your Father's Oldsmobile
I support Barack Obama to be the next President. Maybe you’ve noticed. I receive occasional e-mails from people who think they can either pick a fight or bring me to my senses. One recent example is entitled “Obama First Family Photos,” obviously circulated to contrast with the white in White House. The photos are from Kenya, Barack Obama’s grinning grandmother, a half-brother, a local politician, and some village schoolgirls. Not included in these “First Family Photos” is Senator Obama’s wife Michelle, Yale Law School graduate, whose beauty and elegance bring to mind Jacqueline Kennedy. No photos of his adorable daughters.
I looked up the source of these e-mail photos, poking my head in the foul-breath jaws of right-wing blogging. One site is a purveyor of potions for new hair growth, UFO sightings, anti-Zionist rants, and theories that high frequency radio signals bouncing back from the ionosphere cause earthquakes in China. Another blog, with its Superwoman logo, genuflects to Ayn Rand, brags about John Bolton, Dick Morris, and Ann Coulter in its fan club, and believes that after dragon-slaying Reaganism crushed the Communist Conspiracy, we have only the Muslim Menace to fear above fear itself. Undaunted by the subtleties and complexities of American politics or geopolitical interactions, these e-mails purport to enlighten us about the nation of Kenya with quotes from a South African source, although Kenya can still be found on the map in East Africa. Of grave concern is the Odinga family, which has dominated Kenyan politics longer than Bushes and Clintons in American politics. The current generation of Odingas is under house arrest after disputed elections. One of the Odingas, claims to be a cousin of Illinois Sen. Obama, according to the South Africans.
Forty-five years ago, I interviewed patriarch Oginga Odinga, who was the Kenya Minister of Home Affairs. I waited at my appointment, while Minister Odinga failed to arrive. The Kenyan was the guest of state Sen. Leroy Johnson of Atlanta. Sen. Johnson appeared instead and asked could I please go to a different Peachtree Street hotel. There also, Odinga did not show. For anybody but Sen. Johnson, I would have called it off, but he was my best contact among elected officials. At yet another hotel, Oginga Odinga made his entrance, wearing brightly colored African robes and carrying a riding crop that had once been a tail. Oginga Odinga was unhappy. Me, too. Sen. Johnson took me aside, told me all the other hotels had refused to register the Odinga party, asked me not to mention that in The Atlanta Journal. Oginga Odinga became Vice President of Kenya. Ogden Nash immortalized him:
Oginga Odinga. Oginga Odinga.
In Kenya’s black pie, he is Mao’s red finga.
I do not think Ogden Nash knew anything about Kenyan politics either.
Mike Barnicle recently told the story on MSNBC of his father adding a photograph of John Kennedy to the family photos in his Irish Catholic home. I believe this. I’ve been in many of those homes. "Why include Kennedy with the family photographs?" young Barnicle asked. His father said, “He’s one of us.” Mike Barnicle is a member of the Irish Catholic triple-team with Chris Matthews and Pat Buchannan on MSNBC. Don’t get me wrong. Some of my best friends are Irish Catholics. Scarlett O’Hara was an Irish Catholic. I love Irish Catholics. I love having a beer with them. I love their blarney. I love having another beer with them. Great story, Barnicle, but that was your father’s Oldsmobile.
The pictures beginning this blog post are from my family photos. They are of my grandson and my sister’s grandson playing together at a holiday gathering at my house in Pine Lake, Georgia. In this century, the 21st Century, in multi-ethnic, multi-cultural America, in my America the beautiful, Barack Obama is one of us.
Copyright 2008 by William C. Cotter
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Born March 23, 1964
Remembering John Hall
Happy Birthday, dear John. Happy Birthday, dear John.
Happy Birthday, dear charging for the precipice at Normandie.
Happy Birthday, dear motorbiking over the Maadi manhole covers.
Happy Birthday, dear picking me up off the floor when I was choking
on my food and jerking the breath back into me.
Happy Birthday, dear deer hunter and American frontiersman reincarnate.
Happy Birthday, dear bringer of Shannon Hall into this world.
Happy Birthday, dear son and brother and father and enricher of life.
Happy Birthday to you.
--Bill
YOU'RE
SO DUMB
YOUR HAIR HURTS
my brother
is perched
at the brink of
a
fluffy
white cloud--
here,
he wears a white sheet
wrapped around
like a cloak
like a choir-robe
like to cover old sofas
he’s surrounded by friends—
they wear white sheets, also
boys who died
far too young—
boys who rushed from great cliffs
boys who dropped from tall trees
boys accordion-ing motorbikes
bright lime green--
against blank white walls
boys who DIED
from the
ex-hiliration
from the speed, heights and impact
up above me, now
laughing
lifting up his robed arms,
he proclaims
YOU’RE SO DUMB
THAT YOUR HAIR
HURTS
just
like
he
always
did
a small
yellow - haired thing
very small in this grass
YOU’RE SO DUMB
( i'm so wordless )
oh, my brother
we all had so much
sadness
now we’re all just
so happy
but my hair, it still hurts me
all
of the time
--Heidi
Happy Birthday, dear John. Happy Birthday, dear John.
Happy Birthday, dear charging for the precipice at Normandie.
Happy Birthday, dear motorbiking over the Maadi manhole covers.
Happy Birthday, dear picking me up off the floor when I was choking
on my food and jerking the breath back into me.
Happy Birthday, dear deer hunter and American frontiersman reincarnate.
Happy Birthday, dear bringer of Shannon Hall into this world.
Happy Birthday, dear son and brother and father and enricher of life.
Happy Birthday to you.
--Bill
YOU'RE
SO DUMB
YOUR HAIR HURTS
my brother
is perched
at the brink of
a
fluffy
white cloud--
here,
he wears a white sheet
wrapped around
like a cloak
like a choir-robe
like to cover old sofas
he’s surrounded by friends—
they wear white sheets, also
boys who died
far too young—
boys who rushed from great cliffs
boys who dropped from tall trees
boys accordion-ing motorbikes
bright lime green--
against blank white walls
boys who DIED
from the
ex-hiliration
from the speed, heights and impact
up above me, now
laughing
lifting up his robed arms,
he proclaims
YOU’RE SO DUMB
THAT YOUR HAIR
HURTS
just
like
he
always
did
a small
yellow - haired thing
very small in this grass
YOU’RE SO DUMB
( i'm so wordless )
oh, my brother
we all had so much
sadness
now we’re all just
so happy
but my hair, it still hurts me
all
of the time
--Heidi
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Aunt LaMerle
When My sister Ouida died at Christmastime, she left written instructions to notify our aunts LaMerle and Ruth, the only surviving siblings out of seven for our mother.
Dear Aunt LaMerle: We saw the news about the tornado in Prattville and were concerned. I am glad to hear it was not any closer to you. I am sending you two articles from my internet website. One is about my sister Ouida. The other is about your sister Adelaide.
Dear Nephew: I enjoyed both articles. Your mom may have been born in Prattville. I'm not sure. My sisters Esther and Evelyn were born in Coosa County. The rest of us were born in Elmore County. Mama, who was born in Eufaula and reared in Prattville, did not get back to Prattville until I was ten years old. At that time Ouida was five. When I was eleven, your mom and dad, Adelaide and W.C. moved to Atlanta. I will never forget the morning Mama and I walked across the River Bridge to see Ouida, her first grandchild and my first niece! Mama was eighteen years older than Adelaide, and Adelaide was eighteen years older than I. Fortunately, Ouida enjoyed playing with me, and so I was never jealous of her. Adelaide took care of me when I was born, so I loved her like she was my mother. She and W.C. were dating when I was born, so I also loved him like a brother. Adelaide told me lies about W.C. and my other sisters. I could not believe such things about him, so I asked them. They said not so. When Adelaide and W.C. divorced, we continued to love him as our family; after all we were the only sisters and brothers he had. I have only been using my computer one month. Up front I can tell you are liberal, and I am very conservative. You don’t try to shock me, and I won’t try to change you! Deal? You have two aunts left, Ruth, who has dementia very bad, and me, who has it only slightly.
Dear Aunt LaMerle: I would never try to shock you on purpose, even if I am a liberal. I do, however, try to tell the truth, which can sometimes be shocking.
My blog about my mother, your sister, was absolutely the truth, with only selected emphasis, for entertainment value. You may be right that Mother was born in the county rather than in Prattville. My birth certificate names Prattville as her place of birth, but that does not make it correct, only official. Mother told lies about Daddy to everyone I know of. Daddy was no saint, as I can testify as an eye-witness. He was, however, my Daddy, and I do have good and special memories of him. I know for a fact that he thought of all the Varner brothers and sisters as his family and that he liked and respected your husband Max Milton greatly. Please e-mail me anytime you feel like it. I would love to hear from you, whatever is on your mind, news of your children and grand children, memories of growing up with your brothers and sisters, each one special to me.
Dear Nephew: One time I went to Evelyn’s while Max was in Korea. She came to Prattville on the bus. She drove us to Fla. in my little Henry J. I had Kathy who was two and Mike who was 6 months. At that time I only drove in Prattville. After a
month I got homesick. I called Adelaide and told her. She and W.C. talked it
over, and they decided it would be better if he came so he could drive. Not only did they want me to be satisfied, but they were taking care of Max's family while he was at war. We have six grand-daughters five great-grandsons and two great-granddaughters. They call me G.G. The two older boys are adopted Hispanic. They are showered with love as much as the blood ones.
Dear Aunt LaMerle: I absolutely remember your Henry J, as well as your visit to us while Uncle Max was in the Korean War. Where does the name G.G. come from? You probably noticed that I write my blog under the name of Paw Paw Bill. That is what my four-year old grandson Chance calls me. Blood is not thicker than love. Maybe I am not the only liberal in the family.
Dear Nephew: G.G. stands for great-grandmother. As I mentioned, I was not much of a driver. Prattville was very small. When I would come to Atlanta, your Mom would want me to drive her to church. After letting her out, I would travel across Atlanta with fear and trembling. She didn't understand that one needed to know a little in advance which way one would be turning. Nor did I ever train her to tell me until it was almost too late. She would say, "You turn up here." I would ask her, "Right or left?" She would fling which ever arm was appropriate. One Friday afternoon she decided she needed to go to the 10 Prior St. Building to get W. C.'s check. She, Martha, Kathy and I loaded up and took off. Mind you I had never even driven in Montgomery. We got downtown a little before five. Adelaide said, "No need to park. Just go around the block." To this day I have not seen the 10 Prior St. Building again. I was in rush hour traffic, in the middle lane, scared to death. I went about twelve miles out of town, where I could turn around. I would ask your sister Martha if she recognized anything. Of course not-- she rode the streetcar everywhere she went. Finally I saw the capitol and worked my way to it. The last time I came to Atlanta, your mother wanted me to take her to the farmer’s market out by the airport. Martha and Ouida said they refused to take her anywhere, unless they knew the way.
Dear Aunt LaMerle:
My Mother never did learn to drive a car, though she loved to give directions.
Copyright 2008 by William C. Cotter
Dear Aunt LaMerle: We saw the news about the tornado in Prattville and were concerned. I am glad to hear it was not any closer to you. I am sending you two articles from my internet website. One is about my sister Ouida. The other is about your sister Adelaide.
Dear Nephew: I enjoyed both articles. Your mom may have been born in Prattville. I'm not sure. My sisters Esther and Evelyn were born in Coosa County. The rest of us were born in Elmore County. Mama, who was born in Eufaula and reared in Prattville, did not get back to Prattville until I was ten years old. At that time Ouida was five. When I was eleven, your mom and dad, Adelaide and W.C. moved to Atlanta. I will never forget the morning Mama and I walked across the River Bridge to see Ouida, her first grandchild and my first niece! Mama was eighteen years older than Adelaide, and Adelaide was eighteen years older than I. Fortunately, Ouida enjoyed playing with me, and so I was never jealous of her. Adelaide took care of me when I was born, so I loved her like she was my mother. She and W.C. were dating when I was born, so I also loved him like a brother. Adelaide told me lies about W.C. and my other sisters. I could not believe such things about him, so I asked them. They said not so. When Adelaide and W.C. divorced, we continued to love him as our family; after all we were the only sisters and brothers he had. I have only been using my computer one month. Up front I can tell you are liberal, and I am very conservative. You don’t try to shock me, and I won’t try to change you! Deal? You have two aunts left, Ruth, who has dementia very bad, and me, who has it only slightly.
Dear Aunt LaMerle: I would never try to shock you on purpose, even if I am a liberal. I do, however, try to tell the truth, which can sometimes be shocking.
My blog about my mother, your sister, was absolutely the truth, with only selected emphasis, for entertainment value. You may be right that Mother was born in the county rather than in Prattville. My birth certificate names Prattville as her place of birth, but that does not make it correct, only official. Mother told lies about Daddy to everyone I know of. Daddy was no saint, as I can testify as an eye-witness. He was, however, my Daddy, and I do have good and special memories of him. I know for a fact that he thought of all the Varner brothers and sisters as his family and that he liked and respected your husband Max Milton greatly. Please e-mail me anytime you feel like it. I would love to hear from you, whatever is on your mind, news of your children and grand children, memories of growing up with your brothers and sisters, each one special to me.
Dear Nephew: One time I went to Evelyn’s while Max was in Korea. She came to Prattville on the bus. She drove us to Fla. in my little Henry J. I had Kathy who was two and Mike who was 6 months. At that time I only drove in Prattville. After a
month I got homesick. I called Adelaide and told her. She and W.C. talked it
over, and they decided it would be better if he came so he could drive. Not only did they want me to be satisfied, but they were taking care of Max's family while he was at war. We have six grand-daughters five great-grandsons and two great-granddaughters. They call me G.G. The two older boys are adopted Hispanic. They are showered with love as much as the blood ones.
Dear Aunt LaMerle: I absolutely remember your Henry J, as well as your visit to us while Uncle Max was in the Korean War. Where does the name G.G. come from? You probably noticed that I write my blog under the name of Paw Paw Bill. That is what my four-year old grandson Chance calls me. Blood is not thicker than love. Maybe I am not the only liberal in the family.
Dear Nephew: G.G. stands for great-grandmother. As I mentioned, I was not much of a driver. Prattville was very small. When I would come to Atlanta, your Mom would want me to drive her to church. After letting her out, I would travel across Atlanta with fear and trembling. She didn't understand that one needed to know a little in advance which way one would be turning. Nor did I ever train her to tell me until it was almost too late. She would say, "You turn up here." I would ask her, "Right or left?" She would fling which ever arm was appropriate. One Friday afternoon she decided she needed to go to the 10 Prior St. Building to get W. C.'s check. She, Martha, Kathy and I loaded up and took off. Mind you I had never even driven in Montgomery. We got downtown a little before five. Adelaide said, "No need to park. Just go around the block." To this day I have not seen the 10 Prior St. Building again. I was in rush hour traffic, in the middle lane, scared to death. I went about twelve miles out of town, where I could turn around. I would ask your sister Martha if she recognized anything. Of course not-- she rode the streetcar everywhere she went. Finally I saw the capitol and worked my way to it. The last time I came to Atlanta, your mother wanted me to take her to the farmer’s market out by the airport. Martha and Ouida said they refused to take her anywhere, unless they knew the way.
Dear Aunt LaMerle:
My Mother never did learn to drive a car, though she loved to give directions.
Copyright 2008 by William C. Cotter
Friday, February 15, 2008
Love in Bloom
Paw Paw Bill to some is Uncle Bill to others. Among reminders received on Valentine’s Day of the power of love was this one from Marcia, whose mother, my sister, died at Christmas time.
Dear Sweet Little Sister and Uncle,
A few months ago Mother had an azalea plant on her patio. Jack had brought it to her from his grocery store and she kept it outside so she could enjoy its blooming yet not be disturbed by any pollen from it. The plant wasn't doing very well because she and Jack had not watered it much and had not pulled off the dried leaves and spent blooms. Mother told me to take the plant home to see if I could save it.
I put the small plant in front of the window in my office where it got plenty of sun and I watered it frequently and kept it free of dead leaves and old blooms. It bloomed like crazy with a plethora of pink and white blooms - turns out it was actually two small plants, one with pink flowers and one with white flowers. I've continued to water it and baby it as a reminder of Mother.
When I watered it this morning the plant yielded a surprise - there were two white buds on one of the branches. Those two buds have opened into flowers just in the past few hours.
I know this scenario sounds hokey and I wouldn't believe it myself if the flowers weren't right in front of me. Happy Valentine's Day.
Love and hugs,
Marcia
Copyright 2008 by William C. Cotter
Dear Sweet Little Sister and Uncle,
A few months ago Mother had an azalea plant on her patio. Jack had brought it to her from his grocery store and she kept it outside so she could enjoy its blooming yet not be disturbed by any pollen from it. The plant wasn't doing very well because she and Jack had not watered it much and had not pulled off the dried leaves and spent blooms. Mother told me to take the plant home to see if I could save it.
I put the small plant in front of the window in my office where it got plenty of sun and I watered it frequently and kept it free of dead leaves and old blooms. It bloomed like crazy with a plethora of pink and white blooms - turns out it was actually two small plants, one with pink flowers and one with white flowers. I've continued to water it and baby it as a reminder of Mother.
When I watered it this morning the plant yielded a surprise - there were two white buds on one of the branches. Those two buds have opened into flowers just in the past few hours.
I know this scenario sounds hokey and I wouldn't believe it myself if the flowers weren't right in front of me. Happy Valentine's Day.
Love and hugs,
Marcia
Copyright 2008 by William C. Cotter
Friday, December 28, 2007
Sister Oui
My sister Ouida died at Christmastime. She was 73. She had been in an Atlanta area hospital for weeks, and a surgical procedure failed to rid her body of pain and poison.
The funeral home asked me, “Was she married?”
“Several times,” I told them.
“Divorced?”
“Several times.”
The first time Ouida married, she was 16 and ran away from home. She quit high school. It is a great advantage in life to have a big sister who can show you things not to do. Ouida was always a grown person to me. In my earliest memories, she is already a teenager. I did not know sister from shinola; she was one of my mommies. She was born Ouida Faye, a beautiful Southern double-name. My Daddy was the only one who called her Ouida Faye all his days; he did not abandon Southernisms lightly. “Ouida” is pronounced like the French “oui.” All of her little nieces and nephews, as they came along, called her “Aunt We.” Ouida had two beloved daughters, as well as grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
Ouida was among those of us who smoked more than one pack of cigarettes a day for many too many years. She became a lung-cancer survivor. During her recent hospitalization, I talked to her about how I had been prepared in my mind several years ago for her death. But she was a tough old bird. I said to her, “At this point, I believe you may live to be 90, like Mother.”
Ouida said, “I’m sure as hell gonna try.”
For a while, it looked like Ouida would once again be discharged from the hospital and sent home. I observed one of her physical therapy sessions, a not very successful effort to stand her up from her hospital bed. “She’s lazy,” the doctor declared to me. Ouida died less than two weeks later. Madame Physician, first, do no harm. Bitch.
Ouida and I talked about plans for her to move to Florida to be near her daughters. She liked to talk about the future. She liked for me to hold her hand and rub her arm. I read her the blog I wrote about our eccentric mother. Ouida laughed till the tears rolled down her face. In her final few days, we communicated less well, between my deafness and her struggle to say anything at all. The last thing she said to me, and not for the first time, was, “I love you.” Not, “I’m in pain.” Not, “my life is over.” Not, “It’s time for me to lay this burden down.” But, “I love you.” The sweet taste of those words on her tongue and that thought in her mind and that feeling in her heart.
Copyright 2007 by William C. Cotter
The funeral home asked me, “Was she married?”
“Several times,” I told them.
“Divorced?”
“Several times.”
The first time Ouida married, she was 16 and ran away from home. She quit high school. It is a great advantage in life to have a big sister who can show you things not to do. Ouida was always a grown person to me. In my earliest memories, she is already a teenager. I did not know sister from shinola; she was one of my mommies. She was born Ouida Faye, a beautiful Southern double-name. My Daddy was the only one who called her Ouida Faye all his days; he did not abandon Southernisms lightly. “Ouida” is pronounced like the French “oui.” All of her little nieces and nephews, as they came along, called her “Aunt We.” Ouida had two beloved daughters, as well as grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
Ouida was among those of us who smoked more than one pack of cigarettes a day for many too many years. She became a lung-cancer survivor. During her recent hospitalization, I talked to her about how I had been prepared in my mind several years ago for her death. But she was a tough old bird. I said to her, “At this point, I believe you may live to be 90, like Mother.”
Ouida said, “I’m sure as hell gonna try.”
For a while, it looked like Ouida would once again be discharged from the hospital and sent home. I observed one of her physical therapy sessions, a not very successful effort to stand her up from her hospital bed. “She’s lazy,” the doctor declared to me. Ouida died less than two weeks later. Madame Physician, first, do no harm. Bitch.
Ouida and I talked about plans for her to move to Florida to be near her daughters. She liked to talk about the future. She liked for me to hold her hand and rub her arm. I read her the blog I wrote about our eccentric mother. Ouida laughed till the tears rolled down her face. In her final few days, we communicated less well, between my deafness and her struggle to say anything at all. The last thing she said to me, and not for the first time, was, “I love you.” Not, “I’m in pain.” Not, “my life is over.” Not, “It’s time for me to lay this burden down.” But, “I love you.” The sweet taste of those words on her tongue and that thought in her mind and that feeling in her heart.
Copyright 2007 by William C. Cotter
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Pick the "Wildwood Flower"
My wife and I just came back from a family reunion at Magnolia Springs. It wasn’t even our family but that of the mommy of our grandson Chance, who is the one who calls me “Paw Paw Bill.” All families are alike in many ways and maybe family reunions too. My wife and I were warmly welcomed and had a great time with multiple generations of mammas and daddies, children, sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, cousins, girlfriends, boyfriends, in-laws, five dogs, and a pet lizard.
Everyone feasted on home-made vegetable soup, charcoal grilled hot-dogs, truly super-sized hamburgers, chopped barbeque, deviled eggs, baked beans, potato salad, southern slaw, pickles, sliced tomatoes and onions, fresh fruit, and a variety of cookies and cakes, including the one my wife made, sculpted and decorated in the image of Sponge Bob Square Pants for four year old Chance.
Magnolia Springs State Park is located in Millen, Ga., not far from Waynesboro and Augusta. From Atlanta, you might stop on your way at the Laurel and Hardy Museum in Harlem, Ga., where Oliver Hardy was born. The signs at Magnolia Springs State Park inform visitors about the fish, turtles, alligators, and cotton-mouth water moccasins. We saw plenty of all of them except the snakes, but I will take the Georgia Department of Natural Resources’ word for it.
After supper, we sat on the screened front porch of one of the park’s bargain priced but roomy and comfortable cabins till way after dark. Chance’s mommy and her sister and brother sang, while the brother played the guitar. Others joined in the singing, as they recognized songs that they knew the words to. “Amazing Grace.” “How Great Thou Art.” “Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay.” “Wildwood Flower.” Paw Paw George, who is unable to sit up for long, lay across the porch swing, stretched out on pillows. He sang along often and with delight. When the brother picked the “Wildwood Flower,” my wife was the only one who sang. Paw Paw George said of the Carter Family classic and popular guitar solo, “I didn’t know there were words to that.” He asked her to sing it again. Three times.
I think my wife and I were the only ones there who were not Republicans, just like our own families. Nobody cared. That’s one of the things about families. Another thing about families is who’s there by their conspicuous absence. Naturally, somebody’s died. Maybe somebody else has just fallen off the deep end somewhere.
But the mammas are still looking after the babies. Young men, good men, are helping their aging daddies up and down the stairs and in and out of cars and taking the little boys and girls fishing. And grandmas are fixing special cakes for their sweetie pie peanut boy’s four-year-old birthday.
(Originally posted 9-12-07)
Copyright 2007 by William C. Cotter
Everyone feasted on home-made vegetable soup, charcoal grilled hot-dogs, truly super-sized hamburgers, chopped barbeque, deviled eggs, baked beans, potato salad, southern slaw, pickles, sliced tomatoes and onions, fresh fruit, and a variety of cookies and cakes, including the one my wife made, sculpted and decorated in the image of Sponge Bob Square Pants for four year old Chance.
Magnolia Springs State Park is located in Millen, Ga., not far from Waynesboro and Augusta. From Atlanta, you might stop on your way at the Laurel and Hardy Museum in Harlem, Ga., where Oliver Hardy was born. The signs at Magnolia Springs State Park inform visitors about the fish, turtles, alligators, and cotton-mouth water moccasins. We saw plenty of all of them except the snakes, but I will take the Georgia Department of Natural Resources’ word for it.
After supper, we sat on the screened front porch of one of the park’s bargain priced but roomy and comfortable cabins till way after dark. Chance’s mommy and her sister and brother sang, while the brother played the guitar. Others joined in the singing, as they recognized songs that they knew the words to. “Amazing Grace.” “How Great Thou Art.” “Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay.” “Wildwood Flower.” Paw Paw George, who is unable to sit up for long, lay across the porch swing, stretched out on pillows. He sang along often and with delight. When the brother picked the “Wildwood Flower,” my wife was the only one who sang. Paw Paw George said of the Carter Family classic and popular guitar solo, “I didn’t know there were words to that.” He asked her to sing it again. Three times.
I think my wife and I were the only ones there who were not Republicans, just like our own families. Nobody cared. That’s one of the things about families. Another thing about families is who’s there by their conspicuous absence. Naturally, somebody’s died. Maybe somebody else has just fallen off the deep end somewhere.
But the mammas are still looking after the babies. Young men, good men, are helping their aging daddies up and down the stairs and in and out of cars and taking the little boys and girls fishing. And grandmas are fixing special cakes for their sweetie pie peanut boy’s four-year-old birthday.
(Originally posted 9-12-07)
Copyright 2007 by William C. Cotter
Monday, August 27, 2007
I Hear Woodie Guthrie Singing
Woody Guthrie, the legendary Oakie Folkie, wrote, “This Land Is Your Land, This Land is My Land. From California, to the New York Island.” In a different song, he also wrote, “Some will rob you with a six-gun, and some with a fountain pen.”
An article from a Mobile, Alabama, newspaper reports that a lawyer down there has been found guilty in a malpractice suit for his handling of a will and estate, and the judgment against him was $1.2 million. It always makes my heart rejoice when I learn about some fountain pen stick up man who gets knocked down for a ten count.
When my Daddy died, I was told his Last Will and Testament appointed his lawyer as Executor of the estate. I could barely recognize my Daddy’s signature on the will, but he was already dying in the care of the nuns at the hospice when he signed it. The will was witnessed by the signatures of the lawyer’s wife and her cousin.
I did not even realize my Daddy had an estate. He had an extensive collection of tools, which he had maintained carefully over the years. Before he got sick enough to take to his bed, he insisted that I go through the tools and take whatever I wanted. It was an impressive and full collection, including many tools especially designed for the repair of air conditioning equipment, which was his trade. I won’t say that I did not covet the tools. However, picking over them as he stood watch made me very uncomfortable. I could remember as a child being unable to resist reaching for one of his tools and his saying sternly, “Boy, now don’t touch that.”
After the funeral, it began to come to my attention that my Daddy’s estate actually amounted to something. He owned a house in Cornelia, Ga., and held the mortgage note on another, between Ansley Park and Morningside in Atlanta. The house he lived in was filled with furniture passed down enough generations to qualify as true antiques. He had a car with two rows of back seats, paid for and still new, as well as a boat with the best outboard engine made. There were also a two life insurance policies, a savings account, and some certificates of deposit.
When my Daddy first took sick, one of my sisters stayed with him for a while. Daddy’s health went rapidly downhill after the death of his wife, my stepmother. My sister prepared my stepmother’s clothes to send to the Salvation Army, and after she began to find money, folding money, including $100 bills, tucked away in the pockets of jackets and in purses, she searched through everything carefully. My Daddy and his wife were survivors of The Great Depression of the 1930’s, and they hoarded things and stashed stuff in hiding places.
Before his death, Daddy had explicitly instructed me to take responsibility for his bank safety deposit box. He admonished me about my sisters, “You do right by the girls.” The day after his funeral, I phoned the lawyer to schedule a trip to the bank to clean out the safety deposit box. “Oh, I’ve already taken care of that,” the lawyer informed me. “There wasn’t nothing in it but some insurance papers and property deeds.” Some days later we had the reading of the will, and the lawyer presented me documents to sign releasing him from bond and waiving any claim whatsoever against him for any liability ever conceived by mankind.
I heard Woody Guthrie singing.
Copyright 2007 by William C. Cotter
An article from a Mobile, Alabama, newspaper reports that a lawyer down there has been found guilty in a malpractice suit for his handling of a will and estate, and the judgment against him was $1.2 million. It always makes my heart rejoice when I learn about some fountain pen stick up man who gets knocked down for a ten count.
When my Daddy died, I was told his Last Will and Testament appointed his lawyer as Executor of the estate. I could barely recognize my Daddy’s signature on the will, but he was already dying in the care of the nuns at the hospice when he signed it. The will was witnessed by the signatures of the lawyer’s wife and her cousin.
I did not even realize my Daddy had an estate. He had an extensive collection of tools, which he had maintained carefully over the years. Before he got sick enough to take to his bed, he insisted that I go through the tools and take whatever I wanted. It was an impressive and full collection, including many tools especially designed for the repair of air conditioning equipment, which was his trade. I won’t say that I did not covet the tools. However, picking over them as he stood watch made me very uncomfortable. I could remember as a child being unable to resist reaching for one of his tools and his saying sternly, “Boy, now don’t touch that.”
After the funeral, it began to come to my attention that my Daddy’s estate actually amounted to something. He owned a house in Cornelia, Ga., and held the mortgage note on another, between Ansley Park and Morningside in Atlanta. The house he lived in was filled with furniture passed down enough generations to qualify as true antiques. He had a car with two rows of back seats, paid for and still new, as well as a boat with the best outboard engine made. There were also a two life insurance policies, a savings account, and some certificates of deposit.
When my Daddy first took sick, one of my sisters stayed with him for a while. Daddy’s health went rapidly downhill after the death of his wife, my stepmother. My sister prepared my stepmother’s clothes to send to the Salvation Army, and after she began to find money, folding money, including $100 bills, tucked away in the pockets of jackets and in purses, she searched through everything carefully. My Daddy and his wife were survivors of The Great Depression of the 1930’s, and they hoarded things and stashed stuff in hiding places.
Before his death, Daddy had explicitly instructed me to take responsibility for his bank safety deposit box. He admonished me about my sisters, “You do right by the girls.” The day after his funeral, I phoned the lawyer to schedule a trip to the bank to clean out the safety deposit box. “Oh, I’ve already taken care of that,” the lawyer informed me. “There wasn’t nothing in it but some insurance papers and property deeds.” Some days later we had the reading of the will, and the lawyer presented me documents to sign releasing him from bond and waiving any claim whatsoever against him for any liability ever conceived by mankind.
I heard Woody Guthrie singing.
Copyright 2007 by William C. Cotter
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