A nine year old never expects to have an ongoing relationship with evil. When I was nine, if I heard the word evil, I usually thought of Star Wars villains, or Iranian terrorists holding Americans hostage. A nine year old never expects their fourth grade teacher to be on the same level as Darth Vader. Well, in retrospect she was more Jabba than Vader.
My teacher was a woman by the name of Mrs. Boyd. She was just over five feet tall, with an ass just about as wide. Her eyes were the size of bull testicles, and her hands resembled dry, cracked old pork chops. She moved her hips with the grace of a Dodge pick-up, and consumed Baby-Ruth candy bars in massive quantities like they were her last meal on death row. Charming.
Mama and Daddy felt that a private school would be the answer to my academic troubles, and that's how I found myself in Mrs. Boyd's graces. I was a good student, but supposedly demanded too much attention of my classmates and teachers, and the school district wasn't capable of handling such a child. Who knew that one nine year old could polarize an entire school district? Well done. Kudos me.
My new school was called Virginia Christian Academy. It was located just outside of D.C., and I suppose that you could define it as an academy, but Christian? No. Unless of course if by Christian you mean praying to Jesus before eating a hot, grey lunch prepared by an angry German woman who smelled like rubbing alcohol, then "yes" Christian would apply.
As we pulled into the gravel drive heading up the hill towards the school, I sat up in my seat to get a look at my future alma mater. Given how Mama and Daddy spoke of the place, I was expecting something collegiate with pillars and landscaped lawns. A place where I would find Tootie, Blair, and Joe from The Facts of Life. In reality, the academy was a series of three sickly, green trailers that served as classrooms, a cafeteria, and a daycare facility.
The landscape (loose term) included two dying elm trees, and patches of weeds that managed to work their way through the gravel. It was ugly on a scale that I had never experienced. I was my Mama's son after all, and in my family "ugly" was not a term we associated ourselves with on a regular basis. This was a place so revolting, and so obviously miserable, that the only conclusion I could draw was that my parents were sending me to a form of day school prison. A place of cruelty, torture, and ugly people. Was Berthalee in attendance?
Despite my horror I dared to ask, "This is it? I have to go to school here?"
Daddy promptly told me to "shut up", and threw out some pseudo-psychological bullshit about how I should "never judge a book by its cover", and then tossed in a "you should be grateful" , followed by, "Boy, you better get yo' head outta yo' ass." What nine year old wouldn't find such eloquent words so inspirational?
Mrs. Boyd greeted me, and I made every attempt not to stare. At the time, I had no idea you could get polyester to stretch like that, or that human eyes could resemble that of amphibians. Would she be able to move freely about the classroom without causing injury to herself, or others? Would she lick her own eyeballs? I was horrified, but I had to know.
If the point was to provide me with more of a one-on-one education, my parent's logic was lost on me. I was sharing the classroom with fifteen first graders, three second graders, one third grader, another fourth grader, and a fifth grader. There would be no time for my star to shine in this desolate, filthy, musty, dusty old mobile home. Why not just send me to school in the Black Hole of Calcutta? Eee Gads!
All students were supervised by Mrs. Boyd, and her teaching assistant, Diana. Diana who held more resentment, and contempt, in her anorexic six foot frame than Fred Phelps at a gay pride parade. She defined bitter, and given that she hated anyone she came in contact with, I was drawn to her. This would be an occupational hazard for most Southerners as we are compelled to charm anyone we come into contact with. Rejection is never an option. It is simply an aphrodisiac.
To Be Continued...
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Glass Eyes & Home Fries (Part Two)
Until fate forced us together in the form of heat and flames, I was able to avoid Berthalee for the better part of her visit. I remember that it was a gorgeous summer day. I also remember Goo-Mama, and Mama were in the kitchen bickering over the many uses of grease. (Southern women think of grease the way architects think of brick...so many possibilities.) Daddy was out on the deck, barbecuing, and I was out on the driveway choreographing my own routine to Xanadu. Just another Saturday afternoon. Typical. Normal. Glamorous.
After some tense dialogue concerning whether or not Berthalee should be permitted solid food so late in the day, we all took our seats outside and began enjoying our hamburgers, iceberg lettuce drowned in thousand island dressing, and home fries.
The conversation was the same as it had been all week. Goo-Mama bitching about my Daddy's drinking. Goo-Mama bitching about my Mama's smoking, and Goo-Mama bitching my fascination with Olivia Newton-John. At the time I didn't understand her concern. I only wore the legwarmers inside.
Goo-Mama was a difficult woman. She had a strict set of codes to live by, and she didn't believe in the existence of cocker spaniels. This would have been hard to do given that Mama had been so fond of them as a child, but with Goo-Mama unable to reconcile her canine belief system, it meant that those spaniels were in constant danger, and before 1954 a total of six cocker spaniels met their death under the tires of Goo-Mama's Cadillac.
According to Goo-Mama, "Oh, we never had any cocker spaniels in our house. Those were miniature golden retrievers! Besides, it wasn't my fault they died. They were too small, too slow, and too soft."
Feeling as if I had read this book one too many times; I excused myself, and went back in the house. Upon pulling back the sliding glass door I was hit by a wall of heat and noxious fumes, then something above caught my eye. It was the ceiling. At least I thought I was looking at the ceiling.
"Why is the ceiling moving?" I thought. Then, the electrochemical process in my brain slowly kicked in, and I realized that I was looking at billowing smoke, and not some fantastic comic book creation. I believe my reaction would have been more of a knee-jerk; however, when your mother smokes during pregnancy, and deep fries everything from Cheerios to green beans, brain development slows to a crawl, and then you find yourself in a room filled with smoke, and an I.Q. below 100, incapable of doing nothing other than pissing yourself. So attractive.
My eyes quickly followed the smoke to its source - the kitchen. It was being swallowed by flames being belched from the stove top. The pot of grease used to fry up our home fries had ignited, and was making quick work of devouring our kitchen.
When I look back on this particular moment, I like to think that I calmly turned, looked over my shoulder at my parents, and said (in an English accent) "Mummy...Daddy...the kitchen seems to be aflame. Shall I call the fire brigade, or shall I simply fetch the extinguisher?" Unfortunately, the reality was quite different.
Lost in a swirl of fumes and cinders I spun about (looking nothing like a gypsy - thank you Stevie Nicks) and began to scream like a white girl at a beauty pageant, but with a bit more vivacity.
"THE HOUSE IS ON FIRE! THE HOUSE IS ON FIRE! I DON'T WANNA DIE! I'M TOO PRETTY TO DIE!"
Yes, I was a cub scout (for a month), and yes fire preparedness was repeatedly discussed in school, but there was no time to stop, drop and roll. There was only time for an Oscar winning moment. I was pathetic on a grand scale, and I proudly owned it.
At the moment I thought I was going to pass out, I felt a huge hand grab me by the nape of my neck. It was Daddy. He took hold, and tossed me back out onto the deck. Through burning, watery eyes I saw Mama and Goo-Mama blur past me, following Daddy into the conflagration.
For a moment I was relieved to be outside, until my vision cleared long enough to see Berthalee lunge at me from her wheelchair. Her wrinkly, decaying man-hands went for my face. I dodged, and we both fell to the deck with me breaking her fall. As the wind was blown from her shriveled little lungs, her dentures flew from her mouth landing with a soggy slap on my face. I screamed. She drooled. I was later told that she simply wanted to console me. To hold me. To reassure me that everything would be alright, but at the time I thought she was out to eat my brains, cut out my tongue, or gouge out my eyes. How was I to know? She was the most frightening thing I had seen since Marty Feldman in Young Frankenstein.
Still screaming, I wrenched my way out from under Berthalee, and ran inside leaving her on the floor of the deck to search for her dentures. As I came into the house, I made a break for the front door, and ran outside. I found Mama on the front lawn with the water hose - spraying herself down amongst her precious marigolds. It looked like a bad spread I had seen in one of my Daddy's Penthouse magazines. The water soaking her denim jump suit, the sticky matted mess that was once her finely coiffed Final Net hair-do, and Mama coughing as she sprayed water up her nose. A delicious Polaroid moment to be savored, but there was no time. Mama had to save her wallpaper.
Without a word to me, she picked up the slack in the hose, and ran back into the house screaming, "The wallpaper's gonna catch! The wallpaper's gonna catch!" Pity she didn't realize what the consequences would be if she were to spray that hose on a grease fire. Sparkly.
Fortunately, Daddy already had his hands on the belching pot of flames. Regrettably, in a state of desperation, he threw open the door in the kitchen that led into the garage, and sent the the blazing pot sliding underneath our 1976 Gold Mercury Grand Marquis. An automobile possessing a 24.5 gallon fuel tank. The military veteran had just turned flaming lard into a bomb that had the capacity to blow up half the neighborhood block. I guess the fried green beans got to him as well.
Reacting like a man possessed by a jungle cat (Daddy's own words), my father dashed into the garage, heaved open the car door, and started the engine. Throwing it into reverse, he shot it out onto the driveway, without so much as igniting a spark. Was Jesus involved? Nah. He would have been more concerned with Berthalee squirming, toothless on the deck timbers. He's good like that.
The fire trucks soon arrived, along with the entire neighborhood and the local news. This is when I realized that nothing sells to a large audience like a personal disaster. I was basking in the afterglow of the drama. The fire trucks providing ambiance, the smoke softening the glow of the camera's spotlight. I pouted my lips and let loose a flood of tears. I was Meryl Streep. I was Faye Dunaway. I was mentally ill.
It would later be revealed that the arsonist was Goo-Mama. It seems she had ignited the home fries when in her effort to turn off the stove, she had blasted the gas burners to high. This fact was never to be revealed to her. Supposedly, she would be crippled by guilt, and we couldn't have that. I never understood this. I play with matches and get a slap to the face. My grandmother torches our kitchen, and she gets three nights in a four star hotel. There is no justice. Only old people.
Berthalee died soon after that. I wasn't shocked when she died; I was just disturbed that the family never realized that she had been dead all along. Her funeral, her birthday...it was all the same for Berthalee.
Life returned to our version of normal within a few weeks. Mama was thrilled with the new wallpaper in the kitchen, Daddy's eyebrows grew back, and I was able to wear my legwarmers inside AND outside. Typical. Normal. Glamorous.
After some tense dialogue concerning whether or not Berthalee should be permitted solid food so late in the day, we all took our seats outside and began enjoying our hamburgers, iceberg lettuce drowned in thousand island dressing, and home fries.
The conversation was the same as it had been all week. Goo-Mama bitching about my Daddy's drinking. Goo-Mama bitching about my Mama's smoking, and Goo-Mama bitching my fascination with Olivia Newton-John. At the time I didn't understand her concern. I only wore the legwarmers inside.
Goo-Mama was a difficult woman. She had a strict set of codes to live by, and she didn't believe in the existence of cocker spaniels. This would have been hard to do given that Mama had been so fond of them as a child, but with Goo-Mama unable to reconcile her canine belief system, it meant that those spaniels were in constant danger, and before 1954 a total of six cocker spaniels met their death under the tires of Goo-Mama's Cadillac.
According to Goo-Mama, "Oh, we never had any cocker spaniels in our house. Those were miniature golden retrievers! Besides, it wasn't my fault they died. They were too small, too slow, and too soft."
Feeling as if I had read this book one too many times; I excused myself, and went back in the house. Upon pulling back the sliding glass door I was hit by a wall of heat and noxious fumes, then something above caught my eye. It was the ceiling. At least I thought I was looking at the ceiling.
"Why is the ceiling moving?" I thought. Then, the electrochemical process in my brain slowly kicked in, and I realized that I was looking at billowing smoke, and not some fantastic comic book creation. I believe my reaction would have been more of a knee-jerk; however, when your mother smokes during pregnancy, and deep fries everything from Cheerios to green beans, brain development slows to a crawl, and then you find yourself in a room filled with smoke, and an I.Q. below 100, incapable of doing nothing other than pissing yourself. So attractive.
My eyes quickly followed the smoke to its source - the kitchen. It was being swallowed by flames being belched from the stove top. The pot of grease used to fry up our home fries had ignited, and was making quick work of devouring our kitchen.
When I look back on this particular moment, I like to think that I calmly turned, looked over my shoulder at my parents, and said (in an English accent) "Mummy...Daddy...the kitchen seems to be aflame. Shall I call the fire brigade, or shall I simply fetch the extinguisher?" Unfortunately, the reality was quite different.
Lost in a swirl of fumes and cinders I spun about (looking nothing like a gypsy - thank you Stevie Nicks) and began to scream like a white girl at a beauty pageant, but with a bit more vivacity.
"THE HOUSE IS ON FIRE! THE HOUSE IS ON FIRE! I DON'T WANNA DIE! I'M TOO PRETTY TO DIE!"
Yes, I was a cub scout (for a month), and yes fire preparedness was repeatedly discussed in school, but there was no time to stop, drop and roll. There was only time for an Oscar winning moment. I was pathetic on a grand scale, and I proudly owned it.
At the moment I thought I was going to pass out, I felt a huge hand grab me by the nape of my neck. It was Daddy. He took hold, and tossed me back out onto the deck. Through burning, watery eyes I saw Mama and Goo-Mama blur past me, following Daddy into the conflagration.
For a moment I was relieved to be outside, until my vision cleared long enough to see Berthalee lunge at me from her wheelchair. Her wrinkly, decaying man-hands went for my face. I dodged, and we both fell to the deck with me breaking her fall. As the wind was blown from her shriveled little lungs, her dentures flew from her mouth landing with a soggy slap on my face. I screamed. She drooled. I was later told that she simply wanted to console me. To hold me. To reassure me that everything would be alright, but at the time I thought she was out to eat my brains, cut out my tongue, or gouge out my eyes. How was I to know? She was the most frightening thing I had seen since Marty Feldman in Young Frankenstein.
Still screaming, I wrenched my way out from under Berthalee, and ran inside leaving her on the floor of the deck to search for her dentures. As I came into the house, I made a break for the front door, and ran outside. I found Mama on the front lawn with the water hose - spraying herself down amongst her precious marigolds. It looked like a bad spread I had seen in one of my Daddy's Penthouse magazines. The water soaking her denim jump suit, the sticky matted mess that was once her finely coiffed Final Net hair-do, and Mama coughing as she sprayed water up her nose. A delicious Polaroid moment to be savored, but there was no time. Mama had to save her wallpaper.
Without a word to me, she picked up the slack in the hose, and ran back into the house screaming, "The wallpaper's gonna catch! The wallpaper's gonna catch!" Pity she didn't realize what the consequences would be if she were to spray that hose on a grease fire. Sparkly.
Fortunately, Daddy already had his hands on the belching pot of flames. Regrettably, in a state of desperation, he threw open the door in the kitchen that led into the garage, and sent the the blazing pot sliding underneath our 1976 Gold Mercury Grand Marquis. An automobile possessing a 24.5 gallon fuel tank. The military veteran had just turned flaming lard into a bomb that had the capacity to blow up half the neighborhood block. I guess the fried green beans got to him as well.
Reacting like a man possessed by a jungle cat (Daddy's own words), my father dashed into the garage, heaved open the car door, and started the engine. Throwing it into reverse, he shot it out onto the driveway, without so much as igniting a spark. Was Jesus involved? Nah. He would have been more concerned with Berthalee squirming, toothless on the deck timbers. He's good like that.
The fire trucks soon arrived, along with the entire neighborhood and the local news. This is when I realized that nothing sells to a large audience like a personal disaster. I was basking in the afterglow of the drama. The fire trucks providing ambiance, the smoke softening the glow of the camera's spotlight. I pouted my lips and let loose a flood of tears. I was Meryl Streep. I was Faye Dunaway. I was mentally ill.
It would later be revealed that the arsonist was Goo-Mama. It seems she had ignited the home fries when in her effort to turn off the stove, she had blasted the gas burners to high. This fact was never to be revealed to her. Supposedly, she would be crippled by guilt, and we couldn't have that. I never understood this. I play with matches and get a slap to the face. My grandmother torches our kitchen, and she gets three nights in a four star hotel. There is no justice. Only old people.
Berthalee died soon after that. I wasn't shocked when she died; I was just disturbed that the family never realized that she had been dead all along. Her funeral, her birthday...it was all the same for Berthalee.
Life returned to our version of normal within a few weeks. Mama was thrilled with the new wallpaper in the kitchen, Daddy's eyebrows grew back, and I was able to wear my legwarmers inside AND outside. Typical. Normal. Glamorous.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Glass Eyes & Home Fries (Part One)
Taken individually my family members are endearing, loyal and supportive; however, group them together for a period longer than two hours and their I.Q's drop significantly, alcohol use increases dramatically, and Mama takes center stage. Like the Easter of '82 when Daddy threatened to have Mama arrested, and committed to a drug and alcohol rehab center when during the Sunday service she dressed the communion wafers with aerosol cheese. Now, this shouldn't be confused with the Christmas of '84 when Daddy threatened to have Mama arrested, and committed to a drug and alcohol rehab center after she was found in the kitchen reading The Night Before Christmas to a Honey Baked Ham. Good times.
Obviously, there seems to be a correlation between Jesus, and Mama's bouts with muscle relaxants, but I just can't determine what it is exactly. Some family members have proposed that Mama just couldn't handle that all the attention was focused on the Holy Ghost, and not her. I believe that Papaw Buck said it best, "Lord, that woman would eat a live possum, while wrestlin' a gator, if she thought it would keep the floodlights on her." Mama wasn't always the star. She had to compete with other relatives who were either just as pathologically pathetic, or simply horrifying in their own special way.
A few weeks ago, while I was enjoying a tasty, environmentally-friendly, vegan, gluten-dairy-free summertime feast prepared by some fine, upstanding transgendered lesbians; someone mentioned home fries, and I immediately suffered a flashback to The Fire of '81. Flashbacks are not unusual for me. Especially, when I'm forced to eat large amounts of bean paste.
It was early June, I was barely ten years old, and we were eagerly anticipating the arrival of my Grandmother (Auroralee), and her sister (my great aunt) Berthalee. This visit would mark Berthalee's first visit north of the Mason Dixon Line, and it would be the first time I had the opportunity to share her company.
Our family had just moved to a small town, just outside of Washington D.C., called Dumfries. Mama had fallen madly in love with a two-story colonial that she had taken exhaustive steps to decorate to her liking.
For years, my brother Hubert (we call him Buddie) had been telling me horrible stories about Berthalee. The most frightening of which was the time during the Great Depression when Berthalee had cut out and eaten her own tongue so that she wouldn't go cannibal on her own kin. Granted, this sounds ridiculous, but after the stories I heard about Berthalee's fascination with hunting for roadkill...I bought it.
"Well, uh...um...I don't wanna meet her. She sounds kinda gross, and how does she talk?" I asked my brother.
"She doesn't." he snapped. I cried.
My brother has always loved the element of surprise, so he made sure to leave out a few minor details. This was his way of insuring that I would fully enjoy my time with Berthalee. So thoughtful. So kind.
Berthalee arrived and I was mildly horrified, and a bit nauseous at the sight of her. She arrived in a wheelchair wearing a brown wig that was more spirited and full of life than she was, and smelling like spoiled milk with a hint of moldy bread. I just stood there. Staring at her. She could've been staring back, but given that she had a glass eye that floated about like a dead fish...who could tell? Noticing that I was frozen in place, Mama hastily instructed me to greet Great Aunt Berthalee with a warm embrace.
"Go ahead, now...give Aunt Berthalee some love." she said with a smile. She then leaned in and hissed, "I know she smells funny, but just do it." Seeing that I had nowhere to run (and a right hook would only be inappropriate) I held my breath, leaned in, and gave Berthalee a few gentle pats on the back. She then started to grunt and click her dentures. Supposedly she was expressing how happy she was to see me. I took it as a sign of hostility, screamed, and ran to my room. My parents would later explain that I was a disturbed child suffering from a mild case of Tourette's Syndrome brought on by a head injury.
**C'mon back for part two next Thursday!**
Obviously, there seems to be a correlation between Jesus, and Mama's bouts with muscle relaxants, but I just can't determine what it is exactly. Some family members have proposed that Mama just couldn't handle that all the attention was focused on the Holy Ghost, and not her. I believe that Papaw Buck said it best, "Lord, that woman would eat a live possum, while wrestlin' a gator, if she thought it would keep the floodlights on her." Mama wasn't always the star. She had to compete with other relatives who were either just as pathologically pathetic, or simply horrifying in their own special way.
A few weeks ago, while I was enjoying a tasty, environmentally-friendly, vegan, gluten-dairy-free summertime feast prepared by some fine, upstanding transgendered lesbians; someone mentioned home fries, and I immediately suffered a flashback to The Fire of '81. Flashbacks are not unusual for me. Especially, when I'm forced to eat large amounts of bean paste.
It was early June, I was barely ten years old, and we were eagerly anticipating the arrival of my Grandmother (Auroralee), and her sister (my great aunt) Berthalee. This visit would mark Berthalee's first visit north of the Mason Dixon Line, and it would be the first time I had the opportunity to share her company.
Our family had just moved to a small town, just outside of Washington D.C., called Dumfries. Mama had fallen madly in love with a two-story colonial that she had taken exhaustive steps to decorate to her liking.
Family members were only permitted in certain rooms, and forbidden to touch the walls because of the highly overpriced, gold embossed, floral print wallpaper that was spread throughout most of the home like designer kudzu. Mama was going for Baroque and what she got was Trailer Fabulous. Whenever our Shih-Tzus would go in the dining room they would take a shit and eat it. That's how good it was...it was Shih-Tzu-Shit-Eatin'- Good. Now, who wouldn't want to see that on HGTV?
For years, my brother Hubert (we call him Buddie) had been telling me horrible stories about Berthalee. The most frightening of which was the time during the Great Depression when Berthalee had cut out and eaten her own tongue so that she wouldn't go cannibal on her own kin. Granted, this sounds ridiculous, but after the stories I heard about Berthalee's fascination with hunting for roadkill...I bought it.
"Well, uh...um...I don't wanna meet her. She sounds kinda gross, and how does she talk?" I asked my brother.
"She doesn't." he snapped. I cried.
My brother has always loved the element of surprise, so he made sure to leave out a few minor details. This was his way of insuring that I would fully enjoy my time with Berthalee. So thoughtful. So kind.
Berthalee arrived and I was mildly horrified, and a bit nauseous at the sight of her. She arrived in a wheelchair wearing a brown wig that was more spirited and full of life than she was, and smelling like spoiled milk with a hint of moldy bread. I just stood there. Staring at her. She could've been staring back, but given that she had a glass eye that floated about like a dead fish...who could tell? Noticing that I was frozen in place, Mama hastily instructed me to greet Great Aunt Berthalee with a warm embrace.
"Go ahead, now...give Aunt Berthalee some love." she said with a smile. She then leaned in and hissed, "I know she smells funny, but just do it." Seeing that I had nowhere to run (and a right hook would only be inappropriate) I held my breath, leaned in, and gave Berthalee a few gentle pats on the back. She then started to grunt and click her dentures. Supposedly she was expressing how happy she was to see me. I took it as a sign of hostility, screamed, and ran to my room. My parents would later explain that I was a disturbed child suffering from a mild case of Tourette's Syndrome brought on by a head injury.
**C'mon back for part two next Thursday!**
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Runnin' Around & Weddin' Nonsense
My Mama defines a Southern woman as: "Someone who is strong, yet fragile. A well-mannered, soft-spoken female who is the epitome of femininity. A woman who understands the importance of wearing hats and gloves, and the importance of carrying a handbag no larger than her head. A woman who knows that the only thing worse than bein' tacky is bein' called tacky."
That definition was tossed out like moldy cornbread in early 1987, or as we refer to it...the Weddin' of '87. My sister, Big Sissy, was marrying her then second husband, Benji. A man who had a passion for Kraft Mac-N-Cheese, banjos, and porn.
My sister didn't ask for much for her second special day. She just wanted a small, intimate ceremony free of drugs. Not an extravagant request by any means, but when Mama's poppin' her pills you might as well be asking for Jesus to officiate the ceremony.
Mama suffers from many ailments, but at this point in our family's time line, she was mainly coping with the slipped disc, and migraine headaches. The slipped disc she received because of a fall in the garage after a hard night of binge drinking and bucket chicken, and the migraines because she seems to be in a constant state of withdrawal. Apparently modern medicine hasn't developed a drug with a half-life that can keep up with Mama.
I knew the union between Big Sissy and Benji was doomed the night of the rehearsal dinner when Benji broke out his banjo, and began playing tunelessly with great effort. He would bite his lower lip while making his chubby, fish stick fingers stumble over the chords. Then close his eyes and shake his blonde, curly little head during (what he thought) were magical musical moments. He looked like a masturbating Labradoodle. Everyone hated him. That is, except for the bride. Seems she has a soft spot for stupid men who are into pickin' and grinnin'.
Big Sissy held her frustration as long as she could, and as we followed her into the wedding chapel, she began screaming at capacity. She was a tornado of colorful phrases and exclamations. It was amazing to watch as this tiny, 5'2", 90 pound woman emitted vulgarities I thought were only reserved for the military, prison yards, and Sam Kinison.
During the commotion of vulgarities, and spousal abuse (which shocked none of the guests as they had attended other family events), I noticed that Mama had disappeared, much like she did whenever she would take us to the mall. We came to believe it was her intention to lose us, and begin a new life as a New Orleans lounge singer. A pursuit I encourage to this day. Unfortunately I did find her. She was in the main sanctuary, smoking.
That definition was tossed out like moldy cornbread in early 1987, or as we refer to it...the Weddin' of '87. My sister, Big Sissy, was marrying her then second husband, Benji. A man who had a passion for Kraft Mac-N-Cheese, banjos, and porn.
My sister didn't ask for much for her second special day. She just wanted a small, intimate ceremony free of drugs. Not an extravagant request by any means, but when Mama's poppin' her pills you might as well be asking for Jesus to officiate the ceremony.
Mama suffers from many ailments, but at this point in our family's time line, she was mainly coping with the slipped disc, and migraine headaches. The slipped disc she received because of a fall in the garage after a hard night of binge drinking and bucket chicken, and the migraines because she seems to be in a constant state of withdrawal. Apparently modern medicine hasn't developed a drug with a half-life that can keep up with Mama.
I knew the union between Big Sissy and Benji was doomed the night of the rehearsal dinner when Benji broke out his banjo, and began playing tunelessly with great effort. He would bite his lower lip while making his chubby, fish stick fingers stumble over the chords. Then close his eyes and shake his blonde, curly little head during (what he thought) were magical musical moments. He looked like a masturbating Labradoodle. Everyone hated him. That is, except for the bride. Seems she has a soft spot for stupid men who are into pickin' and grinnin'.
Mama made it through the evening without slurring her words, breaking something, or hitting on men that she thought were my Daddy. These were all good signs that tomorrow (the wedding day) just might be an event without event.
By that morning, any exuberance about the wedding quickly evaporated. Mama had conveniently developed a nasty migraine, and managed to take more than the prescribed recommended dose of her medication. She always managed to take more than the prescribed recommended dose.
Story goes that she couldn't handle the stress of the wedding, and the stress lead to a migraine. I was forced to remind her that she was not the one getting married, my sister was, and if anyone was suffering it was Big Sissy. All you had to do was look at the groom to know that she was doomed to a life of hell. If anyone needed a sedative, it was her.
Not able to waste any more time, my sister felt it best to leave her own home and finish getting ready at the church. I pleaded with her to stay. The more the better whenever managing Mama, but Big Sissy could not be stopped.
As she gathered her ten foot train of meringue Big Sissy said, "God's house is nothin' but a big livin' room with a toilet and a mirror anyway, so who gives a shit."
It now fell to me, and Daddy, to get Mama ready for the wedding. We spent the next two hours, cloistered, trying to pull Mama's hose up over her knees.
With what time remained, I attempted to apply just the right amount of Clinique make-up; however, Mama couldn't keep her head still. It was as if the sheer weight of hot rollers, bobby pins, and Final Net were too much for her to take, and suddenly she had no spine. It was gone. Poof! My Mama was now a sea sponge. A horrible experience to be sure, but only horrible if you had never seen it before. This was my world, so how would I know any different?
By the time I was finished with Mama's make-up she looked like a spider monkey had taken a grease stick to her face. She was either going to a wedding, or a covert ops mission to the Congo. She didn't care. She had her cigarettes.
I hastily removed her hot rollers, and she demanded that I leave the hair styling to her. I stood back and watched as she drooled, and teased, drooled, and teased. By the time she finished she was two feet taller than when she started, and a foot wider on either side. She attempted to stand up, but stumbled. I couldn't be sure if it was the drugs, or the hair, that was the cause for the lack in her equilibrium, but it didn't matter. We had to get to the church on time.
We left the house with Benji, his banjo, and Mama. Daddy drove, Benji took the passenger seat, and I sat next to Mama in the back. Mama insisted that she lay down as that was the only way the car would accommodate her hair. Amazingly, she was able to smoke, drink a Coke, and consume a box of Butterfinger miniatures all with her head in my lap, and all before arriving at the church.
Upon arrival my sister greeted us at the car. She was there to make sure Mama was decent. I could tell what she was thinking. She knew, as we all knew, that while this was technically her day; the best thing that could happen, at this point, would be to make it through the ceremony without having to take Mama out back and pistol whippin' her ass. A common solution in the South when a friend, or family member, is in need of some assistance when attempting to regain their composure.
Mama slowly emerged from the back seat. Her hair plastered to the left side of her face with little bits of Butterfinger sprinkled throughout. She slowly removed a tissue from her purse, and wiped her face, looked at my sister, smiled, and gave a gracious hello. As if the two of them were being politely introduced in a receiving line.
My sister just glared at her, then me, then my Daddy, and marched back inside the church. Even Big Sissy knew that there were no words for what she just witnessed. Given her reaction I now feared that the day would end on a Shakespearean note with one too many corpses.
She then grabbed Benji by the elbow, which caused him to scream, "Ouch baby! That's my pickin' arm!" and she hastily ran them to the altar. It should be noted here that they opted out of the traditional wedding march, and music of any kind, in favor of a cold cut buffet for the reception. Seems the organist was more proficient with Wonder Bread than the ivories, which led to be quite a money saver for the happy couple.
"Mama!" I exclaimed.
She jumped as if unaware that, besides God and herself, others were present.
"As mother of the bride should you not be with the bride?"
She casually removed her ancient Foster Grant sunglasses, blinked, and stared at me. From her reaction, I don't think she even knew there was a wedding.
"What the hell are you doin' smokin' in here?" I asked.
"Young man, I am a Southern woman and I make my own rules. Besides, if you can't smoke in God's house, where can you smoke?"
Who knew that God was so accommodating in matters concerning his own home? Has there ever been a more gracious host?
Mama had responded with such clarity, and conviction, that despite the awkward shape of her head, and the fire hazard she was creating, I couldn't argue with her. Just like Big Sissy...there just weren't any words. I simply walked away.
I reported to Daddy that I found Mama wandering aimlessly about the church. As a military officer I would leave it to him to decide the best course of action to take; however, time passes differently for my Daddy when it comes to certain things like football, bourbon, and my Mama. We only had seconds to decide on the best approach, and there was no time to secure a schematic of the facility.
Ultimately we went with my idea: Tie her hair to a light fixture and leave her be. Just make sure her cigarettes are within arm's reach, and no one will get hurt.
Luckily, Mama seemed to pull herself together just before the vows. Freed of the light fixture, Daddy escorted her into the wedding chapel, she took her seat next to mine, and only snored once during the ceremony. No one knows how she worked that miracle, but she did.
According to Grandmother (a.k.a. Goo-Mama), "Your Mama must have gotten a bit of the Lord while she was chain smokin' in that batismal. I've never seen anyone pull a rabbit out of hat like that before."
Of course when the wedding photos arrived I realized that only part of Mama had made it to the ceremony. In every photograph, Mama is seen leaning to the right, her crooked hair leaning to the left. She looked like a human "S" with no neck.
As my sister sagely said, "I knew she'd fuck up the whole damn thing. Now I'm stuck with these damn pictures until my next marriage!"
And she was.
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