Sunday Dinners

Looking at my reflection in the mirror, I cried "Oh my god!"

"Wow Mom. You've got some serious bed head going on."

"Look who’s talking, kid. Have you even bothered to comb yours?"

"Yes, I have, but this," pointing to his head, "is not my fault.  It's yours," said Josiah.

"Don’t blame me; it's genetics; blame your Grandparents."

                                                                             ***

My father's parents came over on the boat from Sicily.  Grandpa's first job was making wine. He used to tell me as a little girl how he'd stand in huge wooden casks stomping grapes.  This was an odd image for me to comprehend at age seven. As I got older, I learned that Grandpa used the bathroom tub to mix his own recipe for sweet red wine.  Every other Friday, I'd spend the night with my grandparent's. When it was time to take a bath, I'd imagine soaking in a tub full of wine and think, Yuk, this can't be good.  But come Sunday dinner, gallon jugs of wine were carried upstairs from the basement, and it was wonderful.  Everyone had some; even the grandchildren were allowed a shot glass full.

Grandma was the matriarch of the family.  She had light olive skin, curly hair, a round figure and a mole above her top lip.  She was both controlling and demanding.  Not a very kind-hearted soul, she let you know in no uncertain terms when you were on the naughty list.  Grandpa Auggie was different. He was a small man, about 5'6" tall, fair skin, with white frizzy hair.  Contrary to my Grandma, he had a heart of gold.  I don't remember him ever raising his voice; he'd argue with Grandma wearing a smile, and he'd spoil the grandchildren by always having an extra coin in his pocket.

Grandma Jean didn't work. She and my Great Grandma Nana Rose, who only spoke Italian and dressed in black with a gold crucifix around her neck, spent hours cooking, cleaning, sewing, and praying.  Being good Catholics from the old country, I became used to their quiet mutterings and making the sign of the cross.  But come Saturday, both women were found in the kitchen preparing Sunday dinner. They'd make antipasto, homemade ravioli, meatballs, and various other meat dishes, homemade breads, cannolis and cheesecake for dessert.  Espresso and Anisette, an after dinner liqueur, was served to help with digestion. Once dinner was finished and the table cleared, the men went outside to smoke while the women sat on plastic covered living room furniture and chatted. The grandchildren slipped away, one-by-one, to a quiet corner and napped.

The meal was always loud.  If you were a stranger looking in, you'd think everyone was angry, but that wasn't the case.  Conversations were just boisterous with family members jockeying for position, but there was also love and laughter, lots of it.  Having buried Grandma and Grandpa over 20+ years ago, the closest I get to sharing with Josiah the likes of my childhood Sunday dinners is by watching Everyone Loves Raymond.  We sit and in short exchanges, I say, “I remember Grandma hitting me over the head.  And did you see what Raymond just did?  My cousin tried that very same thing and couldn’t sit for a week.”    Apart from not having that crazy Italian family around, I’ve been able to instill in my son the passion for family and food.

Summer Pleasures

Summer is bright colored flip-flops, shorts and tees, swinging hammocks, and ice cold tea.  Nothing else matters when you find yourself encased in a cotton hammock freely swinging under a canopy of trees.   Come July and August, the south swelters.  Perspiration rolls down your neck as you eagerly reach for an ice cold drink.  Pressing it against your forehead, you sigh with pleasure.  Next, you press it against your mouth, allowing it to linger for but a second before taking a gulp.  The heat makes you feel lazy and reminiscent of times when air condition didn't exist and the only breeze you felt was the one carried on the wind...

                                                                      ******

"Ah. That's good. Want a sip hun," I ask.

"Yeah, thanks. Um, not bad!  Would you like the radio on?"

"Sure, sounds great.  Can we get Sirius on your hand held?"

"No, we'll have to deal with the local station 102.5."

"That's fine.  Anything will do."

Reaching for the radio, Russ tunes in the station and Glenn Frey's voice leaps from the speakers singing Hotel California. I relax against the pillow reaching for Russ' hand and pull him back against me.

"I love that song.  Can you believe we danced to that almost 35 years ago. Unbelievable. Where has the time gone?"

"Don't know," he says. "I ask myself the same question each morning when I look in the mirror and see an old man staring back."

"You're not old.  Just a little broken," I say giggling. "But that's your fault, jumping out of perfectly good airplanes and all that other nonsense.  And look at you, the only gray you've got is in your beard.  Mine covers my entire head."

"I think it's sexy," he says kissing the top of my head.  "Gray hair is a crown of glory."

"You can have the crown; I'm keeping my out-of-the-box red!"

Comfortable in Russ' arms, I close my eyes and hum along with the radio.

Beach Reads Year Round

The closer to summer it gets, more and more I'm asked, "What's the latest beach read? You know, something I can read without thinking too much." I respond with a smile and say, "You've got to think with all books". This gets me a perplexed look with a "Huh?"

Summer brings the literary fiction reader to their knees.  Suddenly shackle free, they have 8 weeks to enjoy what they consider light and fluffy.  It's my job as a bookseller to open a new door, to introduce them to the sub-genres, such as chic lit, romance, sci-fi, fantasy, mystery, and YA.  I also attempt to show them all that they are missing.  The sub-genre reader understands this and appreciates the differing plots and archetypal characters, time shifts and paranormal beings, riotous laughter and cleansing tears, murder and mayhem, and aliens and spacemen.  Sub-genre literature is a reader's delight where an escape from everyday stress is only a page turn away.

I read all genre, fiction and non-fiction, but most of all I enjoy a good laugh.  That's why when grabbing a mystery, I stick with cozies, like Victoria Laurie whose main character Abby is an intuitive who works with FBI boyfriend Dutch, Donna Andrews with her crazy feathered friends titles, Elaine Viets and her dead end jobs, and Janet Evanovich whose main character Stephanie Plum is laugh-out-loud funny.  If grabbing a romance, I look for Sandra Hill and her Viking bad boys, Johanna Lindsey with her Malory men to-die-for, or Jill Shalvis' Lucky Harbor series whose characters have great chemistry, smart dialogue, and real life issues to overcome.These are but a few of what's available.

Summer's around the corner. Take a moment and smell the sub-genre section of your bookstore and find that rose of a read that will remain strong all year long.

Sex in the City Southern Style...a purely fictional piece

It was a Sunday evening and all five of us from work were going out for drinks, dinner, and down-home gossip. Being the most reserve, I was never prepared for the evening’s outcome, but I always knew it would be entertaining.  

“Who do you have to blow, to get some food around here,” said Monique, as she looked me straight in the eye, a tilted grin on her face, and her fingers drumming the table top. 

Without thinking, I leaned over and shushed loudly. “Shush! Be patient, the waitress is coming. Don’t you know another word that’s less vulgar?”  

“Sure I do, but its fun yanking your chain,” said Monique.

I smiled my I don’t give a damn smile and said, “Thanks, I appreciate that.  And you wonder why people react the way they do.”

Giving me the cold shoulder, Monique started talking to Caroline about the guys one table over.

“Don’t mind her Lizzy,” said Bertie.  “She’s just being stupid.”

“If she says something like that again, I’m going to smack her right upside the head.”

“Don’t worry.  Ignore her; I do.”

“I’ll try, Bertie, but she’s so obnoxious.”

As the girls talked, I sat back and watched. Across the table was Brianna, a cute little blonde with long straight hair. You never knew what was going on in that pretty little head of hers or worse, what would come out of her mouth.  She had no finesse and often experienced foot-in-mouth disease.  Having turned 21 a few days ago, Brianna was determined to try as many different mixed drinks as possible.  While at Chi Chi’s, she had Margaritas.  Now at the English Pub around the corner from the store, Brianna was drinking a kiwi flavored candy drink.

I looked at Bertie, and nodded my head towards Brianna. "If that doesn't make her sick, I'm going to be surprised."

"Be happy, you're not working in the morning.  Bri's on with me," said Bertie smiling.  "Well at least she's having a good time."

All I could think of when peering at Caroline was a blonde Scarlet O'Hara.  Not quite 5’2” tall, she was dressed in an antique gold off the shoulder blouse and slim black skirt.  Caroline's southern accent rolled off her tongue like sugar water mesmerizing all who listened.  She was a strong, self-made woman who had a love’em, leave’em attitude when it came to men. Somewhere in her past was a tale waiting to be told.

Monique hovered on the edge of 40.  She worked two jobs; one paid the bills while the other was for fun.  She had cafe-au-lait skin, tight milk chocolate curls, and an enchanting smile.  Monique was known for her crazy stunts and outrageous mouth.  People either loved her or hated her, but she didn’t care. Life was too short to worry about differing opinions.

Bertie was our anchor. Strong and robust, she brought balance to the group.  Without her mothering advice, there was no telling what kind of mischief the girls would get into.  She had a dry sense of humor, a laugh all her own, a huge heart, and a not so subtle nature.

And then there was me, Lizzy Donaldson. Oldest of the group and the only one married, I’m the quiet bystander. Considered by the group to be too nice and understanding, I often shake my head in comical despair wondering how I ever got mixed up in all this.  But then I remember, plain and simple, the girls are like family. So every three or four months and with my husband's blessing, I get dressed up and head out with the girls for an evenings X-rated gossip, high jinx, and laughter.

Metamorphed Shakespeare

I bet that if Hamlet had been a middle aged woman, her monologue would have started off with:

     "To dye or not to dye that is the question,
      whether tis nobler in the hearts of women
      to accept streaks of gray with contentious sighs
      or take to the store and from a rainbow pick.
      To dye, to not--No more--a castigated heartache,
      a thousand stares, perchance to envy those young and supple
      eliminate the threat, dye and sleep soundly."

I've dyed my hair for years, and have tried every conceivable shade and type--permanent and non-permanent.  It used to be simple; there was always the basic Nice-n-Easy browns, reds, and blondes. But these days, when facing the wall of color not only do you lose count of the different shades, you break into a sweat and wonder if your hairs on the menu.  Worse, flamboyant is now the "New You". 

The simple dark, medium, and light categories are now Mahogany, Misty Mocha, Chestnut, Brazenly Brunette, Caramel, Strawberry, Sangria, Raspberry Red, Ginger, Fox Red, Copper Red, Irish Red, Wheat, Buttered Toast, Honey, Chardonnay, Champagne, and even  Butterscotch.  Even the color swatch on the top of the box isn't much help.  About 8 weeks ago, I did my hair with Raspberry Red  hoping for a pink red tint. It was a non-permanent color, but 8 minutes into the dying process, I had a bad feeling.  I jumped into the shower and rinsed my hair.  Peering in the mirror, I shrieked.   "Crap, crap, crap!"  Four shampoos later, I wasn't a carrot top anymore- more like "Whore of Babylon Red."  Oh well,  there was nothing else I could do, so I shut up, dried my hair, smiled and swiped my lips with a new shade of red.  Only 24 more shampoos to go.

Home...

Old homes are so very different than new ones. Floors creak, doors close on their own, pipes squeal, daylight sneaks through once mitered corners, and mysterious presence linger.  Our 1898 home has no ghost, but there is an odd feeling of sorts, a familial tie to those who walked these halls before.  From the stylistic choice in turn-of-the-century wall paper, hidden bead-board closets, hollowed baseboards, blue, green, and brown medicinal bottles to even the old license plate left behind, the previous owners established a permanent residence even after death. I don't mind for their house is our home.  With it comes a sense of welcome and even thanks when repairs are made or the house is repainted returning it to its former glory.

The rooms ramble one to another. The floors are uneven and you may experience vertigo.  There are doors everywhere; some rooms even have three.  As the family grew, so did the size of the house.  There's no rhyme or reason, but it adds character.

When we first toured the home, it was furnished with antiques.  The tie to yesteryear was evident, and it was hard not to feel as if we were invading someone's privacy. The original home had a parlor, master bedroom with bay window, a second smaller room, kitchen and front and back porches.  The house was sturdy; it's heart the kitchen where family gathered to talk, play, eat, and pray. Now, it has over 2,700 sq. ft.  Huge magnolias, some pre-Civil War, still line the front lawn. Flowering Camillas in red, white, and pink, also original plantings--bloom each season brightening the dreariest of days with colorful blossoms.  There are wild roses, Oxalis--a hybrid species of the four leaf clover with its tiny pink buds, and patches of violets playing in the shade.

The local history is colorful with the Raleigh August Railroad coming through town in 1876.  Travel weary passengers riding the train from north to Florida stopped to rest in Southern Pines.  Soon it became known as a resort area with its grand hotels. Annie Oakley was a seasonal visitor, novelist and publisher James Boyd made his home here, and health enthusiasts took advantage of the hot springs.

What a wonderful place to call home, and so we do.  It's been almost 20 years, and yet my favorite time of day is still the same--the evening hours just before dark.  Russell and I sit under cover, him with a cigar, myself a cup of coffee or glass of wine.  The sun sets, and above the tree tops the moon rises hand-in-hand with a canopy of  flickering stars.

"A pleasure is not full grown until it is remembered" C.S. Lewis

Yesterday morning, I drove down May Street in hopes of catching the sunrise.  Bordered by horse farms, May Street is littered with red painted paddocks. Multicolored horses: browns, golds, whites, and blacks roam among the many fenced sections. There are huge sycamore trees everywhere. Pulling off the road, I quietly open the car door.  The air is heavy. Dew sparkles off the grass. A soft fog rolls across the land and embraces the beams of light that dance between the clouds. Rays of yellow paint the morning sky, while pink and orange hues tie-dye the horizon.  I recall my Mother's words, "Red sky at night sailors delight: Red sky at morning, sailors warning," and I wonder, is it going to rain?

The only movement is that of a crow flying by while being chased by starlings. "Dumb crow," I think.  "Serves you right for getting too close to their nest."  Nearby, lay a mother and her foal.  Both rest side-by-side, their legs curled beneath.  Gently, the mother tilts her head and brushes her nose against her child's as if to say, "Mommy loves you, don't forget." Touched by the exchange, I raise my camera in hopes of getting it on film but change my mind.  Moments like these are best left private.