I just got back from my own personal Bible Belt tour, visiting relatives in Georgia and South Carolina.

On The Road

Thank goodness for safety latches. While trying to open the trunk (on my parents’ car, not mine) I accidently popped the hood. But didn’t realize it. Until I had been driving on the highway, at speeds of anywhere from 55 to 70 miles per hour, for half an hour. As I was bopping along to my “Best of Korea” tape, I noticed a strange thumping sound. Boom. Ba-boom. Boom. Ba-boom. I then looked directly in front of me. The hood was bouncing up and down. My first thought, “OhMyGodThisIsMyParents’CarIDon’tHaveInsuranceWhatWillHappenIfIDieNoOneKnowsMeHere.” Ironically, I was on a part of I-40 that was under construction (okay, that describes all of I-40), so there was no shoulder. The nearest exit was an eternity away.

I shouldn’t have worried. Once on the side of the road, I couldn’t actually unlatch the safety latch. Which, in theory, is a good thing. That safety latch prevented the hood of my parents’ Chrysler I don’t know what it is but a very big model car from flying into the windshield. I lifted. I poked. I prodded. I glanced under the hood. As I was bent over, in my sundress and heels, trying to figure out how to get the hood unlatched, a pickup truck with three fine specimens of southern gentlemen pulled up. “How-deeeeeee, little miss. You got a prooooob lem?” The one speaking leaned out the window, sneered, then spat his tobaccy juice. I mustered what I hoped was a sincere, not sneer, smile. No, everything’s fine. Thank you. Even with my dismissal, they continued to watch me struggle. I felt my face burning as I finally got the latch undone (good work, Chrysler). Too embarrassed just to slam the hood shut, I propped it up, bent over and began examining in earnest.

“What cha’ lookin’ for, little lady?” They were still there.

I turned sharply. With my most authoritative voice, I stammered, Just…. just, routine maintenance. As the words left my mouth, I immediately wished they hadn’t. The three gentlemen looked at each other, raised their eyebrows, and, I believe, made an effort not to laugh. Not a good one, but an effort nonetheless. “Ru-teen main-teeennance out here, in the midduhl of no-where? Why don’t chu let us hep you out?” With that, Mr. Tobaccy began to open his door, reaching out of his window and opening it from the outside.

This was not good.

I slammed the hood shut. Look-y there. Everything checked out just fine. Ya’ll have a good day now, you hear? And with that, I scuttled back into the drivers’ seat, immediately locked all doors, drove off, and never looked back.

Two Peas In A Pod

Is a phrase often used to describe siblings. It doesn’t really apply to my sister and me.

I was looking forward to my visit there. I really was. I guess I never really thought beyond, “I’m going to visit my sister and her family and we’re going to have fun.” Sometimes details deserve attention.

My reading choices: Half a year’s worth of Southern Living. Country Living. Better Homes and Gardens. Romantic Home. Or, the bible verses painted on the walls.

My video viewing choices: Veggietales (Bible stories acted out by animated vegetables). Or, The Wiggles (a “Modern Day Beatles For Kids” rock group from Australia).

I felt like a foreigner again.

The Sisters

The cast. Grandma Esther (86), Great Aunt Ruby (85), Great Aunt Magie (pronounced MAY-gee) (76), and me (Lori, 34).

Grandma has been living in an assisted living facility for a year and a half now. It’s a beautiful facility (nicer than any of the places I’ve lived in over the past 4 years….). The staff is loving, the residents are friendly, activities and outings are always available, but, it’s not home. My grandmother pitched a holy fit when my father admitted her, because of medical necessity. She complains constantly, but every so often she lets it slip how much she likes living there. As soon as she realizes she’s said something positive about Summit Place, she begins complaining again.

Every Saturday morning, her sisters drive out to Summit Place, pick her up, and drive her to her house (2 miles away). If it’s a sunny day, they sit on the front porch and watch traffic. As Grandma says, it’s “much better watchin’ here at the house, at that there place (the assisted living facility) the cars just come in and park. Ain’t no fun in that.” If it’s a rainy day, they sit inside and stare out the window, talking the whole time, about nothing in particular. Around 11:30 they fix tomato and Wonderbread sandwiches, have a cup of coffee, then at 2:30 they load back into the car and all go to their respective homes.

Saturday, however, was a special event. I was coming to visit. I don’t think they’ve ever forgiven my father for moving “north” (to North Carolina, mind you) and taking the grandchildren away. I remember that point always coming up at one point or another on every one of our visits.

I hadn’t even turned off the keys to the car when Magie came slowly scuffling down the wheelchair ramp attached to the back porch. I waved, locked the car and started towards her.

“LAW! Chile! You ain’t change a bit!” and with that she gave me a hug that knocked the breath out of me. I looked down at the youngest of the sisters, this woman who stood almost a foot shorter than me, and wondered where she got such strength. Laughing, I followed her inside. Hey, Aunt Magie, how are you? It’s good to see you. “We bin starin out the window all mornin’.” (It was only 10 am). “Law! Look at ‘chu! Mmmm!”

This scene was repeated twice more. Once with Grandma, once with Aunt Ruby. It was raining on Saturday, so we sat at the formicaed kitchen table, tablecloth turned back so we wouldn’t mess it. That’s the way Grandma’s entire house is, protected from the signs of everyday living. The slipcovers on chairs and sofas. The doilies, everywhere. The thick, clear, plastic runners, protecting the ancient wall to wall carpet.

They wanted to know all about my travels. How my mom and dad were. Grandmother pulled out the mini-book that is my parents’ itinerary. “Ev’ry Sat’day we try an figure out where they is. Can’t e’en say haf these names. Where they at now?” I smiled, took the itinerary and started scanning down the dates. France. They’re in France now. They’ll spend the day in Paris, then travel to the countryside tonight. Heads shaking and “Mm, mm, mms” heard in stereo sound around me. “Ain’t that sumpon. They trav’lin’ all round the world like that. Ain’t e’en any di’sasters. You know, they always doin’ that mish-nay work when folks in trouble. But not this time. Just seein’. Just seein’ what’s in the world. They sure is blessed to be able to do that. Mm, hmmm. God shore looked down on them mighty pretty.” I laughed.

Hey! I think I have some pictures of us, hold on a minute and I’ll go get them. Before they could say anything, I ran back out to the car and grabbed my laptop. I thought I had downloaded pictures of my parents and me together in Korea, as well as some in China. I took the laptop out of its case and placed it gently on the formica. “What chu got there, chile?” This? It’s my computer. I have some pictures on here. “You got pictures in there?” I then realized that they probably had never seen digital pictures before. I prayed silently they wouldn’t think it was the work of the devil and try to dismantle my computer.

I booted up. Opened the “My Pictures” folder and scanned quickly. Yep. Sure enough, there were pictures of mom and dad, in front of the various sites in Korea and China. I enlarged one. The sisters squealed in delight. Aunt Ruby jumped up and turned off the lights. “This just like a picture show!” “Look at that!” I scrolled through just a few of the pictures, telling a little history about South Korea and the places we visited. They were delighted.

I shut down the computer and we continued to talk. Aunt Magie complained about how Grandma couldn’t go to her normal church every Sunday, “Ain’t that a shame.” Grandma commented about her daily devotion book. Wednesday’s devotion was about forgiveness. “It talked ’bout forgivin’ yo family when you get into an argument. And I thought to myself, I ain’t never got into no argument with my family. Ain’t that right.” Aunt Magie contemplated this first. She sat with a pensive look. “No, can’t ever remember us fightin’.” Aunt Ruby was next. “Not ever. E’en when we was under momma and daddy’s roof. Mm. They had good control o’er us. Nope. Never any disagreein’.” For the next 20 minutes they exchanged declaratives back and forth, confirming they had never argued.

They sat together on the couch, my grandmother in between her two sisters, them all looking back and forth at each other, shaking their heads, trying to remember any argument they had ever had. When they were satisfied they couldn’t remember any, they moved on, talking about their other brothers and sisters. Their mother had bore 11 children, but only 5 survived past infancy. I listened as they recounted how each had died. Whooping cough. Stillborn. One fell into the fire. They talked about Grandmother dropping out of school in 5th grade, because her Daddy couldn’t afford the hospital bills and was too proud to ask the County for assistance. Grandmother kept the younger children, allowing her mother to go to work in the mill. They talked about their marriages, and the deaths of each of their husbands, “God rest his soul.” I have heard the same stories for 34 years. The details never change, yet I never tire of listening. I probably could quote, verbatim, each of the stories. Each inflection, each exclamation, each interaction. But listening is magical. I sat, riveted, watching, listening, feeling the love.

Jerry Ain’t Got Nothing

Springer, that is.

Lori: Aunt Magie, how’s Karl (another relative, early 20s) doing?

Magie: Well, good ‘nough, with all the c’motion goin’ on.

L: Huh? What are you talking about?

M: You didn’ know ’bout him and Karoline?

L: No. Who’s Karoline?

M: His wife. Um. No, ex-wife. That Justin (Karl’s cousin) done made a baby with.

L: Wait a minute. Justin got Karoline, Karl’s wife, pregnant? How’d that happen? No, no, no. I know how it happened. But, are you sure?

M: Mm. Well, see, Karl went and found a letter in Karoline’s pocketbook, from Justin, when that baby was only 2 months ole. They divorced now.

L: So, Karoline has custody of the baby?

M: Mm hmm. And that baby is the spittin’ image of Justin. (Justin is the adopted son of Aunt Magie’s daughter, the illegitimate son of the daughter’s college roommate at Bob Jones University…)

L: So, will Karoline and Justin get married?

M: Mm. I don’ think so. They datin’ and all but they don’ get along. Don’ know what’s gone happen.

L: (thinking to myself – they must’ve gotten along at one point….)

What’s so amazing about this is that *I’m* the one they are constantly “witnessing” to. Because I’m divorced. Because I live in San Francisco. Just makes me want to shake my head and say, Mm. Law…

Phone Call

Sis: Are you gonna try to come visit?

Me: I thought so. Maybe this weekend. I was thinking of visiting Grandma (in South Carolina) on Saturday.

S: Oh, good! We were gonna visit Grandma on Saturday, too.

M: Well, I could come to your house (in Georgia) either before we go visit her, or after.

S: Well, I don’t work Fridays. Sunday, we’re teaching Wonderland Two’s Sunday school class, so we could all go to church from say, 9 am til 1:30 pm.

M: Mmm. I see. You know…, I think it will work out better for me to come visit you first….

China Stories

They’re done. No, not done. There is no possible way to transfer to paper the magic that China held. A few memories…

Who Knew? (our arrival into Beijing)

Baby In The Forbidden City

The Great Wall

The Summer Palace

Beijing Opera

To Market, To Market

Bird

That’s Some Sightseeing!

Soldiers

Laosunjia

A Day In Xi’an

Leaving Xi’an

DragonAir

A Moment Of Silence

For Melissa. For all whose lives were taken. Amen.

Ode To Krispy Kreme

I grew up in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, home of Krispy Kreme doughnuts. (Okay, technically, I grew up in Rural Hall, just a couple of towns over from Winston-Salem, but anyway…) There was always something magical about going “into town” to the original Krispy Kreme store. A true diner, with the gold flecked Formica countertops. Swivel stools. Worn, forest green plastic seats. Old men in hats with small feathers drinking coffee. A little dirty, a little apathetic. Just the way a diner should be.

Nowadays, there’s a new store. I miss the old one. The one of my girlhood. The one of trips into town with my daddy. The one of drunken nights in high school (sorry, mom). The one I returned to, longing, during college, even though I was only 90 minutes away, an eternity, in Chapel Hill.

I visited the new store today. I had to. See, there’s a phenomenon here, Winston-Salemites will tell you about, it’s the neon red, “Hot Doughnuts Now” sign. When it’s lit, it means exactly that. Hot doughnuts, now. Come on in, or drive through the drive-thru. And get the melt in your mouth, like nothing you’ve ever tasted before, absolutely tantalizing sensation of a Krispy Kreme doughnut.

Now, I realize that Krispy Kreme is in its heyday now. They’ve opened stores all over the country. I’ve been to the one in Union City, CA. I’ve been to the one in Las Vegas, NV. I’ve bought them in the various grocery stores across the country. It’s not the same.

There is something magical about visiting the place where Krispy Kremes were born.

As I sat there, basking in the late afternoon sunshine, enjoying my hot glazed doughnut, my creme filled, chocolate covered doughnut, and my cup of Rich, hot coffee, I watched the production process. The magical production process. The process I will never tire of observing.

Perfectly round circles of dough squirted onto ventilated trays. The trays go up, and down. Up, and down. Up, and down. Slowly, ever so slowly, allowing the yeast to work its magic. Allowing those soon to be perfect doughnuts to rise. Rise, baby, rise. Then, just at the right moment, they are flipped, turned over, dumped on their back, into hot, sizzling, grease. They sizzle, they brown. They bobble, they float. Then they rise up onto a lever, of sorts. And, BAM! flipped over. Back into the sizzling grease. Browned on the other side. Floating along, ever so aimlessly. Bob, bob, bob. Then, my favorite. The waterfall of iced sugar. A solid coat. Creamy white, evenly pouring, thick, sweet sugar. Oh, how I would love to be under that waterfall. It coats the manna, slowly, carefully, every bit of surface exposed, then covered with heavenly sweetness. That epitome of perfection is then lifted onto a slotted conveyer belt, moving, still slowly, no hurry here, towards the college girl, idly chatting with a co-worker, ready with a straw to lift that sweet sensation into a flat cardboard box, ready to sell to the next customer who comes in, saying, “I’ll take a dozen of the glazed. Hot, now, ya’ hear….”

I Don’t Think So…

I am so not cut out for retail. Witness.

In my haste to pack, I left my pajamas in San Francisco. Not a problem, since Winston-Salem is the home of Sara Lee/Hanes Mill Outlet, clothiers extroidinaire.

I browsed through the pajamas. And was utterly unimpressed. All polyester. All with “cute” designs of teddy bears and other cuddly animals. I want something simple and elegant. 100% silk or cotton, please.

I was browsing through the racks of sleepwear when a sales associate approached me. “You need any help?” she said without looking at me and walked off. “Um. No, not really,” I muttered to no one in particular.

Since I found no sleepwear, I decided to look through the bra selection. I need a bra to wear with tank tops. One with either very small straps, or very pretty straps. Yes, I’m vain.

As I was purveying the bra selection, the same sales associate approached me. “You doin’ okay?” she asked as she walked away.

Well, actually, I’d like some help. I’m looking for a bra, size 36D, with pretty straps. Something like that over there, on the mannequin.

She looked at the mannequin. Then looked at my chest. “Lady, that’s a bra, for, um, average sized people. It don’t come in D cup.”

Well, what *do* you have?

“Look here. Look at this Wonderbra. People loooooo-ve this. It gives you such a nice shape. It gives you curves. And some cleavage. Um-hum. Yeah, it do. ”

I looked at the Wonderbra. I looked at her. Maybe she just didn’t understand.

Okay. Look at me. I don’t need extra curves. I need support. With pretty straps. What do you have?

“Uh. You gonna be sorry you didn’ try the Wonderbra. Have it yo’ way.”

She led me around, pointing out various bras, none with pretty straps. I tried them on anyway. At one point she burst into the dressing room (privacy, anyone?) and said, “Did you know 75% of women wear the wrong bra size? Are you one of them?”

I was so shocked I didn’t know how to respond. Next thing I know, there’s a tape measure around my bust.

“Well, you got the right chest size. Let’s see about your cup.” Measure, measure, measure. “Hm. That’s right, too. Why ain’t any these bras fittin’ you?”

Yes, I was wondering the same.

She was tenacious. I’ll give her that. And pleasant, for the most part.

As I was checking out, with sports socks and a camisole (no sleepwear, no bras), she came bounding up. “Did you see this one?” In her hands she held a bra, size 36D, with thin, dainty straps.

I completed my transaction. I walked back onto the sales floor. No, I didn’t. Does it come in black?

“Oh, yeah, honey. You jus’ try this.”

I did. It fit. She wanted me to come out of the dressing room and show her, but I just couldn’t. She took my word for it.

As I was checking out, again, she turned to me. “Now, this don’ work out, you don’t like, you jus’ bring it back. Ev’rything gonna be okay, ya’ hear?”

If only life were that simple….

Grandma

L is me, Lori. G is Grandma. On the phone, today.

L: Hey, Gran’ma, how are you?

G: Honey Chile, you back in the United States?

L: Yes, Grandma. I came to North Carolina last night.

G: Where your mom n’ dad? Did you leave them? Did you leave them on they own?

L: Well, um, yes. We parted in Hong Kong. I think they are in France now.

G: Uh. All that mish-nay they do. I thought after that storm in Korea they’d turn ’round and help them folks. They always chasin’ after disaster.

L: No, I think they already had plans.

G: So, you stayin’ here?

L: Well, for now. I’m in Winston-Salem.

G: You goin’ back tah San Francisco?

L: Um hmm.

G: You going back tah be with your boy Steve?

L: Um. Grandma. We got divorced 3 years ago.

G: Oh. Well. He shore is a nice boy. I want him a pahrt of ahr family.

L: Mm. (silence)

G: Yeah. Well, you find you uhnodhah nice boy, ya’ hear?

L: Um. Yeah. Hey, Grandma, I thought I’d come see you on Saturday.

G: Well, Shucks! You come on down, now, ya’ hear?

This is the epitome of my relationship with my grandmother. Since I was a child, she has wanted me to have kitchen appliances and a good husband. As much as I hate her badgering me about finding a “good” husband, I’m looking forward to seeing her, and her sisters, who have visited her every Saturday for the last 50 years, on Saturday.