Tarboro Street

The brick walkway leading to the front door of 826 Tarboro Street was uneven in places, a brick or two dislodged from its original location, and grass sprouted in between the crevices. It was beautiful.

826 Tarboro Street, in Rocky Mount, North Carolina, is where Mama Bette (my grandmother) and Granddaddy Kenneth (whom I never met) raised their three daughters, the oldest of which was my mom. Even though Mama Bette died when I was 12, my memories of her and her house are vivid and easy to recall. I thank God for that. Sometimes I wake up in the mornings and I miss her. I don't often recall dreaming about her, but for whatever reason, I sometimes wake up missing Mama Bette.



Melissa, Mama Bette, Susan, Mom

From left to right: Melissa, Mom, and Susan playing in their playhouse
in the backyard of 826 Tarboro.

 

 Her house was two stories and brick, the living room with the piano on the right when you first walked in, the stairwell and dining room to the left. Oriental rugs covered the hardwood floors, and down the back hallway was a bench, where baby dolls and stuffed animals sat, waiting for Drew, Betsy, Anne Rogers, Meg, and me to come play. In the den was Mama Bette's chair, next to a round end table in the corner, always lit up by the lamp on top. Around the corner was the kitchen: the refrigerator (where she always hid a Snickers and a Coke), the old, black rotary-style phone that Drew, the Smyth girls, and I loved to play with, and the oblong kitchen table, which now sits in my house, a piece of my mama's upbringing greeting me every morning when I eat my cereal, the imprint of her grade school homework still visible in the wood.

826 Tarboro Street.
This is a drawing Melissa had made and
gave to Mom and Aunt Susan for Christmas one year.

For the cousins, our visits to Mama Bette's house always included visits to her neighbors: the woman next door, who poured us the sourest lemonade I've ever tasted and served a platter of lady fingers--every time we went. And the sisters who lived in a house along the back alley and who "would just be so tickled to see us". I know it's not true, but in my mind all three women were named Margaret. And on that note, why two sisters--old and both named Margaret--would live together confused me, scared me, and made for eerie visits. But, Drew, the Smyths, and I did it for Mama Bette.

The little things are by far the sweetest memories. A friend of mine, who lost her mother several years ago, always talks about how she misses her mom's hands. I get that. I am so thankful for the little things I remember about Mama Bette, like her jingle every time we pulled into the back alley behind her house: Home again, home again, jiggity jig. The sight of her bathrobe draped over the bathroom door, and her vanity, covered in tubes of makeup and dusty from powder. The hair dryer chair in Melissa and Susan's old room upstairs, that, if I'm honest, I admit kind of scared me. The fact that Mama Bette loved to wear yellow and looked beautiful in it. The McDonalds ice cream sundaes and the trips to the Carlton House, where we obediently ate the first and second courses because we knew the Neapolitan ice cream cake awaited us if we did. The Christmas trip to Richmond to see the "real" Santa Claus.

The little things.

Top: Mama Bette, Susan Pittman, Meg, Mom, Melissa
Bottom: Drew, Betsy, Anne Rogers, me

Mom used to talk a lot about the little things, too. I wish I could recount every last one of her stories about growing up on 826 Tarboro Street. I can hear her talking about Bernice, the housekeeper, who called Dad Mr. Ricks. And about the yard man who helped Kenneth clean out the gutters and said excuse me every time he walked in front of the dog. And about how mom sewed her own clothes for school dances.

This is Bernice. What a treasure this picture is!

I pray the Lord will bring more and more of these little things to my mind over the years, whether they're my own memories, reminders of stories mom used to tell, or stories from the mouths of Aunt Susan and Aunt Melissa, who remember 826 Tarboro Street the way I remember Heartley Drive. Where you grew up will always be home. I am so thankful for my aunts.

I must admit: It's not morning right now, but I sure miss Mama Bette.



Mama Bette (top right) with her sisters-in-law. Dilly is on the bottom right.

Drew (7), Betsy (1), Mama Bette, me (4). Mothers' Day 1986

I prefer my Oreos fried

This past weekend we took Will to the fair. He hooted and cooed the whole time. I came up with a food agenda before we went: ham biscuits, cheese fries, and fried Oreos. (When we got there, we opted for a bloomin' onion instead of the cheese fries--an acceptable addendum to the agenda, I thought.) Everything we ate, Will ate. Bless him. He loved it.

Will rode the carousel, and that sweet thing would have been happy if all he did was sit on the horse, but when it started moving, well, that was the icing on top, the fried to the Oreo. He held that pole so tight and just smiled away. (You might wonder if he's smiling or crying in the pictures below. It is a smile. I am happy to report we shed no tears at the fair.)

I am now enjoying that thing about parenthood that I've heard people talk about where you get to experience the things of your childhood all over again through your own child. And let me just say, the fair has never been so fun.

"Really, mom? Can't you see I'm eating a bloomin' onion over here?"

Love.

Today is ten months since she left for Heaven. Our loss is her gain. Enjoy Glory, mom. We miss you.

I was 11 in this picture

Seeing Dilly

Yesterday I took Will to visit my great aunt Dilly at the Springmoor retirement center. It had been several years since I'd seen Dilly.

When we walked into the lobby, I recognized her, of course, but she didn't recognize me. When I looked at her, I saw the face my mom had loved, the face I remembered from my childhood, the face that used to look back at me with recognition. But not this time. 

Dilly was my mom's aunt, Mama Bette's sister-in-law. After Mama Bette died, Dilly became mom's surrogate mother.

It's a weird feeling, seeing someone you haven't seen in a while, someone who represents so much to you, but when you walk through the door, her brain doesn't register you any different from the stranger who walked in before you. Weird and sad--another one of those earthly moments that makes you long for Heaven, where there is no old age, no dementia, and no forgetfulness.

On a different note, I am always and forever thankful for my boy, and yesterday especially. Will made Dilly happy. She may not have recognized me when we walked in, but she sure lit up with a smile when she saw Will. Not a smile of recognition of course, but a smile of happiness. Will even sat on her lap for about six seconds, which is a record. He entertained her with his curiosity and his quickness on all fours for about an hour.

I'm not quite sure how long Dilly has been at Springmoor. I remember her house in Rocky Mount. Talk about belonging in a Southern Living magazine. Dilly used to hook rugs, and her creations are out of this world. Yesterday, as Nancy (Dilly's helper), Dilly, David (Dilly's son), Will, and I rounded the corner from the lobby into Dilly's room, Nancy said, "You're about to see the most beautiful room in all of Springmoor." She wasn't kidding. Dilly's kids have taken the typical stark room of a facility and turned it into a warm haven of Dilly's beautiful antiques, with many of her masterpieces hanging on the walls. It truly felt like a home, which made me happy. It was like a little corner of Dilly's Rocky Mount house had been picked up and moved to the retirement center. It was as it should be.

We had a good time yesterday. Whether Dilly recognized me doesn't matter. It was good for my soul to see her, and it was good for her to smile at my Will.

We will definitely be going back.

Second 3 of 6

Love her creations hanging on the walls

 

 

 

Hello, welcome to Target

These days I have to make sure I put on my makeup before leaving the house. I will most certainly have a conversation with at least one person, and I'll nod, smile, and say hello to plenty more. As I'm sure other moms of babies can attest, there's nothing like strolling a one year old around in your cart to up your status on the popularity meter. I enjoy the attention (most days), but I do wonder what it is about a baby that takes me from just another Target shopper to just another Target shopper who everyone wants to talk to. I'm sure the best worst advice has something to do with it. And I'm sure most people are just genuinely happy when some cuteness invades their shopping trip to pick up toilet paper. Most likely, seeing Will and me (or any other mom and baby) brings back memories of when they were the one pushing the shopping cart with the smiling baby accessory inside.

Whatever the reason, I'll enjoy the attention as long as it lasts. On that note, I do wonder at what age Will will get before I again become just another Target shopper.

But let's not think about that.

Will, at Target, looking for more strangers to greet

Paper treasures

Last week I went to mom and dad's house to retrieve an old wicker toy chest that I used as a kid. It's going to make both Will and me happy at Wooden Road: Will has a large box to rummage through, which is his favorite activity these days, and I have an easy place to store his toys so that my house can still, at times, appear as if the adults rule this roost.

We intended the pick-up to be quick, but when we got to dad's and I lifted the lid, I had forgotten that all of my toys were still inside. I must say, I'm quite proud of myself. Even as nostalgic as I am (and have recently become), most things landed in the big trash box that Dad brought over while I sat on the floor in the playroom and rummaged through my old things. But there were of course a few things I didn't want to part with, and having my own kid made the decision to keep them a little easier to justify: the plastic McDonald's French fries that transform into a robot, the pound puppy on wheels, the miniature pots and pans, the Cabbage Patch doll figurine, and a few other happy reminders of my childhood.

As cool as that stuff is, the most meaningful thing I saved from the trash box that afternoon was my autograph book.

When little eight-year-old me went around and made my family and friends sign that book, I had no idea of the treasure I was creating. Seeing someone's handwriting, especially when that someone is no longer here, feels like seeing something you're not supposed to see. Looking is like peeling back a curtain to peek at something sacred. The awe of it startles me. Since finding that little book, I've looked at the pages only a couple of quick times. I think I'm afraid the words will disappear if I look too long. I have a little note from mom, I have Dana Youmans' signature, and I have a note from Mama Bette. Paper treasures.

(P.S. In the pictures below, it was my bright, eight-year-old idea to have people write their real names in parentheses next to their greeting, I guess in case I one day forgot who they were or they became famous. Always thinking ahead.)

I also have a note from Dad:

Drew:

I'll claim the writing in the dark pen.
Drew refused my parentheses requirement.

Grandma and Grandpa:

One thing I regret about blogging my memories instead of writing them down is that future generations won't have pages of handwriting to run their fingers across and marvel over the fact that at one point, I was there. Pen and paper and me. Maybe this day and age, we'll start keeping our loved ones' laptops, and we'll marvel over the keys they so often touched. (I'm joking... sort of.)

That little autograph book, with the teddy bear, bicycles, and roller skates on the front, has taken me on quite a trip down memory lane since I rediscovered it, complete with smiles, lumps in my throat, and definitely a good laugh or two:

My 2nd-grade boyfriend James Welch

And here's a cute picture to end on so the parting thought of this post isn't James Welch:

 

 

I'd call the toy chest a roaring success.

S'mores, anyone?

I decided these pictures deserved their own post, lest the black cakey stuff all over Will be mistaken for birthday cake. Cake it is not. Ryan and I are excited about Fall. So we just finished building a fire pit on the property, for all the things a big crackling fire is good for: the smell, the sound, and most important, the s'mores. Not to be left out, Will got down and dirty with us, too.

Of course the final product of a fire pit is the evening friends and family come over to enjoy it. Once we have pictures of that, I'll be sure to post.

For now, here's the start to finish of our new fire pit, little dirty helper and all:




 

 



While digging the pit, we found a disintegrating mattress.
I mean, of course.

 

 

D & A, we promise Dino will be clean when we return him to you

 

 

  

Because He Lives

Will has yet to discover his mom can't sing. So I'll sing to that boy until he figures it out. Especially when he was an infant, singing sometimes had the power to silence his crying. Most often the song was "Because He Lives," because that was one of mom's favorites. During the seemingly endless ten days of mom's bedside vigil, I went back and forth between my house and mom and dad's house multiple times each day. In the late nights and early mornings at home, I'd console Will (and myself) with the words I knew mom had also drawn such comfort from. We sang that hymn at her memorial service, and how fitting that I distinctly remember hearing the congregation sing the stanza about holding a newborn baby as we processed out of the sanctuary:

How sweet to hold a newborn baby,
And feel the pride and joy he gives.
But greater still the calm assurance,
This child can face uncertain days because He lives.

It wasn't until recently that I remembered the last stanza of the hymn, and it made me smile because I understand why it was mom's favorite. It was her testimony:

And then one day I'll cross the river,
I'll fight life's final war with pain.
And then as death gives way to victory,
I'll see the lights of glory and I'll know He lives.

Drew called me a few weeks ago to tell me he had a dream where mom called us on the phone from Heaven. Isn't that something she would do? Talk about making me smile. She fought life's final war with pain, and on December 21, death gave way to victory. She's seen the lights of glory and can confirm He Lives.

Maybe that's what she was calling to tell us.

Because He lives, I can face tomorrow.
Because He lives, All fear is gone!
Because I know He holds the future
And life is worth the living just because He lives!

"Mommy, keep singing, please."