Small Southern Towns

I love small towns. I grew up in small towns. I lived in a big town and couldn’t wait to come back to a small town. (Everyone break into a John Mellencamp or Alan Jackson song here.)

I thought I had come back to a small town, but in the last five years where I live has exploded in size. I fear small towns are becoming obsolete.

I lived in Northern Alabama when I was in elementary and middle school and back then it was definitely country. Our house was off of a two lane road and there was nothing but cows, tall grass, giant ant hills and small houses. I once got lost behind my house for 4 hours in the woods. The woods that are now Target and Starbucks, by the way. Mom and I had to drive down somewhere near the Square to get groceries. On the way there we’d stop at the only gas station on the way where an elderly gentleman would come out and check everything but your heartbeat while waiting for the gas to pump. Mom adored the fussin’ over.

The Square itself was nothing but little rundown mom and pop places. The diner, laundry, hardware store, and a "wannabe" 5 and dime. Going to The Mall was “An Excursion”!

I moved away to another small town in another state and finished school there. Then I moved to the big city in Washington - what a change! I missed so many things about small town life: knowing everyone (and their business!), leaving your car unlocked, feeling safe and surrounded by friends and neighbors, the feeling of support for each other. Oh, and let’s not forget cow tipping and pig wrasslin’! All part of country/small town life. Of course there’s downsides, but that’s with anything. I felt lonely in the big city. Couldn’t wait to move back to a small town one day.

A few years ago I somehow talked my husband into coming back South. He’d never lived in the South, never visited, only knew about it from movies like “Heat of the Night” and “Deliverance”. Not good propaganda there! The first thing he said when we visited to look at houses was that he couldn’t believe how “real” and “friendly” the people in the small Southern towns were. No pretensions, airs, just good ol’ “How ya'll doing and what can I help you with?”

Slowly though, in the years we’ve been living here in the South, we’re seeing more and more small business leave and all the giant stores move in. The small town feeling is leaving and so is the friendliness and relaxed air that goes with it. People are starting to be “in a hurry” all the time. Whereas standing in line to check out used to be a great time to catch up with neighbors and chat a little, now it’s become a bunch of strangers giving each other dirty looks for taking too long to pay. Sunday drivers get nearly bumped off the road by people that have to “get somewhere.” People don’t make friends in the produce section anymore.

All the lovely little stores that we used to shop at are going the way of the dinosaur. Wal-mart, Target, Staples, all the big boxes are moving in and taking over. But, on the other hand, we’re all shopping there aren’t we? I personally love the big stores because I have three kids, two still in car seats, and being able to drag them out to just ONE store and ONE stop instead of 3 saves me so much time and energy. So I’m as guilty as the next person of getting rid of small town America.

A few years ago we went to Michigan, and got off the freeway a few times to drive through towns and cities. You know what, I could not tell the difference between a little town in Indiana or one in Alabama.

I don’t have any answers to this. I’m not even sure I should call it a problem. It appears to be the evolution of community. But I mourn the loss deeply of small towns and the industrious people who ran their own business and knew their customer's likes and dislikes. People who were always willing to extend a little credit if a neighbor had a tough time. People who realized that commerce and business still involved “People”.

There's definitely progress in this new world - everything's faster, cheaper and easier to get at then ever before. So why are we always so frazzled?

I would like to go back a bit in time - back to where you knew that old man at the gas station wasn't gonna let you go in any time less than 10 minutes. You accepted it and took that chance to notice how pretty the Spring wildflowers on the side of the road were. Then you went to town to shop and hopefully catch up on all the gossip in the produce aisle.

Well, Shut My Mouth!

I look around me and count no less than three hundred tourists waiting for a table at tiny Barbara Jean's Cafe on St. Simons Island. The gods must be smiling on me, for I've managed somehow to snag a table. Joining me for lunch is Doris, Babe's Yankee cousin and her equally Yankee friend, Ginger. They're here on a mini-snowbird visit.
"Well! If this isn't the cutest, most awesome little cafe!" exclaims Ginger. She bats her mascared eyes without ever looking around or seeing even the first thing.

Fighting like cats and dogs, the two of them have been trying to out-do and out-talk each other since they arrived. I haven't opened my mouth in so long I've forgotten what my voice sounds like.

During a sudden lull, I quickly jump in and speak so fast it sounds like Pig Latin. "Everything on the menu is delicious. Barbara Jean never learned how to cook bad food."

Two sets of batting eyes stare back at me as though trying to figure out who I am and what I am doing seated at their table. But after a moment of silence, they resume their talkathon with mouths flapping and hands flying every which away.

Our waitress, obviously on her last nerve, lets out a Titanic sigh when Ginger says, "Listen, Hon! I got this recipe off the Internet the other day. You'll love it. Chop two large green onions tops and all and marinate them in grape jelly and . . ."

I tune out and shake my head at the young woman waiting to take our order. "Come back in a few years," I suggest.

Then, as if there are no other people in the restaurant, Doris's voice breaks the sound barrier. "Oh, shut UP!" she yells good-naturedly.

"No, YOU shut up!" Ginger replies, then they high-five each other and shout, "Awesome," in unison.

Before their Yankeeness can become a catalyst for the Southern diners to remember Fort Sumter and take revenge, I grab Doris by the arm and threaten to pinch her till she's cyanotic.

"Simmer down!"

"What for?" My cousin-in-law finally appears to recognize me.

"Because you sound like a couple of sixty-five year old displaced Valley Girls, that's why. You're too loud."

"This is how we always talk. What's wrong with that?"

I must have been crazy to think I could take these two out in public.

Ignoring my rebuke, Ginger pipes up with, "Ohmygod, look at this! Totally awesome."

I totally hate that word, but my natural inquisitiveness demands a peek at the menu item to which Ginger is pointing. It's today's special: Pork chops, black-eyed peas, collard greens. Yum.

"You people don't actually eat this stuff, do you?"

This is such a bad dream. Please God, when can I wake up?

"Oh, that's nothing," shouts Doris. "They even eat hog jowls and something called chitlins."

These people? I bury myself in the menu, scanning it for Anti-Yankee Soup. I am willing to sell my soul for a double order if they can bring it to me soon.

Ginger cries, "Awesome!" again and bobs her head of dyed red hair. Not many people know this, but Ginger's hair was the motivating factor behind the Chia pet.

She has a habit of batting her eyes and I can't decide if it's a case of near-sightedness or the ten coats of mascara pulling at her lids. In contrast, Doris doesn't wear any makeup, although a full day behind Elizabeth Arden's Red Door wouldn't do her any harm.

The two of them, best friends for years, are the spitting image of Lucy and Ethel. In addition to their loud mouths, they are both highly competitive and proudly hold the "One-Up Title." Jointly, of course

"Cappy, I've got a killer recipe for rhubarb pie. It's better than Ginger's."

"E-mail it to me," I say, holding back the urge to exclaim, "Ooh! You people don't actually eat that stuff, do you?" Obviously, she has no idea that rhubarb is not what you'd call a Southern staple.

Ginger interjects. "No need for E-mail, Honey. Doris is the American Express woman. She never leaves home without her recipe file."

My husband's cousin travels with her recipes? Gene Pool Alert!

Doris shoots eye daggers at Ginger who says, "Cappy, I re-named my dog Zucchini. Now when I feed him spaghetti, he starts singing Puccini." She takes a deep breath, settles back in her chair and fans away a hot flash with the menu from which she is never going to order.

The aroma of good food is making my stomach growl so loud that people at the next table look around for Ginger's singing dog. The waitress, engaged in a head-to-head with the security guard is gesturing towards our table.

"Well, that's nothing. My cat, Esmerelda, can open doors," Doris counters with a smug look that crosses the table and one-ups Ginger right smack in the kisser.

"ANY door?" I ask, my eyes fixed on the exit.

"Yepper. She just crawls up there, turns the knob and lets herself out."

I push my chair back. "Y'all excuse me, okay? I need to wash my hands."

I turn the corner and stride right past the Ladies Room on my way out the back door. I don't need Esmerelda to open it for me and I'll bet you a Cuban Cigar that Lucy and Ethel will never miss me.

Written by: Cappy Hall Rearick

Barnum and Bailey comes to Town

Good Morning from the World of a Geriatric Caregiver

No. 7 in a series
July 14, 2008


Barnum and Bailey comes to Town

Our three ring circus was churning at full tilt yesterday, with Mom as the head ring mistress and main attraction. The further we daily delve into her condition the more puzzled and amazed we become as to just what is happening to her during the progression of this illness (Congestive heart failure, COPD, Dementia, 88 years of living). It seems we have basically become spectators in an ever changing panorama of spectacular events, as in a Greatest Show on Earth- Barnum and Bailey extravaganza, and have begun to realize that the word "caregiver" represents just that…necessary care in terms of nourishment, medication, comfort, safety and kindness to assist her along this treacherous journey she is traveling. We live in constant awe of the astounding mechanics of the human mind and body… it's spirit, resilience and reactions to external and internal stimuli.

Often, when a person is totally immersed in a situation they fail to see the overall changes that take place…since those changes occur, over time, in such gradual and minute stages. However, the past three weeks have quite visibly, almost abruptly, shown us the tremendous decline of Mom's mental and physical state of health. She is no longer able to maneuver her mind or body in a voluntary manner and has to be reminded when, where and how to sit, walk or eat, comparable to the circus cats, lions, tigers and elephants, as they follow their trainer's every direction. Nor can she recall where various rooms are located in our home, thus verbal directions must be given, as well as physical assistance to reach her desired destination. For several months now she has not ventured to walk on her own and although this is a sad fact, that inability has given us some sense of security, assuming that she would be safe if we were to leave her unattended in a chair, bed, etc. However, one of the recent changes taking place involves this mobility factor. Yesterday, on three separate occasions, we discovered Mom standing alone or walking, with no walker or other stable assistance near by. This is rather frightening, when considering her very low blood pressure, constant dizziness, unsteady gait and overall state of confusion. A drastic example of this happened last night at bedtime. Per doctor's orders, we run a fan in Mom's bedroom to assist with her breathing problems (COPD) and she sleeps nightly with supplemental oxygen in her nostrils. Last night she rebelled against using either, thus I explained to her…once again…the reasons and importance of each device and tucked her securely into bed with her nightly kiss on the forehead, pat on her shoulder and wishes of pleasant dreams . Seldom do we manage to have a calm bedtime routine. Although Mom takes a sleeping pill, she rarely settles down to rest without numerous loud, frantic, rebellious calls through the baby monitor… similar to a two year old child's exhausting antics at the close of day. This frustrating event often goes on for up to an hour before she finally wears herself out and drifts off to sleep. Although this sounds cruel, she has no memory of her screams when you question her, while entering the room to soothe her, and we have wondered if this is simply her way of "lulling" or "chanting" herself to sleep; much like a child sucking his thumb, or rocking in his crib. Last night we had performed our regular nocturnal "dance" of back and forth, back and forth and while returning to the kitchen, after the third visit to her bedside… with my fingers tightly crossed that she would not call again; it suddenly struck me that the sound, coming from her room, was somewhat off kilter. Then it hit me…the fan was not running! Ray quietly slipped into the dark bedroom and discovered that Mom had crawled down to the end of her bed, unplugged the fan, disconnected the oxygen tubing and thrown it to the floor. This is the same person, who only moments earlier, could not recall how to bend her knees to sit down on the bed, button her pajama top, or shift her body to get comfortable for the night; much like the big top juggler who mesmerizes his audience as he rhythmically and skillfully balances numerous colored balls and then suddenly and unexpectedly….drops one! Quite puzzling, indeed.


Somewhere in her lineage Mom is apparently related to either Gypsy Rose Lee, Sally Rand or Mae West. Little did Ray realize, when he offered to stay with Mom while I made a quick run to the grocery yesterday, that he would be a front row spectator to "The Show of Shows". He settled down on the den sofa to watch Tiger win another tournament. Mom dozed peacefully in her near by recliner. In a few moments Ray glanced over to check on her and was quite shocked and startled to see Mom sitting, very relaxed and happy, without a stitch of clothing on her upper torso! She smiled sweetly at Ray and calmly requested a cold drink of water. Leaping from the sofa, bug eyed, bewildered and embarrassed, he sputtered and spewed that she would not get one single thing until she put on her clothes! I have no doubts that Ray will be graciously and eagerly volunteering to make the grocery runs in future weeks.

And so goes it in our ever changing world of geriatrics.
Gotta love those elders… and remember…we're next in line!

jah

Watchin' the River Run

John Ruskey and Jim Stark were on a mission that day when they met up in my front yard here in rural Northwest Tennessee and it was purely a labor of love for both of these devoted rivermen. They departed together with a Bell canoe and a kayak to scout the route for the next days' adventure on the Forked Deer river. Downtown Dyersburg Development Committee hired Ruskey to lead a group of paddlers on the "scenic route" along the river that winds under the bridges on Main Street and further south on the 51 By-pass. Stark, the mayor of Trimble, is a key player in the push to explore and preserve the local river.

Early the next morning the crew of eleven adventurers met up at the new downtown Farmer's Market built on the bank of the river to load up and begin the day. It was a diverse crew consisting of a newsman, two schoolteachers, one teenager and nature lovers from various other walks of life. After John grabbed some peaches from the market, they were off to their put in point at the old iron bridge in Roellen, some ten miles east. Ruskey was the captain of his 26 foot+ dugout canoe called The Ladybug, personally handcrafted from a huge cedar tree. Back in the sixties, the river was prone to flood quite often making farming near to impossible in lowlands and often running people out of their homes during the spring rains. It was then that the Corp of Engineers channeled the river reducing the potential for floods but basically turning it into a big ditch.

As Ruskey and his crew paddled their way west towards Dyersburg, they were treated to some fantastic scenery and a lot of horrendous examples of disrespect for nature in the form of trashing the banks and water of the Forked Deer. Along the way they spotted wildlife of every sort brightening the landscape that was littered with all sorts of refuse from a refrigerator and sunken boat to bottles and cans. As Ruskey wrote in his dispatch later " The river has started to regain some of its' meanders." To nature lovers, that's fantastic news!Originally from Colorado, the forty six year old Ruskey migrated to Clarksdale, Mississippi by way of, what else.....rivers! He and his paddling buddy Mike Clark of St. Louis have recreated the Lewis and Clark expedition as a duo, and played an active role in outfitting and guiding a crew that did the same trip in 2006 to celebrate the 200th anniversary of that historic expedition. He established Quapaw Canoe Company on the banks of the Sunflower River in Clarksdale in 1998 and is a much sought after guide for river exploration in the southeastern United States. An artist, blues fan and devoted husband and father, he has spread the love of river paddling to a new Quapaw Outpost in Helena Arkansas all the while overseeing an afterschool apprenticeship program for at-risk Clarksdale youth who learn much more than river skills from their time with John. His "hostess gift" to me was a copy of Alton Brown's fascinating book "Feasting on Asphalt" in which he travels the length of the Mighty Mississippi sampling foods and sharing recipes from unique family owned restaurants and dives along the way. Ruskey took Brown and his entire audio/visual crew for an overnighter in the Ladybug on the Mississippi teaching him how to cook on the cane that grows wild along the river.

Cost of gas got you down? Get out there and paddle ya'll!!

Quapaw Canoe Company
291 Sunflower Ave.
Clarksdale, MS 38614
661-627-4070

Quapaw Outpost Helena
410 Cherry St.
Helena, AR 72342
870-228-2266

BIlly Bob Thorton and The Boxmasters

Last night I had the pleasure of going to see Billy Bob Thornton and The Boxmasters at Merrimack Hall.


First of all, have you ever been to Merrimack Hall? If not you are missing out.

Merrimack Hall Performing Arts Center

Merrimack Hall, the 25,000 square foot building purchased by Alan and Debra Jenkins in May 2006, was originally built in 1898 and expanded in 1920 by the Merrimack Manufacturing Company, a large textile manufacturer who had two large textile mills and a thriving mill village in Huntsville. Merrimack Hall was home to the Company Store and became the central hub of the village, providing a place for socialization and recreation to all of the village's residents. After nearly 100 years of operation, the Merrimack Mills were demolished in 1992. Today, 269 mill village houses and Merrimack Hall are all that remain of this important part of Huntsville's history.

With renovations complete in June of 2007, Merrimack Hall Performing Arts Center now includes a 300-seat, state-of-the-art performance hall, a 3,000 square foot dance studio, and rehearsal and instructional spaces for musicians. Planned activities include a daily schedule of open classes in music, theatre and dance; workshops and master classes in all of the performing arts conducted by guest artists; summer performing arts camps; and regularly scheduled performances and productions. The Jenkins have established Merrimack Hall Performing Arts Center as a 501 (c) (3) non-profit organization and are personally funding the purchase and renovation of the building.

With the concert last night, I wasn't really sure what to expect. I mean I knew I was going to experience a concert put on by a band with Billy Bob Thornton in it and I knew that Billy Bob's true passion was music and had been doing it long before he became famous with his film Slingblade. In other words, I didn't know if it would really be any good. I was pleasantly surprised.

When Billy Bob first walks out on stage, he lights a cigarette, and I knew we were in for a treat.

The concert, being held in Merrimack Hall, was small and quaint which made the experience even more awesome. We were about 8 rows back and to the right. The concert hall is set up like a movie theater, that is the best way to describe it.

The boys rocked the house for sure. And it was so loud but worth the ear drum ringing afterwards. The band started about 40 minutes late, but again, worth the wait. They started around 8:40 and we left the concert hall at around 10:30.

Billy Bob Thornton and The Boxmasters first came out and played an hour in their cute little matching suits warming us up with their signature electric hillbilly rock and blues. After their break they all came back on stage wearing their own street clothes and you got the sensation that things were fixin' to get even louder and we were about to throw down. And we did.

Everyone ended up standing on their feet cheering, clapping, dancing, whistling, and hootin' and hollerin', present company included. They ended with about a 15 minute encore that just rocked the house completely. It was amazing. I will definitely go back to Merrimack Hall for more entertainment.

Thank you Billy Bob and The Boxmasters for coming to Huntsville and putting on a two night concert event. They released their debut self-titled 2-CD set on June 10 of this year.

I just thought it was awesome that they came to little ole Huntsville and did a two-nighter with us. Then again, he is a good ole southern boy after all. And this was NOT his first time to visit us at Merrimack Hall. He was here last summer too.

Thanks Billy Bob, you rock.


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Man, the south is gettin' all fancy and artsy. LOL.


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c.a. Marks
http://alabamaimproper.com
http://colormehuntsville.com
http://blog.al.com/color-me-huntsville/