Even if he had woken up, my devoted son decided to go back to sleep, figuring Mom could handle it. This was a defining moment of motherhood for me. Where was the legendary mother-son bond? That special kind of caring through which growing boys think they’ve become men and feel the Neanderthal urge to take care of the little women in their lives?
Well, it wasn’t in my house. All I had in my house was a purse that had been mortally wounded and a Sears credit card with a hole in it. Why I’d dropped my purse in the hallway next to my office door is one of life’s little mysteries. A half-inch to the right and I’d have killed the damned cell phone that started the mess. A half-inch to the left and I wouldn’t have had to answer pesky sales clerk questions about why there were holes in my credit cards. If I’d taken the purse into my office and shut the door, I’d never have heard the beeping in the first place and I wouldn’t have been standing there certain I’d done something fundamentally wrong in raising my son.
Life’s like that a lot. Full of little decisions that change every piece of your future.
That night I put away the gun and crept back into my bed. I had a little bit of a hole in my heart too. I really had thought I could do this mother thing. That my own child would love me back and worry about me. That I’d always be necessary to his life somehow. Be something other than a pain in his butt.
After that the teenage years were some dark hugless years. Hugging Mom is not cool apparently. Those years were also when the first ripped-out-sleeves shirt appeared in his wardrobe. I took solace from the fact that my redneck was at least on the honor roll and going away to college on a partial academic scholarship. I hadn’t failed completely.
Complaining to my friends was out. They all had daughters. If I tried to explain my concerns they gave me a withering look and said, “At least he doesn’t come through the front door wailing that his life is over and fling himself on his bed in a fit of hysterics. You can actually use your own telephone. And your clothes don’t keep disappearing. Shut up and count your blessings.”
It wasn’t until he was home for the summer that first year of college that light began shining at the end of the tunnel. He had a summer job. I knew asking about his college life, girlfriends and financial situation was off limits. But I thought maybe . . . just maybe . . . we can talk about the new job. I bounded through the front door that evening hoping to catch him before he was off to visit friends.
The house was empty. Disappointment began to creep over me until I noticed the handwritten note taped to my computer screen.
Mom,
Work was good.
Gone Out. Be home probably late. You don’t have to wait up. The beeping you hear will be me. Do me a favor. Try not to shoot me.
Love you,
Bill
I still have the note. It’s as special as any Mother’s Day card could ever be. And I’m more delighted than I would ever have thought possible to be the mom of a 3/5 redneck.
Melanie better watch out because this Scarlett is going to do a helluva job as a grandmother.
The Vinegar Files
by
Linda Holmes
The four seasons are salt, pepper, mustard and vinegar.
—Kids Say the Darndest Things
MOST SOUTHERN women know how to get extended, creative mileage out of any given product. For example, both of my grandmothers and Mama could find an infinite number of ways to use a paper bag during the course of its lifetime: shelf liner; lunch sack; school project; liquid blotter; or, dress pattern, just to name a few. Likewise, I watched these women working in our Georgia homes over the years as they found more uses for vinegar than I could shake a stick at. As a product of this training, I ventured into creative uses of vinegar in ways that even Mama and my grandmothers didn’t consider, particularly during one summer in the mid 1960’s when I was 12 years old.
That was the summer that I was planning to go to camp for two weeks in August right before Labor Day weekend and getting back into school. Being an only child, Mama let me invite Trina, a girlfriend of mine from our suburban neighborhood, to go along with me to camp. We completed our camp applications together right after we got out of school for the summer, and we were thrilled near the end of June when we got our letters stating that our applications had been received and accepted.
The two of us spent a great part of our summer weeks together planning for our camp adventures, including taking swimming lessons for eight weeks at our neighborhood swimming pool. That way, we figured we would be able to at least tread water and float well enough to avoid being placed in the “beginners” level for swimming at camp. Nobody wanted to be called a “baby” when swimming hour came around.
At home, Mama’s first run of cucumbers and tomatoes had just ripened in her small backyard garden, so our kitchen reeked of vinegar and pickling spices for weeks as she prepared and “put up” jar after jar of Daddy’s favorite sweet pickles. We enjoyed fresh tomato sandwiches daily while the pickling was going on. The juice from the ripe tomatoes in my sandwiches always seemed to drizzle down on my shirts as I ate, and I noticed that Mama somehow got the tomato stains out every time. I was curious about this accomplishment, so I asked her about it.
“Mama, didn’t this shirt have that big tomato stain on it the other day”?
“Yes ma’am, Sarah Fay, it did, but I do know something about getting stains out.”
“Well, how did you do it?”
“It’s simple. I just rubbed a bit of vinegar through the stain before laundering the shirt. Vinegar works on the tomato juice that way.”
“Mama, is there anything that vinegar can’t do?”
“I’ve heard that it won’t draw as many flies as honey, but maybe that’s about it.”
Mama knew everything, or so it seemed to me at the age of twelve. While she worked on the pickles, she made one or two vinegar pies. I always wondered why the vinegar pie tasted sweet instead of sour or bitter.
“Mama, why do you call this pie a ‘vinegar pie’? I inquired. “It doesn’t even taste sour or strong like vinegar.”
“Well, Sarah, that’s part of the attraction for tasting it, you see. What you call the pie, the name of it, can either make people want to try it or make them have a big time discussing why they won’t try it. Some folks will taste a “vinegar pie” just to find out if it tastes like vinegar or not.”
“Does it really have vinegar in it, Mama?”
“Yes, but only a couple of teaspoonfuls to offset the sugar and vanilla’s sweetness a bit. The vinegar makes the taste ‘just right.’”
It was during the weeks of summer swimming lessons that circumstances led to my own first set of creative vinegar adventures. Mama and Trina’s Mom took turns driving us to our weekly swimming lessons. The week of the third lesson was especially hot and sultry with temperatures all the way up into the high ‘80’s, and the humidity made us feel as sticky as ice cream when it melts on your hands and fingers. Trina and I both came home all sunburned. Back in those days, we didn’t have the multitude of sunblock products on the market that one finds nowadays. Instead, we had QT and zinc oxide or baby oil.
We vowed that we would have to wear a hat and a T-shirt over our swimsuits for the next weeks’ lessons so we wouldn’t keep on getting too much sun. When I got home, Mama took one look at me and immediately went into action.
“Goodness gracious, Sarah, you are as red as a beet. Thank goodness I know just what to do.”
As I looked into the mirror in my room, I saw what Mama meant. I looked more like a lobster than a person. Mama appeared at the doorway a minute or two later with a big, wide bowl full of something that smelled pretty strong. I recognized that scent as the same one we had been smelling from the kitchen during pickling time as she began patting down my sunburned arms, legs, and face with her vinegar and water mixture.
“Now this will burn at first, but then the vinegar will take that sunburn sting right on out, and you’ll be feeling better in a little bit.”
Surprisingly, Mama was right. Although my skin felt like it was on fire for a few seconds, the sting dissipated quickly, and I did feel cooler and better, too after a few minutes. As I changed into play clothes and ran outside, I heard Mama telling me to be ready to ride with her to the fabric store in a half-hour.
I met up with Trina at her house, and we sat down on her front steps together.
“Whew, Sarah, what is that smell? I sure didn’t smell that before you got here just now.”
“Mama patted some vinegar over my sunburn. I guess you can smell it pretty strong, huh?”
“Pretty strong? I could probably smell you all the way over into the next county right now.”
“We’re about to ride up to the store so Mama can buy the fabric material for our camp talent night costumes,” I added.
“Do you think I can have a blue outfit, and you can have the same design in another color, cause blue is my favorite?” Trina asked.
“Sure, I want pink or red, and I’ll ask Mama to get blue for you.” I replied.
Right then, I heard Mama calling me to come on and get in the car, so I told Trina goodbye and went on with Mama to the store. Mama could sew anything at all after she saw a picture of the desired garment; that was one of her talents. Trina and I had drawn out a rough picture of the costumes we wanted, with sleek, long sleeves and gathered skirts; the blouses would be pastels and the skirts would be plaid or prints of some kind with the same matching background color as in the skirts’ fabric. After studying our sketches, Mama cut out patterns from some paper bags and newspapers she’d saved and sized them up on us both; the next step would be getting the fabric.
Trina and I intended to win the talent competition at camp or know the reason why not, and our special costumes would help us along in that endeavor. We planned to sing one of that year’s wildly popular songs that we’d heard on our transistor radios, Turn, turn, turn, by the Byrds, with lyrics from the Bible (Ecclesiastes, Chapter 3). The Vietnam War was ongoing, influencing the songs that folks remembered and shared.
Mama agreed to help us with the costumes when she heard the song and knew it carried along a Bible message for all times. She said we could be God’s ambassadors at camp that way.
We arrived at the small fabric shop and got out of the car to go inside. Mama and I had just been inside the store a minute or two when several shoppers nearby looked over at us and made grimacing faces. Mama ignored them and went on about searching for the fabric that she thought would make great costumes for us. Pretty soon, I was standing alone on one side of the little shop while everyone else hovered around the store manager talking in hushed voices.
A few minutes later, I ended up having to wait in the car because of my vinegar treatment. The odor was apparently stronger than Mama or I realized. This experience came in handy the following week when Trina and I needed to think of a solution to a problem she was having with her teenaged sister.
Trina’s sister was dating, and she seemed to want to flaunt this accomplishment in front of Trina and the rest of us neighborhood children who were still pre-teens. She would pick on Trina, calling her names and teasing her all the time, saying, “I get to go out on dates whenever I want to cause I’m sixteen now, and you’re too young to date.”
Although neither Trina nor any of the rest of us younger children cared about that dating thing (we had too many other adventures going on), it really bothered Trina that her sister wouldn’t hush. The day came during July of that summer when Trina decided to take action, and she needed me to be her accomplice because of my vinegar knowledge.
“Sarah, what kind of vinegar does your Mama use on you for sunburn? You know, the stuff that smells so loud people don’t want to be near you”?
“Well, we have different kinds, the regular vinegar and then some cider vinegar. Also, Mama has some vinegar that she flavors with seasonings in it and it tastes better than the regular, unseasoned kind. It may smell bad, but it sure does make a sunburn feel better if you can get through the stinging time without passing out.”
“Let’s go see if we can find some of the regular or cider vinegar in our kitchen. I have an idea how I can teach my smarty pants sister a lesson, if you’ll help me.” Trina replied.
We moved into Trina’s kitchen while her Mama was outside taking in the laundry off the clothesline, and we managed to pour a good bit of vinegar into a coffee cup and make it back to Trina’s room before her Mama came back into the house. Since the older sister was gone to a friend’s house that day, we were able to rummage through her things without getting reprimanded, as long as we were quiet and careful. We found a cologne bottle on the dresser: bingo.
We locked ourselves in the bathroom and poured most of the vinegar into the bottle, and then we shook it up real hard so the vinegar mixed in with the cologne. When we tested our concoction by spraying some of it on our hands, we nearly fell over due to the scent. It was perfectly odorific, just the way we wanted it. We washed our hands with soapy water before sneaking back into her sister’s room and placing the cologne bottle back in its place on the dresser. That way, we wouldn’t leave a vinegar-scented trail through the house.
It wasn’t but an hour or so after I got back to my house that evening that Trina came running over asking if I could come outside to play for a few minutes before supper. Mama let me go out with her, and she broke down laughing as soon as we were in the yard, out of ear-shot.
“O.K.” Trina began. “My sister has a date tomorrow night, so let’s ask if you can come over tomorrow afternoon and stay the night so we can find out how she feels when somebody gets a joke on her. She’ll be sure to spray on some cologne because she always does that when she’s getting ready to go out on a date. I’ve watched her.”
“I bet we get in trouble for it all,” I replied.
“Well, she deserves it.” Trina continued. “I’ll say it was my idea if we get found out.”
Mama agreed that I could spend the next evening at Trina’s house. She and Daddy always thought an only child like me needed to be socialized as much as possible, so they were pleased to let me stay over at my close friends’ homes occasionally.
When Trina’s sister came out to greet her date, we heard her dress swishing on down the hallway toward the front door. We followed her and peeked out at the scene from a safe distance; we could both smell the vinegar odor in the air, too, so we knew the cologne had been put into action. We watched and listened as the date asked her whether she had on a new perfume and stepped back away from her as they walked out to his car.
We couldn’t help ourselves as we doubled over in laughter for several minutes. Trina’s Mom even asked us whether we were all right.
The next morning Trina and I scuffed into her kitchen in our pajamas and bedroom slippers for some cereal and toast, and we could hear her sister sobbing over the telephone to a girlfriend that her date didn’t seem to want to be around her very long because he brought her home early. We also overheard her saying that she wondered whether her cologne was too strong.
We barely got through eating our breakfast without cracking up right then and there. The plan worked even better than we had hoped it would. We never did get “found out,” at least as far as we knew. Trina’s sister poured out that cologne, vowing to find a different kind that wasn’t so strong, and she stopped picking on Trina so much, too. She even played “Life” or “Monopoly” with us occasionally after that experience.
I decided that the song from the Bible was right according to a twelve year-old’s experiences: “To everything there is a season and a time to every purpose under the heaven” (Ecclesiastes 1:1).
Just a couple of weeks after the cologne vinegar episode, one of the families
in our neighborhood discovered that they had planted too many cucumber seeds in their backyard vegetable garden. I’m talking so many cucumbers that they even kept boxes of cucumbers in their front door hallway all the rest of the summer. When anyone stopped by their house and rang the bell, he or she received a box of cucumbers as a gift.
Everyone on the whole street grew sick of cucumbers. The Mothers in every household got out their pickle recipes, and the neighborhood grocery stores ran out of vinegar completely and had to reorder. Pickles couldn’t be made fast enough because the supply was so much greater than the demand.
Finally, one of the Mothers found a “cold set” recipe where the pickling juices and vinegar could all be used cold instead of having to boil everything. She helped the surplus cucumber family set up large containers in their basement as they made pickles by the barrel, instead of by the jar. We all sent our cucumbers to them at that point of the summer. Although the resulting pickles tasted pretty good, people just get tired of pickles after awhile.
Trina and I were relieved when August rolled around and out parents drove us to camp for two weeks. We met the other girls in our cabin, and we ended up having a great time. Since we’d taken swimming lessons, we both got into the “Intermediate” swimming section (thank goodness) instead of the “beginners” section. In the late afternoon, the girls from our cabin used our free time to practice rowing a canoe around the lake and singing at the top of our lungs.
Trina and I were a big hit on the talent night, too, and we ended up winning first place. We had practiced together all summer, and our acappella rendition of Turn, turn, turn wasn’t half bad. I’m certain that our fancy costumes helped us, too. We both got a blue ribbon, and the camp director asked us to sing again during the Sunday church meeting in the outside pavilion. Some girls from another cabin weren’t too happy that their cheerleading performance with uniforms and pom-poms from their school didn’t win them first place. I decided that the judges were impressed that a pop song could reflect a Bible lesson, and that Trina and I could sing it through without getting all those lyrics mixed up.
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