All it takes for me to write is one friend to say she hopes I write something soon. I am so easy. One time when one of the kids friends called a girl a sl_t- BeBe corrected them and said she is sexually successful. That makes me writerly successful.
Mim is having a sleep over with one of the girls BeBe nannies. Maddie is just finishing Trader Joe’s version of Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal with her best friend of this generation- the ipad. Mim is tucked in to the window side of the sofa with her phone youtubing. George is playing Lucinda Williams for me on his laptop while looking at long leaf pine forests from a geographer’s perspective.
We woke up slow. I heard Maddie’s voice hoarse and loud and hoped Frida hadn’t peed the wood floors yet.
“I don’t want to hear a love song.” Lucinda added to the conversation as George noted the rain imperceptible to my aging vision. “Thunder storms are coming” said George, and Lucinda implored “Wash me clean.”
I feel lighter because there are more people in my home. The more heart beats, the less heartache. Or the less discomfort. I feel at ease. The girls up their volume without any appreciation for the genius of melodies and lyrics. George stepped out to feel the rain through the replaced screen door, the condo board insisted on. Damn. I hate when they are right. Maddie moved the leather director’s chair handed down from a music exec my Dad cared for, so she could set up her ipad in an upright position on the seat. She is spinning on the steering wheel that hangs from our ceiling and watching something majorly important and so identical to every other viewing. George shakes the the orange juice carton. Linus and Frida bark at a cat and are hushed. The steering wheel is left over from when Mim spun to settle herself. The spinning was once a lifeline she accepted. George crunches the recycling with his growing shoulders. Woodworking has built him a new frame. He is my only grown child to live with me and he turns 21 this very Tuesday. I have always loved tuesdays.
Mim looks up from her mini screen- Ohhh it’s raining.
Lucinda croons. George sits next to me on the same sofa. He is on the lamp side. He opens the Garden & Gun magazine I bough for 50 cents at the Cathedral Thrift store. I felt justified. The money wouldn’t go to the magazine. I bought five magazines all May or June 2023. 50 cents- good find. I wouldn’t buy Garden & Gun at the store because I can’t support anything that says Gun. Guns are not entertainment or Souther gentility or a selling point for a magazine leaning toward trying too hard. Lucinda had a big spread. It is difficult to decipher which pages are ads and which are content. Maybe it doesn’t matter. The fonts are alluring. The photos are worth comment. Frida comes in off the screened porch when the thunder starts. Lucinda croons, “You can’t rule me.” Her can’t is almost a cain’t but not it in an obvious way. My head rolls in a bluesy way and I remember that it is attached to my neck which is attached to my back. Yes ma’am Lucinda- I do exist. Thanks for seeing me and allowing me to see myself. George- “the fern is looking better” We have been worrying about Fern on these rainless days.
Frida lies down.
Sundays are good, too. I’m on the middle cushion scooted toward George so Mim can remain untouched but curled up. She has been untouchable recently. Maddie makes a face as thunder rumbles heavy on our side of kudzu mountain. Someone will yell at Frida any minute. She is eating out of Linus’ bowl. Lucinda recovered from a stroke. She sings about a train and I love her again. My body feels hit by a train. I fear gallbladder stuff or worse- conditions that involve low fat and no Publix key lime pie. I ignored it just speeding on my tracks. Lucinda sings on stages again- riding a tour bus- recovered.
George’s feet rest on a stool with a silver midcentury base and a cushioned pleather colonial blue seat. It spins. This stool has been brought home from my library job. I sat here and didn’t spin but turned from left to right to show two dozen children at a time the pictures of many storybooks. I am not a librarian next year. I am going back to my original passion and training- teaching preschoolers with disability. Librarian is a dream job. Reading to children everyday. Having children in the palm of my hand for a moment. Laughing in communion. Crying with togetherness. Planting seeds of kindness or anti-racism or knowledge of disability or immigration. I do not like books that spell it out for us. We learned from stories and talking armadillos, bus passengers, haunted schools, and Boxcar Children. Book covers as mirrors. Beautiful words. Shel Silverstein. Kevin Henkes. Malala. Beverly Cleary. Carl Hiaasen. Grace Lin. Oge Mora. I was the richest woman sitting on that extra short stool that perched me comfortably or launched me into a song- “The more we get together…” I signed and sang to kindergarten every afternoon. A usually cooperative captive audience and books. Books. The questions, the comments- off topic and on. The children whether sponges or walls, sat in front of my stories. We shared and wondered. A luckier job does not exist. And, now I’m getting ready to return to sand boxes and fat crayons. Potty training, trains and Fisher Price. They will teach me Bluey and Peppa Pig and I will resurrect Oscar the Grouch and Raffi. I have so much to learn.
Maddie’s mom is on her way to pick her up. The laptop plays Allison Krauss. Mim is sugaring her second cup. She uses her Yeti cup her dad gave her for Xmas. Definitely bought by Karen his girlfriend. I mean Karen chose the dusty pink color and millenial gray name sticker and Walt bought it. The rain falls. There is a faint smell of a dead mouse. George will check it for me.
I need coffee.
Momoirist 
Love all of this. Wh
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