Shadrach, Meshach, and Malaprop

If I knew anything about babies prior to having a child, I knew that during the first five years of their lives their brains are little sponges, which is why these are considered the crucial formative years for our offspring.

As May approaches, we are about to enter the 5th year with our little sponge-head, and, so far, she has given us quite a demonstration on exactly how much information she can soak in. I've come to embrace the sponge analogy that is most frequently used to describe the brains of our little ones. In fact, I can take it a step further: not only are 0-5 year-olds absorbing everything around them, but like a real sponge, the information doesn't always come back out the same way it went it. So with a good hard squeeze of the sponge, the water comes out looking murkier or even mixed in with unknown particles. Sometimes when my Charley Anne gets a firm squeeze, her absorbed contents pour out that unique blend one can only get after swiping a publicly-shared microwave oven. You just never know what all has been spilled in there. 

Since March, Charley has taken an intense interest in reading her Bible. Her nightly readings may be partially responsible for her recent tantrum over not being able to physically see Jesus in her bedroom when she needed help to stop crying. It has been nice, though, to hear her discuss and ask questions about the Bible. I am impressed at how well her Bible keeps the stories perfectly age-appropriate - even for my kid who almost turned a question about Mary's baby-daddy into a complete discussion about where babies come from and/or an episode of Maury...Joseph, you are NOT the father! 

Additionally, our Spring Break trip to Tennessee intensified Charley's already existing love for music. After seeing a few live performances, she has taken a particular interest in the twangy sounds of bluegrass and folk. This has prompted me to play a little more Sara Watkins, Nickel Creek, Old Crow Medicine Show and Punch Brothers on our daily commutes. It's not much, but it's an enormous win for me. I may have to give up Bob and Tom in the AM, but at least I am not listening to Beiber, Nicki Minaj, or those god-awful Kids Bop CDs that pretend like it is totally normal for a 7-year-old to belt out "I Set Fire to the Rain." Ummm, please tell me how 1st graders can relate to tormenting love.

And this is where it gets tricky. 

As we rode home from Tennessee, I played a few tunes for Charley. She really latched on to "Wagon Wheel," or "Rock Me" as she mostly calls it. We still listen to that song. A lot. Do you know how many times you can listen to "Wagon Wheel" in a 45 minute commute from work to home? A lot. Other than the chorus, she has a few lyrics she loves to scream from teh backseat: "I pray to God I see headlights" and "He was headed west from the Cumberland Gap to Johnson City, Tennessee." (Amazingly, it is not "I caught a trucker outta Philly/ Had a nice long toke"). I know that she really likes the latter line because it specifically references Tennessee and she loves to talk about her family trips to Tennessee.

But pray to God I see headlights? I could never really get that one? 

Initially, I assumed that due to her recent conversations about God, she was just relating to OCMS for their recognition of God. (God? I know him!!) But she actually almost went Buddy-the-Elf on me when she heard him say the line. With her surprised face, "Mom! Did you hear that? Did you hear them? Pray to God! Headlights!"

So as the official English teacher of the car I did what I am best at and sucked all the fun out of the song by interpreting. I go into an explanation of how "praying for headlights" is another way of saying "I hope a car passes by soon." To which she cluelessly nods and continues to pick her nose, not caring one bit about what I just said. 

Fast forward to Monday.

I pick Charley up from school and get the usual 'smh'-look from her teacher. "Oh no. What did she do this time?" 

With a laugh she says, "She has been talking about dying and heaven all day. She kept telling people they have Jesus in their hearts."

"Ummm-yeah. She gets pretty passionate about heaven and angels and God." 

"Yeah. She told us all about the story of Shadrach, Meshach & Abendego."

"Oh, yeah. She's all about that fiery furnace." (So that may have got me on the short list of parents who need a visit from Child Protective Services).  

Of our friends and family, Gary and I are the least likely to be voted Most Likely to Raise a Evangelical-Bible-Thumping Daughter. Even so, I want to handle the conversation with her teacher and with her very carefully.  I had absolutely no issues with what she was talking about. I think it's kinda cool. Actually, it's awesome. So on our car ride home, I probed her regarding the day's events just out of curiosity. 

She rambled on about many of her favorite stories and then requested that we listened to "Wagon Wheel" - of course. As I fumbled with the cord for the iPhone, she continued her sermon and concentrated on her favorite fire tale trio. I'm half listening as she declares that Wagon Wheel is about God's people. Say what? And with utter disgust at my offensive ignorance, she throws up her hands and exclaims, "Headlights!" 

I'm lost. But quickly assume that she is not hearing the line correctly. "No Charley. He says 'I pray to God...' not people of God." The singing begins and she could care less about my explanations. Glad I can end my day with as much teaching success as I have throughout my day. 

About two "Wagon Wheels" later it hits me. Bless her heart. 

God's people. 

Headlights. 

Israelites.

Her Bible's exact words are "Israelites are God's people." All this time Charley thought ol' Ketch was praying to God he saw Israelites on his trek to North Caroline. Maybe he would have after that nice, long toke.

We have one more year to prime our kid's brain and build the foundation her future depends upon.  I resolve to be a little more careful with the scope and sequence at which I let her encounter new material. The last thing I need is for her to confuse Tom Petty's Mary Jane for the Virgin Mary doing a final waltz "once last time to kill the pain" of childbirth. 

Whoop-dee-do and I love you...

I wrote the following memoir  in 2006. I was working through the realization that my Mamaw was starting to battle dementia/Alzheimer's. Mamaw died last night at the age of 86, but I feel as though I have been saying goodbye to her for years now. The Mamaw I remember is strong and funny and loving – not the frail, quiet lady I said good bye to last night. Many of you may remember Mamaw at her most famous station - the Walmart service desk. I remember my Mamaw in her chair.

Last week, my husband Gary and I made our first adult purchase together and bought a brand new leather couch. As we spent our first Sunday sprawled on the new monstrosity that barely fits in our small living room, I noticed that we had claimed our sides. I prefer to lounge on the end that allows me to reach the nearby shelf so I can spread my clutter all around, and Gary sits on the opposite end for optimal remote control use. As I looked at our defined positions I was amused by how quickly we surrendered to this seating arrangement, but really not all that surprised. I don't know about my husband, but I am, in fact, genetically predisposed to such territorial behaviors. Most people claim a place in their home, but my Mamaw Gib, is someone I most associate with distinct pieces of furniture.


I can remember hazy summer days in the old brown house. My Mamaw arranged her body and most necessary belongings at the kitchen table. Mamaw controlled her domestic universe from this common location. As though she wanted to make sure we knew she was chore ready, she'd be dressed in ragged, bleach-stained shorts and an oversized sleeveless, yellow, cotton T-shirt with elbows carelessly on the table. Her back grazed the washing machine and dryer, while she was within a few steps from the stove and, most importantly, only a flick of the wrist from her Merit Ultra Lights and a worn deck of playing cards.


I don't know what drew me to her side at the table, whether it was the leftover biscuits that hid under a paper towel or the easy view of Pappy Duke's blaring TV, but I found it so comfortable to plop myself at the table, still damp from the dish rag she swiped across the surface to remove sausage gravy. She would scurry around the kitchen folding underwear and dropping dumplings all at the same time, while I just rambled about my 8-year-old dramas: mean teachers, unfair parents, and best friends. In between her hurried tasks, though, she would always rest back into her chair, shuffle the deck of cards, and sometimes even deal me in a hand of Double Solitaire.

The first time I saw my Mamaw cry was at that very table. We were watching the final episode of The Golden Girls and I looked to my right to see a tear drop quietly from Mamaw's eye just as Dorothy hugged her girls goodbye. Without skipping a beat, Mamaw huffed, slapped my shoulder, and let out a "Well, shit, Ab!" (her favorite phrase, beside "Whoop-dee-do") as if to curse away this frivolous TV indulgence and instance of weakness. This moment creeps back into my memory each time I watch the Lifetime rerun of that very episode. I am not touched at the sentimentality of the episode, rather the tenderness of my Mamaw.

When I was in the sixth grade the small city of Morehead was deciding to develop its budding commerce. This meant that the beloved old brown house behind the Pizza Hut would be demolished and Mamaw's kitchen table was to be moved all the way across town to Clearfield.

The new house, though, was perfect. Mamaw could still sit comfortably with her back to the washing machine and dryer and she still was just a shuffle away from the stove and sink, There was one distinct change that incurred at this new residence, which ultimately affected her favorite furniture inclination. Due to breathing problems, my Pappy Duke was forced to rely on the clear plastic tube of his oxygen machine. This meant Mamaw would have to enjoy her Merit Ultra Lights outside in order to avoid the disastrous explosion that could transpire if Mamaw and her lit flame came too close to Pappy and his relaxing breathing aid – I knew about this dangerous fusion between these two, long before the oxygen machine moved in. Quitting her habit was never really an option because being a woman of habits it was much easier for her to simply occupy a new site. She chose the white wicker rocking chair that sat in the corner of her small front porch.

At this time I was devoting my winter schedule to basketball practices and games; therefore, my visits with Mamaw were more frequently in the summer when I could keep her company during long and frequent smoke breaks. Somehow, with the razing of the old house, my Mamaw's chores were lessened and we had more time to just sit and chat, which was good, because now a teenager I had more serious problems to tend to, even though mean teachers, unfair parents, and best friends still remained on the agenda.

Mamaw would rock and I would talk as neighbors walked through the street in front of us. Despite the constant traffic just a few feet away, I always felt secluded on the porch with Mamaw. Maybe it was because we were away from the chaos of the blaring TV that hadn't been turned down since they lived on Barber Court and that we were not near the heavy humming of Pappy's newest noise maker, but it was out on that porch I suddenly started talking of things more feminine despite my desperate attempts to remain the resident tomboy. On that porch one late summer afternoon, Mamaw became the first family member to know about my first serious boyfriend – a taboo subject I had avoided much longer than my two cousins who have talked openly about the opposite sex while I was still passing boy cooties to my neighbor in the lunch line with ‘no-take-backs.’ Giving a comfortable shrug, Mamaw just rocked back in her chair, ashed her cigarette on the concrete and asked questions about his family, while I slowly gushed about my secret crush.

The evening chat about boys on the porch suddenly became a childhood memory, as it wasn't long before I walked up the porch step, looked at the empty rocking chair to realize I was a 20 year-old college student. Mamaw no longer had any time for that front porch post, as she was forced to quit her nicotine addiction and move inside where she was needed by my Pappy Duke. Pappy was diagnosed with cancer in late July that year and Mamaw forgot to smoke as she gave her every second to her husband. She perpetually sat in his recliner beside his hospital issued bed until his death in early November of the same year. As it was for my entire family, those brief months centered around Pappy, so I honestly can't recall any significant moments with Mamaw; she became displaced during the shuffling of doctor appointments, pill bottles, home health nurses, and everyone's last visits with Pappy. Somewhere in that house she just sat quietly to the side while we all dealt with Pappy's death in our own ways.

Had I not been so overwhelmed and focused on Pappy during his last days, I'm pretty sure I would have laughed at Mamaw who was courageous enough to settle into Pappy's massive recliner that boasted a structure and aura much larger than the fragile lady relaxed in its sunken seat. The recliner was Pappy's place and for anyone to sit in it, especially with him in the same room, was a blasphemous sin comparable only to not cleaning your plate at mealtime. It wasn't until months after the chaos of Pappy's death that I even noticed Mamaw's new, absurd location.

At this very moment I can walk into the living room to find Mamaw dressed in loose cotton PJ's, cross-legged, and hunched in Pappy's recliner under a sour cloud of cigarette smoke. Mamaw may have abandoned her former seats, but she soon reunited with the familiarity and comfort of her embrace with that long, smooth stick.

Despite the several years that I have had to adjust to her new furniture preference, I still get the feeling that the scene is just out of place, like a curious toddler who slips on daddy's giant work boots. It's sweet that she sits in Pappy's room, but this is not her place. Mamaw now faces the less used washer and dryer and doesn't even bother with stove or sink a room away. For the past three Christmases I have bought her a new deck of playing cards, but they remain unopened as she no longer has the sturdy kitchen table always before her. The TV plays on loud as ever, but even she will admit that "it's just for the noise." I am slowly coming to terms with the realization that Mamaw's new chair extends beyond just a change of scenery.

It is no secret, nor is it a surprise, that Mamaw's memory is fading. Somehow her sharp tongue, coinciding chores, and patient flips of playing cards have become lost somewhere in this life long game of musical chairs. The odd appearance of her latest arrangement is sharply outlined by the ever progressing derangement of her mind. The repetitious questions have the warmth of my caring Mamaw, but they lack the sincerity of the woman who has always sat close by to listen and hear me my whole life. Over the years it has become my habit, my inclination, to turn to this woman as my confidant and close friend. Now I have to share my seat with the uninvited consequences of aging.

(Sidenote: The couch that referenced in the first paragraph is now, 6 years later, worn, ragged and sagging – but, dammit, isn’t that what Time does to us all?)