Early June will mark the end of my post-emancipation reconstruction era, and I've gotta say it at least feels more productive than the other, um, real one. I'm extremely grateful for this time off for many reasons, but most of all for the break it's given my mind. Unemployment shillings aside, I feel rather rich as a result of these two-plus months of freedom. To have the space and time to look back on where I've been gives me a clearer sense of where I can and need to go (and most importantly, I am now crystal clear on where I need not go). Venturing home ranks as the second best thing about this break. My gran stubbornly and snidely refuses to yield to anything or anyone--cancer first and foremost--and it's turned into something beautiful to behold. Sure, she can still pinch every last one of my nerves, but despite her ornery gaze and sharp tongue, I sense a "this too shall pass" peace about her that reminds me daily about God and grace. Plus, she's rockin' the hell out of a short, salt 'n pepper, cropped 'do, and I cannot tell you how much it tickles me to watch her face whenever I ask her in my best Jimmy Swaggert voice, "Are ya happy to be nappy, Gran?"
If the furrow between her brows could kill I swear I'd have died 10,000 deaths already. But as it is, a lifelong love of back-talk and my own left brow resurrect a li'l bit of sass each time.
Gran: Danita, I declare. You look like you tryin' to lose summa that weight.
Me: Oh, Lord. What I done done now?
Gran: What? I didn't say nothin'. I'm tryin' to tell you somethin' nice, but I guess you don't wanna hear that.
Me: Mmmhmm. Well. Thanks for dustin' off all my Oreos. That certainly helps my cause.
Gran (muttering): Well you left 'em sittin' there. I'm just saying that your behind looks like it might be going somewhere. And that's good.
Me: Uh huh. Okay. Well I'm workin' on it, Gran.
Gran: Well, good. I'd like to see that, I really would. I mean it.
Me: Well then, I reckon you're just gonna have to keep on livin' then, huh?
Gran: Oh yeah! That'll give me somethin' to look forward to. I'd like to see that. For sure! Then you can do somethin' with that hair.
Me: Well if my ass is going somewhere my hair has to stay put. Otherwise, how you gonna know it's me?
Mags is here mandating cleanliness and throwin' down the side-eye gauntlet. Watching senior citizens trade "wells" and eye rolls thrills and frightens me to no end. My Gran sounds (and looks) a lot like Irma P. Hall and Ursula from The Little Mermaid right when she's about to snatch Ariel's pipes; Mags is a cross between Roz from Night Court and Claire Huxtable when she means business.
Gran: Dern, Margaret Ann. If this chicken gets any drier I'm going to have to order new teeth.
Mags (unleashing the slitty side-eye): Well don't eat it then.
Gran: Well I waited long enough for it.
Mags: Well then I guess you can chew long enough for it, too.
I'm glad I've had this time to infuse a li'l diversion into their lives, and I'm proud to serve as the referee for Smackdown - Two Old Biddies 2011. When I can manage to snap a picture of them (without then being too scared to go to sleep at night) I'll post it. You need to see the looks they give each other; they'll show you that Tyra don't know shit about fierce.
It got a bit testy the other day when Gran insisted that she'd take her bath when she was good and ready. Mags turned her nose up in such a way that I caught visions of a pug so I lured her with a trip to Wal-Mart and her personal favorite, Family Dollar. While out I tried asking her all sorts of questions to get a read on how she was really handling her time with Gran when it's just the two of them. She's made a sensational recovery and is (thanks-be-to-God) enjoying a steady period of great health, but I've become so protective of her. I think that's why my uterus has gone all "bygones" about birthin' babies.
Anyway, she saw this, got tickled and a belated, bonus Mother's Day gift was given:
Now, I'd like to follow with an image of Mags on said bike, but I was too stunned by the rapidity with which she sped out of the driveway to capture it for your viewing pleasure. I must admit that I am a bit spoiled and always eager to please my mama, so I totally bought the bike because it was her idea. However, immediately typical me thought, "Sweet! All I need is a basket and I'm savin' on gas money by cuttin' the runs to Bi-Lo and Family Dollar! And it's exercise!"
I didn't think she'd actually ride the dern thing. Much like when I was seven or eight I didn't even come close to believing she'd be able to graze the softball, let alone knock it two football fields away. I thought my athletic abilities came courtesy of my father, but his third-stringin' quarterback self was vanquished with one swing from the Sultana of Swat. We never did find that ball. And I will never forget how much my jaw hurt from all the hangin' it did while watching my mom trot 'round those bases. She laughed the entire time. I'm talkin' the head full-tilt-all-the-way-back laugh. Throaty and carefree. It was the first time I ever imagined her as a little girl, and in that moment I sure was glad she was my mama because I'd have hated her guts too much to be her friend.
So Mags took the bike out for a spin--in her bedroom shoes mind you--and promptly brought it back and parked it proving that you really never do forget how to ride a bike ...
But you certainly remember how small your behind used to be. (Or maybe that's just me. Sheesh.)
Anyway, this makes my third trip home in two months. The first visit's weather totally wins. I'm pretty sure it rained a couple of days, but the azaleas and dogwoods were in full bloom then; the mosquitoes hadn't gotten the bite-all-the-meat-you-can-eat memo about my ankles (I know. They so stupid.); the euphoria of sunrise and sunset on a porch was anew.
The second visit was warmer. I felt energized enough to cut some grass for the first time in a dozen years--with a push mower no less. My aunt kept me busy in the yard, my mom kept me busy in the house and my Gran's mouth kept my behind out of the kitchen.
This visit though? I'm fourteen shades blacker and sweat faster than I can swig. It's been in the mid-90s every single day and I'mma tell ya, the humidity's hospitality will outdo any other Southerner's this side of Beezlebub's butthole.
You know it's hot when the biddies have such visceral flashbacks of their personal summers that they demand A/C. But it's also crazy hot when Danita contemplates smearing perfectly edible watermelon all over her face instead of ingesting it into her belly.
Sidenote: You would probably be able to see me in this awesome picture from camp except that I was most likely off to the side Augustus Glooping an armload of watermelon while stiff-arming kids with the leftover rinds. Nevertheless, I introduce you to molplum + the there-was-no-need-to-show-her-face-nohow-'cause-it-so-got-meloned little girl. Please note the technique. Here molplum is flexin' the smoosh-upside-your-head move. The double-fisted nature of the move indicates that this is the advanced version: shock and nom.
I digressed because it's nearly summer and I'm only a half-hour away from one of my favorite spots on the planet and I'm realizing that I maybe could've been an Old Lady shushing campers by night and singin' along with them by day ...
The weather this visit seems to acknowledge that this is my summer break, and like every summer spell, the end of the fun and the freedom is near so let me get to baskin' already.
Picture me in the sun.