A Hero in Every Heart

I love this land, this people, this nation.

I was thinking this weekend about my Dad’s service in WW II in the navy. He never talked about it. As I ask others about the stories they’ve heard from that era, there seems to be a common thread of silence. I wonder if it’s because the brotherhood of those who fought was so powerful that they just didn’t speak of it. Or were there nightmares locked in their minds simply too painful to share? I just don’t know and it’s too late to ask.

I’ve been thinking about all the men and women who have died while serving our country and never lived to have children who can say “thank you, from the bottom of my heart.” Thank you. I will remember.

Wilmer C. "Bill" Banks (My Dad!)

The Rest of the Story...

Monday's post on storytelling was inspired by the daffodils I showed you a couple of weeks ago that are blooming by my patio. My mom had insisted I take the bulbs several years ago when we were closing up LouLou's house. She dug them from the flowerbed, explaining these bulbs had been passed down for generations in our family. I confess I looked at her with skepticism.

In search of the rest of the story, I recently asked my cousin who is up on family history about this story and much to my surprise, this is his response: "Yes indeed, there's a story. Ann Dupont Buyck, after the loss of her husband, Augustine, came to Alabama in the early 1830's with her daughter, Eliza Spiegner and her son Edward Leo Buyck who was married to Margaret Hoffman (whose mama was Julianna DeBardeleben) Her last act before she left St. Mathews, S. C. was to dig those daffodil bulbs and bring them to their new home near Titus, Alabama...they have been distributed through the years and I know they are in Opp in two places and at Pleasant Hill at Blackthistle. So glad you have them too...they are hardy little souls!"

It seems my blog title is more meaningful than I imagined! So off I go to dance with the daffodils today. You can make up your own tune and join right in...

The Storyteller’s Daughter

I've been in touch with a cousin this past week, discussing our family genealogy. He has spent untold hours tracing the branches of our colorful family tree. The colorful part is accentuated by his uproariously funny storytelling ability. I’ve been reflecting on that gift the past few days.

I recently read The Storyteller’s Daughter by Saira Shah, a tale of an Afghan woman who was raised in England but developed an insatiable thirst to taste and see the wonders of her homeland for herself. (Not surprisingly, the actual experience was a harsh world away from the poetic descriptions of her father.) Her story contributed to my thoughts about the historical importance of storytelling.

It takes very little prompting to get my mom rolling with retelling family details and exploits. She loves that I’ve at last become interested in listening and she encourages me to write them down. She was an elementary school librarian and I suspect she’s remembered by many of her students as the queen of storytelling.

I think blogging is a modern version of storytelling. As important as oral traditions have been in anthropology, there are inherent shortcomings. Important truths can be lost in translation and are only one generation shy of being lost forever. Have you ever considered that your blog is making history? A humbling thought. I sort of want to make a print book of my blog but haven’t taken the time to do it.

Make no mistake about it, the verbal storytelling tradition continues loud and long in our family. My cousins, my mother, my offspring and I have this attribute. Our listeners may consider it more of an affliction than an attribute. We’ve been accused of not only embellishment but even fabrication. No way, I say, couldn’t be, who me?

Which brings to mind Dr. Suess, one of my favorite storytellers of all time;
“Thank goodness for all of the things you are not!
Thank goodness you're not something someone forgot,
and left all alone in some punkerish place
like a rusty tin coat hanger hanging in space.
Thats why I say "Duckie!
don't grumble! don't stew!
some critters are much-much,
oh, ever so much-much,so muchly much-much more unlucky than you!”

Driving Miss Louise

Sunday was an absolutely gorgeous day. I cleaned off the patio furniture, a wrought iron set I got from LouLou, and settled in with a book. I looked over and saw that the daffodil bulbs I’d brought from LouLou’s yard years ago had popped up and were waving happily in the breeze. My thoughts took a jog on memory lane as I began to think about what she would have been doing on a beautiful Sunday afternoon.

LouLou was far too frugal to have a driver or a maid. However, the movie “Driving Miss Daisy” still evokes some accurate images of my diminutive southern grandmother and one of her favorite pastimes.

Though she drove her car until she was well into her 90’s, her brother was usually the one who “carried” her to see the farm, an unhurried afternoon ride to tour the countryside. As a child, I didn’t enjoy those car rides that seemed to lack a destination or purpose. They consisted of leisurely drives on rural roads and quiet conversation..
The convoys of bikers who tour around together on sunshiny days are the closest resemblance I can come up with to the “riding” tradition of a bygone era. They stop together for refreshments and I can just imagine LouLou sharing a co’cola and conversation with the leather-clad group, as she never met a stranger. I’m sure she would have charmed them and left them with a lasting impression of an energetic, interesting and happy lady.

As an adult, I learned to enjoy this old tradition of “riding”, especially on a pretty day.
In more recent years, I "carried" (that was her word for it- is that a southernism?) LouLou to Wendy’s, which was in another town altogether, for a Frosty, one of her favorite treats. The opportunity to hear LouLou’s recollections and enjoy her observations was always time well spent. She savored life, living with open eyes, an open heart and mind and a generous spirit.

Now I understand that the destination and purpose of “riding” was tied into relationship and had little to do with a physical place. Ah, LouLou, you taught me so much.

Fall Flavor Edition: The Cracker Chronicles

I'm joining Linda, who's doing Fall into Flavor on Mondays before the holidays begin.

As I pondered which recipe to share, I started thinking about my Aunt Bill’s Potato Casserole. Which reminded me that I haven’t written a Cracker Chronicle post in forever.

Aunt Bill was my great-great aunt. As in, she was my great grandmother’s youngest sister. But she was about the same age as my grandmother. I’m sure there’s a real story behind that which I’ll research another day. I have many memories of her, as she had a house right next to my great-grandmother’s house at Ft. Walton Beach where we spent our summers.

She was outspoken and expressive, like all the women in our family. Another steel magnolia. She was colorful, sturdy and long-lasting, however she lacked the sweet smelling bloom. We all loved her dearly.

My earliest memories of Aunt Bill are of the bird she owned. It was a loud parrot that demanded crackers that I was delighted to provide. He lived on the porch of her beach house and attracted the children like bees to honey. She played on that to get us to do her chores. She paid us, but it was so cheap, it makes me feel like a dinosaur to think what a dollar could buy back then. I’m going to hope that one of my cousins can correct me on this, but it seems to me she would take us to the Five and Dime Store and give us each a quarter to shop with. We could actually buy something with that! Sure, it was cheap and broke after a day but the thrill of going to the store with my cousins was great. We would stay in the store making our selections for at least an hour. Now I realize that the greatest gift Aunt Bill gave us was the wonderful memories.

I have a piece of furniture that I love that belonged to Aunt Bill. I got it from my grandmother. I call it a “library table” but it folds out and becomes a “game table” when you pull up the drop-down piece. I may be sentimental, but it evokes warm memories of my great-great aunts and their love of games like Pinochle, Scrabble and Bridge.

This story started with a recipe, and it’s time for me to take this dish out of the oven and eat, so here’s the “rest of the story”….

The women in our family laugh when we call it “Aunt Bill’s Potato Casserole” because as the story goes, she got it from the back of the hash brown potato bag and claimed it as her own. I think good recipes were the currency of friends back in that day.

You may have this recipe already, but let it be known, in the South, this is proclaimed to be:

Aunt Bill’s Potato Casserole

2 lb. bag frozen hash brown potatoes, thawed
¼ cup softened butter
1 can Cream of Chicken Soup
2 Cup grated cheddar cheese
1 tsp salt
¼ tsp pepper
2 cups sour cream
½ cups chopped onion

Mix all of the above ingredients.
Place in a shallow casserole dish. Mix topping in a small bowl and spread over top.

Topping
2 cups crushed cornflakes (Put the cornflakes in a large baggie and crush with a rolling pin)
¼ cup softened butter

I work the butter and cornflakes together with my hands. Bake 45 min- 1 hour at 350 degress.

For more recipes, check out 2nd Cup of Coffee

**Added Note - As a result of Uncommon Blonde's question, I found out Aunt Bill's real name was Lilly! I never heard that. She obviously didn't like it. That fits too.

Some May Tweet, but There’s a Cuckoo in Me

I was on the phone the other day making plans to see a wonderful friend when I heard a cuckoo clock in the background. I was immediately transported back in time to my Grandmother Sue’s hallway in the big family home in Carrabelle. It was as if I could smell the old house, and sense the suffocating quiet that was broken by the cheerful chime of the little bird greeting the hour from his minature bird house. I was captivated then and I am captivated now. I asked “isn’t that a cuckoo clock I hear?” She replied that her grandmother used to have one and it brings back such good memoires she decided she needed one.

As I was visiting with her later, I was cocooned in her couch that literally envelopes you when I heard the first chime. I leapt up and raced to the kitchen, nearly injuring myself in my hurry, just in time to catch that little bird on his last chirp. I was ridiculously pleased.

My mom tells me that the particular clock I remember was sent to my grandmother from Germany when her daughter (my aunt) was working over there. The history of the clocks made first in the Black Forest of Germany in the 1730’s is very romantic. (Of course now, most are probably made in China!) I’m pretty sure the clock is still in the vacant house and there’s a remote possibility I could even get that particular clock.

So now the question is, do I really want a cuckoo clock? I think it would be fun to continue the tradition. But do I want to hear it all the time? Can you disable the chime at night? I haven’t researched all this yet, so if you have any thoughts, I’m all ears.

“… and up in the nursery an absurd little bird, is popping out to say cuckoo!”

Summertime - when the living was easy...

The sand dunes on Okaloosa island were once as high as a 4-story building. Well, at least they seemed that way from a child’s perspective.

A steady parade of hurricanes and tropical storms through the years have etched the terrain and altered the shoreline in immeasurable ways. The dunes that we romped on and climbed while pretending we were on a trek in the Sahara are now off-limits to human feet in an effort to preserve the only buffer the roads have from waves and tidal encroachment. Such is life.

The Bosom Bottom Buddy Club was an exclusive club with what we considered to be a slightly scandalous name. My sister and I laughingly re-enacted our membership ritual recently at my mom’s birthday party. This snapshot captured the Bosom Bottom Buddy Club about 44 summers ago. We’re planning a reunion at the beach in the spring. I think time has etched us in immeasurable ways too. Such is life.

They say growing older is unavoidable, growing up is optional. I've always had the goal to remain child-like in my sense of wonder and curiousity (note: this is distinctly different from being childish.) I've decided now that I have a grandchild to experience life with, the clock starts to reverse. You know, the cycle of life!
Care to guess which smile belongs to the mini-me?

Lighting the Past

As I carefully carried the heirloom chandelier from my car, the prisms tinkled daintily, transporting me to another time in another place.

This chandelier’s home had been in LouLou’s dining room, a shadowed, chilly room that was only aired and used on formal occasions and holidays. In winter months, because it was seldom heated, it was used as a refrigerator for the overflow of food stockpiled for hordes of visiting relatives. I can almost taste the rich dark chocolate sheet cake that was a favorite comfort food and stored on the marble sideboard.

Because the house was old and its off-grade foundation had settled like an old woman’s bone structure, it was virtually impossible to walk across the floor without causing the dozens of prisms to start their chorus. I recall the reprimands directed at me and my cousins that we sounded like a herd of elephants tromping through the house.

The light that shone on countless family gatherings is being passed on to the next generation. I like being the courier.

A Steel Magnolia

My Mom was a steel magnolia long before the popular movie acquainted the masses with the term that describes a southern woman who is strong and independent yet very feminine. In fact, she comes from a long line of steel magnolias that weave a colorful history.

This woman whom others call Bettye but has always been "Mom" to me is of the generation that wore white gloves and pillbox hats. Her influence surpassed that of Jackie Kennedy Onasis, especially in our house.

After all, she taught me everything I needed to know for success in life before I was 12. It just took me the next 20 years to realize she's right about almost everything.

When I was just a little girl she began my schooling on how to be a lady with instructions on how to sit, (cross your legs at the ankle and angle them to the side), chew (never chew with food in your mouth and forego the gum – it makes you look like Bessie the cow chewing her cud) and stand (chest out, stomach in, shoulders back). Inappropriate behavior was labeled as rude, crude and uncouth. Totally unacceptable words or actions were deemed vulgar.

Proper grammar was and still is emphasized and enforced when you’re around my mom. She earned a master’s degree in library science and enthusiastically shares her passion for books and for the written and spoken word. To hear her read aloud is like listening to music as she gives eloquent expression in a soft southern accent.

She instilled in me a value for the truly important things in life; faith and family. Laughter is as essential to her as breathing and she keeps the bar high for generosity of spirit. She fills her days and her handwritten notes with exclamation points!

I have countless images stored in my memory of meaningful moments of a lifetime with her.

I see her reading greeting cards in the aisle of the store with her twin sister and laughing so hard they gasped for air as tears rolled down their faces.

Fun and playful; I love that about my Mom.

I see her trekking across Europe pushing Dad in a wheel chair, fulfilling his life-long dream to go to Austria, though his days were numbered. Alongside her, I pushed a stroller with my 6 week old infant. We formed quite an entourage while we made every moment count.

Adventurous and bold; I love that about my Mom.

I see her preparing for my wedding reception in her own backyard with only 2 months notice. Every detail attended to, the party was fabulous; from the lovely heirloom silver candelabras set lovingly on my great grandmother’s wedding tablecloth to the sumptuous buffet.

Charming and gracious; I love that about my Mom.

I see her pulling the shirt she was wearing off over her head and handing it to me because I had admired it. (We were alone in the house!)

Generous and spontaneous; I love that about my Mom.

I see her driving to an unsettled and unsafe area of town to teach at a segregated school because of her love for children and her desire to help in the transition to integrated schools.

Pioneering and strong; I love that about my Mom.

I see her spending months at a time in my grandmother’s teeny-tiny hometown so LouLou could have as much time as possible in her own home before she had to leave it behind as old age claimed her freedom.

Thoughtful and patient; I love that about my Mom.

Recently, my 102 year old grandmother was introducing several generations of family to a group of strangers. She loudly declared, “these women are all lovely and charming and educated. In fact, my family is to be respected and admired.” An amused smirk and raised eyebrows were some of the reactions I noted from the strangers. But I realized right then why low self-esteem is not an issue among the women in our family.

My mom is a young eighty years old this year and the southern gentility that she was steeped in is indeed the gentle fragrance of a showy blossom; a steel magnolia. She adores company, so if you’re ever in town, you would be richer from a visit with my Mom.

For those of you following my regular installments of the Cracker Chronicles, Bettye is technically a Florida cracker as she was born in Wauchula. The generational influence on her makes her more of a southern tea cookie than a cracker.

*The timing of this particular post coincides with Scribbet's Monthly Writing Contest which is being judged this month by Antique Mommy. I'm looking forward to learning from her comments.

Cracker Chronicles

This is the 2nd episode in the tales of my Florida ancestors. This bunch would be the saltines.

Mamie, Noah, Frances, Gertrude, Maude and Susie. These 5 sisters included my grandmother and at one time or another, they all lived in Carrabelle in the rambling, drafty white house that still sits on the main curve of the road coming into this tiny town. Now they only live in the memories of those of us who loved them.

When I was a child, we faithfully visited, though I admit I didn’t think it was much fun. There wasn’t much in the way of entertainment in Carrabelle. The highlight of my visit was spending hours with my dad and my sister down on the harbor skipping oyster shells. There’s an art to skipping shells and we could get up to 8 skips with all that practice. Dad would tell us stories of how the sleepy little fishing village was once more of a bustling town when the railroad ran to haul the plenteous seafood that was the only crop.

It was a stretch of the imagination to think of Carrabelle as bustling. It was renowned as the town that used a phone booth as the police station. No kidding. “The phone booth was installed in 1963 to keep policemen out of the rain. “They used to have a phone on the wall across the street,” said Police Chief Jesse Smith. “But every time it rained, the man who answered it would get wet. At the time, the single police officer walked a beat and didn’t have a patrol car, Smith said. The department has grown to three officers since then, but little else has changed.”¹

One hot summer night when I was about 8 years old, after a rousing game of Scrabble with my great aunts, I was asleep upstairs in the bedroom I’d chosen for my own. Even with the windows wide open, the sheets stick to you and the air feels like breathing through wet cotton. The siren of the volunteer fire department, which was right next door, blasted me awake and I still remember the terror I experienced when I thought the house was on fire. The piercing wail was calling even my aunt, who was the fire chief and in charge of driving the water truck to where it was needed.

Right now, no one lives in the house with more than a hundred years of history. My 89 year old aunt Cathy can’t live there by herself but can’t bring herself to sell it.

I read a wonderful novel recently that romanticized this area of Florida’s “forgotten coast.” Remembering Blue by Connie May Fowler is a great read if you want to visit Carrabelle. 1. Warren, Michael. Florida Traveler.com

What’s With the Daffodils?

I have a 101 year old grandmother who taught me to love grits and Wordsworth - all in the same breath. There’s nothing quite like a strong southern woman. Independence and charm, sass and grace, steel and velvet. Before now, I had never even met anyone who lived to be one hundred, much less known them personally. I am amazed with the gift of time I have with Lou Lou. She still lives in southern Alabama so I get to spend a Saturday a month with this national treasure. She is easily delighted – and most often with flowers, music and poetry. Louise Rushing graduated from Montevallo College (now the University of Montevallo) in 1927 and taught English for many years. Among her many accomplishments is the ability to recite poetry. Most impressive at any age, but at 101, it is downright remarkable. One of her favorites is “The Daffodils” by William Wordsworth.

“I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

…For oft, when on my couch I lie,
In vacant or in pensive mood
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude:
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.”

So that’s why I dance with daffodils. It is in my genes. I have inherited Lou Lou’s happy heart. I am grateful.

Note added in 2010: Lou Lou moved to heaven on November 21, 2009 (my birthday!) at the age of 103. She had so many "favorite poems" but I'll share the "Psalm of Life" in her honor today:

Psalm of Life
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Tell me not in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou are, to dust thou returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each tomorrow
Find us farther than today.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act, - act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sand of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us then be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.

(She always recited the last line as "Learn to labor and to pray" claiming she was confident that's what Longfellow meant to say.)