#Thanksgiving – Sittin' Ugly Sistahs

Every November my thoughts turn to family gatherings, beautiful, crisp fall days, pumpkin pie spice, and my grandmother, Martha Margaretha Claughton, born on November 20, 1891.

My grandmother always went by ‘Grandma’. If you really know me, you know about my grandma. She was such an important part of my life growing up and even though she was a no-nonsense kind of gal, she influenced my very essence of being a woman, mother, and now, grandmother. She was strong-minded, and willful, yet gentle when she needed to be.

Grandma lived in Duplex A on Hayden Street in Amarillo, Texas

Today, one of the greatest blessings of my life is being a grandmother. I never could have imagined the sweetness, the absolute heart-breaking tenderness of holding a grandchild. It feels holy, like a sacred trust ordained from above, and ever since Boo and I embarked on our journey as grandparents, our lives have changed for the very best. Being a grandparent suits Boo like a custom-fit Giorgio Armani in midnight blue. Perfection.

As for me, the transformation has been more subtle. My heart feels bigger, my spirit is gentler, and my patience is sometimes like the Energizer Bunny, which is a surprise to my daughters who definitely didn’t get a patient mom. My grandkids call me Nannie, and I swear it is the sweetest sound on earth to hear one of them call me by that name.

When my girls were younger and I worked full time, I felt a certain hurriedness to our days. Panic at not getting ‘it’ all accomplished, and not quite good enough according to Better Homes and Gardens. I secretly envied all of my friends who were stay-at-home moms. I compared myself to them, like apples to oranges. And when my single mom days were upon us, I even felt more inept at the perfection I saw in others. I was judging my insides by other people’s outsides.

Losing my own mother at a very young age, I longed for a momma like a lone, train whistle carries on the wind, winsome and low. Through it all, Grandma was there. Steady, true, and happily scooping me up in her soft, capable arms. I don’t know where I would be today if I hadn’t had my grandma.

Grandma stepped in with her homemade quilts and flapjacks made in the cast iron skillet. She cooked our lunch every Sunday after Church. She made my clothes and when I was old enough, she taught me to use the old Singer sewing machine. She taught me to play Canasta, plant Zinnia’s in the garden, and make homemade banana bread. She loved me the very best she could. Always.

And today, all these years later, I’m standing in my kitchen mixing up the banana bread to bake and chopping the pecans for Grandma’s pecan pie that I’ll take to my brother’s for Thanksgiving. I always wear her pearls on Thanksgiving day and I know how proud she would be that we think of her and remember her special recipes and her love.

I’m sharing Grandma’s Banana Bread recipe in hopes that you will try it someday, and if you do, think about my grandma. She always baked this bread in coffee cans (Folger’s) only because she never owned a loaf pan, so coffee cans are the original and preferred way. I don’t use pecans in ours because some of our grandkids have nut allergies, but if you can have the pecans, please do!

Happy Thanksgiving, y’all and Happy Birthday, Grandma!!

Grandma’s Banana Nut Bread

1 cup sugar

½ cup shortening (I use vegetable oil)

2 eggs

1 ½ cup mashed bananas

2 cups flour

Pinch salt

1 tsp. baking soda

½ cup chopped pecans

Bake in greased coffee cans (or loaf pan)

350 degrees for 55-60 min.

Routines fool me into believing all is right with my world. When I follow my morning ritual, the day has the promised sweetness of a crisp, polished apple or a nectarine begging me to enjoy its juiciness. I get up with fresh brewed coffee and read, pray, think, and write while I “sit ugly.” Next, I go on a two-mile walk by myself and catch the sun winking at me through trees both bald and full. This by-myself walk lets ideas bounce around my brain while my feet do heel/toe steps, and I observe the natural world coexisting with the city. Birds perch in branches and on electrical power lines. Squirrels race through crunchy fallen leaves and greasy discarded food wrappers. The grass grows confidently in lush wooded areas and between uneven sidewalk cracks. Dogs’ barks mix with cars’ revving engines. And sweet flower fragrances swirl around the aroma of onions and potatoes frying on a stove.

I get tricked into believing life is balanced.

I carry pepper spray in my front pants pocket, and the thumb of my right hand rubs the gadget’s activation button at the same time I give familiar fellow walkers a head nod.

Wake. Pray. Sip. Think. Write. Walk alone. Observe. Think. Connect. Walk. Think some more.

I need my five to seven a.m. time to myself. And when Millie pants too loud or J.T. meows incessantly, I curse the interruptions. I want morning rituals to calm the fears that hide just below the surface of my even breaths and soulful stares outside my office window. My nasty thoughts, like zombies, push through the dirt of their graves. Their thin, bloodless hands come out first followed by rotting faces with hanging eyeballs and slack-jawed mouths. Uneven groans and weak cries accompany their struggle to enter the world of the living. Some horror flicks claim they want to eat our brains. Sounds right. They’re after my wise thoughts, my positive vibes, and my fragile faith. So to avoid the zombies, I head out the door and let nature clear my head.

I enjoy the predictable moments of my walk, and I give strangers complimentary nicknames. On the spooky street, I see “The Other Aunt Toni,” a tall slim woman in her eighties who lives alone and sweeps her front porch or takes in the garbage bin with her walker nearby. Her solid independence and short, stylish white hair remind me of my dad’s younger sister who just turned 93. Further down the street, I wave to “John Goodman’s Brother,” a large retired guy with a spunky dog. His smooth voice, long, full face, and cool demeanor (he was once a part of a local rock band) evoke the essence of the actor who graced both The Big Lebowski and the Treme series. Sometimes I spot “Minari Grandma” – an energetic Asian woman in a large front yard with a wild-looking garden that she tends with a determined, don’t-mess-with-me-attitude. The flowers, vegetables, and ferns all vie for her attention as she tends to the wildness wearing a floppy wide-brimmed hat and bringing to mind the untraditional grandma in the movie Minari. Seeing the same houses, yards, cats and people each morning gives me comfort. Predictability clears my head of predatory thoughts.

Until something makes me raise both eyebrows. A for-real dead opossum next to an overwhelmed garbage bin. A slumped over person sleeping in his parked car. A loose dog giving me the eye.

Then I’m sure the zombies are hiding around the corner of the next house. And my mind remembers that life’s surprises are not always good. And the whatifs get more convincing. What if that person in the car was not just asleep? Could he have overdosed? Should I go back and knock on the car window? Do I need to call 9-1-1?

But I keep walking and a large beige and orange window cat looks at me, and I realize the zombies are not in that yard. And I turn down a wider street with fewer cracked segments of sidewalk. I see Walking Lady coming my way, and I know we will smile, wave, and comment on the weather when we get closer to each other. Soon I’ll get back to my condo where Millie will be pacing and Gary is sipping his first cup of coffee and working a Sudoko. I’ll eat a banana and in twenty minutes Gary and I will take Millie for a long walk. We may take a route similar to my by-myself walk

We will share our day’s agendas and comment on the a hot news topic or mention the emotional and physical states of our three grown sons. And we’ll stay aware of Millie’s poops. More routines to follow.

And the balance I first felt with my first cup of coffee may not be as steady, but I do know I am very fortunate. I keep on believing the world is more like eating a just-right banana than stepping in dog shit. The zombies in my brain will stay below the earth for now because I have three wonderful sons living nearby. Each has someone he loves above all others. I have a stereo system from the 1970s with a turntable that only sometimes goes backwards. I’m making my grandma’s “Madame Queen Cornbread Dressing” today (and a shrimp and mushroom dressing for my youngest son) in preparation for tomorrow’s Thanksgiving. And my momma’s version of turkey and sausage gumbo will be made on Friday.

So Turkey Day’s routines will happen, and I feel mostly sure “all shall be well” and if things veer off course (like someone brings extra-powerful magic cookies) and the hosts become incapacitated for awhile, that will be a family story to tell one day. All will still be mostly ok. Wabi-Sabi, y’all!