Keep Keer!

So I made collards. Well not collards so much as I’m prepping a bunch to go into my crock pot with white beans and Andouille sausage. A recipe from a magazine I’m dying to try. It made me think. First – why have I almost never made collards? I love them! As I pulled the wide pieces away from the tough stems I caught the aroma of “green”. It smelled of new cabbage and broccoli. I wondered should I soak it – don’t you do that? And I realized that mine were hydroponically grown organic and practically babied out of the ground. Granny’s came from a muddy field, hand sown, handpicked and full of red clay mud and sand. We grew up on collards – tasty ones from Granny’s steam pressure cooker – more dangerous than her .38. Wonderful things - tender and full of flavor – lovingly dressed with some sort of side meat. “Streaky meat” she called it – fabulous fat back. I’ve probably made collards from scratch maybe twice – from recipes. It’s a shame – where did that skill go? It simply wasn’t passed on. Mama wasn't a great cook and Granny would let us help but the big stuff was all her. It reminds me of a time when Christy came to visit and I offered her sweet tea. She thought it was SO odd that she never made sweet tea at home. We grew up on it, “aqua vit” to us Southerners. Another time I was trying to make my own chicken gravy and had Granny on the phone for step by step instructions. As she patiently told me what to do, I attempted to do it. With vague instructions like “maybe a scoonch more of flour” or “a drop or two of water” I explained to Granny that I’d created a tan paste and asked “What should I do now?” I waited for her answer like Greeks waited at the mouth of the oracle to hear these wise words - “Pitch it out.” A beat passed and then we laughed like crazy people do. Which reminds me of another piece of childhood, a phrase we used as kids and lost somewhere: “Keep keer”. I have no idea if it was bastardized Scotts Irish or just plain kid language but it meant if you had something of value, you were to “keep keer” of it. My one class in linguistics never touched on THAT one. Though the phrase is lost, the sentiment is still there. My advanced age has taught me that being able to keep keer of what matters and pitching out what doesn’t is a skill worth mastering. Life is what happens while you’re choosing what you value. I value YOU so keep keer of yourself ;0)

Why I don't jump from planes

So my friend Patricia is LIVING OUT LOUD right now. She told herself she would not miss another opportunity to experience something and has erased “No I can’t do it” from her vocabulary. In the meantime she has jumped from planes, been to Vegas, rode horses, visited the Mormon Tabernacle and it goes on and on. All during the shocking loss of her brother she not only jumped out of a plane but she drove one! She is fascinating to me.







My friend Tammy has always been “down for whatever girl.” If you want someone to go with you to Paris, the bathroom or the 7-11 she says “Let me get my purse!” All of this, after the devastating loss of her husband way too early. He was debilitated by brain surgery only one year into the marriage. I know – I was right there – they stood up for us at our wedding 10 days after theirs. Tammy got a degree, got him promoted in the Marines from his sickbed and was one of the first to appreciate the comforts of Blair House. She’s taken me to Hawaii, Dominican Republic and Cancun and now enjoys the adventure of a great man and a truly fantastic son. She quit smoking and has managed to stay friends with me for over 20 years. She amazes me.

My sister Christy got her Masters with piddly to no financial help from her family. She had umpteen hours of labor – something like 13?? Until the doctors graciously decided that a c-section was OK to get Blake out of there. Then she turned around and did it again giving us TWO little fantastic humans who look like Charlie and Christy well blended and enthrall me with their abilities on the computer. What would life be like without these four people?? I wouldn’t want to think. She’s my hero.



I’ve always been the fraidy cat on things like roller coasters and airplane rides. I had the experiences only when I absolutely HAD to or out of dire guilt. Christy was the only reason I ever got on roller coasters at Carowinds. She didn’t want to ride by herself and Casey was a baby in Cheryl’s arms and her dad wasn’t up to riding all of them. We all rode the log flume once at Williamsburg. At the top, right before the big “Nestea plunge” Jimmy said “Last chance to get out!” jokingly and then had to grab my shirt to keep me in. In brief – all of these experiences scared me so badly I couldn’t enjoy them. Eyes closed – teeth gritted praying for it to end soon - I survived the log flume, the white lightning and a perilous ride thru a haunted house once.
Therapy has taught me that when I close myself off from experiences I am exhibiting a fear of the unknown. In brief – reaching out to something or someone new will change you in the experience. No new experiences – no changing for you.
I divorced before I could get caught up in kids and a mortgage. I’ve rented ever since and have had no long term serious relationships that would go further than temporary co-habitation at best. In short – I had chances to get off the ride early and I took them all.
In the same vein I believe – my mother was scared and frustrated. A lot about life was an unknown in her book. She went through her entire life with her teeth clenched, eyes closed and too angry to enjoy much of it. I believe I was always worried that if I had the experience of children or a husband that eventually money worries and life’s problems would turn me into a blind angry harridan. Who wants THAT? Cue Kelly Clarkson singing “Because of You”…
But what I didn’t realize until now is that I’m having experiences of my own. They’re just different and not quite as epic. Milestones like being unemployed for 90 days and getting a job again, a GOOD one! I’ll forever be grateful to Mark for teaching me that my value was double what I thought. That NEVER happens! Then going on a cruise right after. (The GALL!) Having the apartment I rented burn down with my roommates and dear dog Butterbean in it and TRULLY only being thankful that every organic creature was still OK. I once taught a couple at a resort in Mexico how to “Shake it like a polaroid picture.” Laughed my BEHIND off when a guy thought Tammy’s accent was good for someone from “Transylvania”. Must have not been that good cuz she’s from Pennsylvania – lord that was funny! I’ve danced with a French Rugby player and had a great convo with my Hillsborough French and his lord knows where English. (Mercy buckets, seafood plate!) I dropped 85 pounds once in a year (found it again!) but I’ve done that. I’ve moved five hours away from all friends and family and made a life. I’ve been great at my jobs, taking pride in keeping up most of the time. I’m not afraid to speak to strangers and have had great experiences doing so. I’ve learned to ask for help when I’ve needed and found a way to help others when I can. In all, I may not jump out of airplanes but sometimes I get pushed and I land on my feet. This is a great life and it’s who I am. I’m OK with that. 

40

Crystal says… Forty. Yup forty. Sounds funny. Let your full inner North Carolinian come out when you say it - faux - er - teeeeee. It's a dang dumpy word, I'm not gonna lie!

There is a huge group of us about to pass, just passed, still getting used to this milestone and I think we should talk about it. My sis and - I being "womb mates" and only 3 years apart - have similar experiences and totally different outcomes.

Like us - you're still that kid who rocked out to Bon Jovi and the Go Go's. That kid is surprised that you cut your hair and forgot all about acid wash. “Crystal”…that kid whines...”WHERE are your bangs??!! Christy - no pink shoes??!!”

There is an upside - look at all you've lived through. You now know exactly how much tequila NOT to drink. You know how to get cable hooked up. You can probably discuss everything from bursitis to baby poop with some sort of intelligence.  You'll never, ever (ever) do that thing to your eyebrows, wear that outfit or be too worried that the "in" crowd is having more fun than you. (If you are, freaking stop it and grow up already!)

You gained experience and some skills and survived a long haul.  Remember it and learn from it. Also remember the ones that started out just as we did and aren't here with us. They won’t get the joy of wrinkles and sore knees.

I'm proud to say that I no longer screw up my checkbook because the ATM said I had money. (I kept forgetting that checks take a little longer to clear.)  I know for a fact that my skills are worth more than $8 an hour. I have nieces and nephews that are PEOPLE, not just little lumps of humanity.   I wouldn't trade it. Instead I get to take all of these experiences - discard the bull hockey and treasure the lessons.

Do you remember you at 5? Goofy and joyful and you probably LOVED going to school.

Quick remember when you were 10. What did you look like, love and do?

Now move to 16 - how was your party? Who were your friends?
How many mix tapes were you given? Was high school graduation fun or forgotten? How many nicknames have you had? Now let me point out - that was just the first 18 years.

Move on to first serious love, remind you how tough college was, the nervousness of your first serious job, mortgage, childbirth. The first time meeting your Dad - OK that's maybe just me...

The first real loss in your life, divorce for some of us and the first time you got fired (Just me too??).  Try to remember sad tears and never forget the happy ones.

Good lord have mercy we've LIVED and we're only 40!

I celebrate that at this time in my life - the choices I make are MINE. Me the sum total of my experience is written on my face and I choose what I do next. (And I'll still rock out to Janet Jackson's "Control" if I want to!!)

Welcome to 40 - you made it! If the good lord grants, you get ANOTHER 40 and this time you have less acne and your parents can't tell you what to do! Well they can't make you anyway...

Lift your bifocal glasses and your saggy behinds high - I salute you and look forward to the next 40!  

Christy says…Happy Birthday little sister! As my friend Noury says, “Welcome to the land of many happy birthdays!” The good news is, now that you’re 40, you get to really, really be okay with who you are! I read it in the manual. The permission slip should be in your mailbox any day!

More birthdays are supposed to equate with increased wisdom…meaning, of course…that I am wiser than you ;), but you, Crystalsan have taught me so much. Like, what it’s like to wear bifocals. Sorry, I couldn’t help myself!

For real though…when we were little and both in trouble waiting for our mom to come home and punish us…I would sit on my bed in total fear, biting my nails just imagining what torments were ahead while you sat on your bed, totally relaxed, eating an apple, and enjoying a book. You knew how to live life even at 8! I pre-worried about things; you never did (probably why I have more grey hair than you!). I remember when you tried to explain a passage in Shakespeare to me and I just didn’t get it (and I thought you were wrong too). And, much later, when I finally got it, I was too embarrassed to tell you that you were right (which you already knew). There are so many things that I didn’t appreciate about you when we were younger because it took me a few years to understand what you understood all along (about MANY things). The depth of your understanding of the world always blew me away. Yes, I was older, but you were always wiser.

I want you to know how proud I am of you and how much in awe of you I STILL am. Happy fabulous birthday!!! I love you!

So, Who's Your Daddy?

Christy says…I grew up in the South and, in my family, the “N” word was commonly used. It didn’t matter that my family had black neighbors and black friends, the word was used often. Now let me clarify two things before you decide to take offense: 1) I know that just because people grow up in the South, that they don’t necessarily use the “N” word. But, growing up in the South as I did, I heard it from all types of people in all types of places. 2) I use the word “Black” to describe a person’s ethnicity (as opposed to African American) because I still don’t know if there is one description that is the politically correct one to use. So, I use the word that I am accustomed to using. (Feel free to educate me, with love please!)

Back to the story…I heard the word so often that I even used it on my sister once. My sister, Crystal, and I were waiting on the school bus to pick us up for high school one morning and I decided to call my sister a “N” lover. I’m sure I said it to get under her skin or to get back at her for some reason that I can’t recall now but I actually didn’t use the “N” word as a form of hate that day (yes, I do believe it is a very hate-full word). I did not feel the same way about black people that my parents did. I said it that day as I would have said something like, “you’re annoying me” or “go away” or any other phrase you would say to bug your little sister. (On a side note, I felt incredibly guilty after saying that to her but I didn’t apologize to her until I was about 20 years old.)

Crystal and Christy (1971)

When Crystal and I were growing up, I always felt that she and my mom shared a special connection that I didn’t have with my mom. I didn’t know what that bond was but I knew it existed. My mom just seemed to be more tender with my sister or more protective…I couldn’t really describe it, it was just something I felt. When I was 22 or 23, my mom and I had a discussion about Crystal and my mom made a comment that made me think that Crystal and I may not have the same father. I said, “You mean we don’t have the same daddy?” but she refused to answer. Of course, her silence answered my question. I was in shock. I didn’t know what to think but as I began mulling it over, I concluded that this must be the bond they shared. I began to believe that Crystal must have known that she had a different daddy but never told me. So, one day I decided to ask my sister about it. I guess I wanted to know why my sister kept it from me and I wanted to know who this guy was.

When I was 23 and my sister was 21, I decided it was time to ask my sister about the secret she and my mom were keeping from me.  I picked her up from work one day, we had some brief small talk, and then I asked…ever so nonchalantly…”So, who’s your daddy?” My sister looked at me with confusion and asked, “What?”

I quickly tried to think of a way to use that joke, you know the one…”who’s your daddy?” I couldn’t come up with a punch line fast enough. My mind was reeling. I tried desperately to come up with some way to get out of the mess I had just created as I realized that the secret that I thought my sister and mom shared had not actually been shared with my sister. I was horrified! I just looked at her and tried in some way to slurp those words right back into my mouth or dial the time travel machine back just two minutes. When I couldn’t change what I said or make it into a joke, I had to explain to her why I asked such a crazy question.

She and I had a wonderful conversation that day and we began to understand so many things. Well, for one, it explained why we look absolutely nothing alike! When you come from a family like ours, it makes sense that the “Indian” gene is more predominant in only ONE family member. (Yes, that’s what we were made to believe! And, we do have a great, great grandmother who was “full blooded” American Indian).

We decided to ask our mom about it when we got home. It was going to be an interesting conversation.

So, we went home, told our mom we wanted to talk to her and then asked if we had different dads. She looked shocked, she took some time to think, and she looked like she was under some serious duress. Watching her, I began to think that maybe she had been raped or maybe she had had an affair with a family member...it must have been something awful considering the tormented look on her face (Crystal later told me she had the same thought). Then, my mom looked at us and with a very serious, very pained, near-tears expression, and said, “He's black."  Keep in mind that the woman who just said "he's black" used the “N” word on a regular basis, who often said that “Martin Luther King was a trouble-makin’ “N,” and threatened to put Crystal in a private school because she dated “Ns.”

Crystal and I looked at each other for a very small moment, and then, simultaneously burst into…laughter! Yes, we laughed! We laughed at the hilarity of it all!  Why did we laugh? We found it funny that our mother had made SO many attempts over the years to keep us, especially Crystal, from dating black guys…and Crystal was half black…which meant my mother, ahem, dated a black guy. We laughed because this was such a huge secret for our mother, and Crystal and I didn’t even care that Crystal’s dad was a different person than we thought or even that he was black. None of it mattered to us. It just cracked us up! (Now you can see why we use the words "Twisted Sister" in the title of our blog!) It didn’t matter to us who her daddy was or who my daddy was, we were still the same sisters.

In the beginning of the conversation, our mother was 75% SURE that Crystal and I had the same dad but by the end of the conversation, I think she was down to 25% certainty. Even though she never moved from that 25% certainty, she eventually gave Crystal the name of the man who could be Crystal’s father and told her how she might find him. It turns out that our mother had a love affair with this man and became pregnant by him. Eventually the relationship ended and my mom never told him she was pregnant.

As of today, Crystal has now had 18 years with her wonderful father who did not know that she existed until she was 21 years old. (By the way, Crystal looks JUST like him!)

And, Crystal and I still laugh together on a regular basis!

Crystal says...Let me interject that she's dead on - what a world right? But I have to add that I never remembered this story until she apologized for the incident much later.

Then it came back.

It hurt, it stung.

But I described it to her later as something that passed because it was something I was used to. The hurt came only because it was from Christy aka my co-captain in our home version of "Survivor". And it was just ODD - coming form my sister who's best friend was gay and who introduced me to the Fat Boys and the Sugar Hill Gang.  Ah well she just had a momentary - completely temporary lapse from being my hero. The girl KNEW how to wear pink and how to make lipgloss an entry for the science fair! (Mine was microwaving turnip seeds) How can anyone stay mad at THAT???

I remember the boyfriends in my life being all makes and models, types and colors. I didn't see, value or judge by pigmentation and was REALLY confused that people did. The caramel colored god at the time was Shawn  - WHAT a cutie! (And he was probably more white than I was, who knows?)  He was a total sweetheart who's claim to fame was holding my hand in public where (I believe) my step dad saw and told Mama. What a narc. Anyway the love of my life in high school was a skinny white boy who stole my heart, took all of my time and eventually committed suicide.  Christy was there for me. And later when I fell in love with a Marine Sergeant from Kentucky and the whole mystery of my sire came out, Christy was there to laugh with me, be indignant with our mother and be glad that the parents I then found were fantastic.

In short what I've learned: pick the merde that matters, that's the stuff that lasts. :)