Crime and Intrigue at the Hibachi Grille


There comes a time in everyone’s life when a little crime must fall. Some lucky few even enjoy this privilege of humanity more than once. Clearly born under a sign that attracts bad karma, you spend your whole life burning sage and chanting the Serenity Prayer in hopes that the evil witch of random luck will get the hell off your back and torment some other unsuspecting fool.

Sadly, I have to admit that I fall into this category of crime scene attractor. I’ve decided that either I was once an evil bat girl for the Nashville Sounds who bashed in the windows of patrons cars while the mascot distracted them between innings OR a dental hygienist with an extra sharp pick.

Friday night, during a birthday dinner at a local Japanese restaurant, the third installment of my “touched by bad karma” crime occurred. The evening started out innocently enough. It had been a long and somewhat stressful week (then again, any week I have to work in hell is stressful) and I was really looking forward to spending time with my family and celebrating the birthday of my oldest step-son. We gave him the choice of restaurants and like the good little carnivore he is, chose our favorite Japanese establishment, which will remain nameless for purposes of the tedious Metro Police investigation.

The plan was to meet everyone there after work. Being unorganized as usual, I stopped by the local drugstore to pick up a gift bag and card for his present. While there, I found a few items that I thought momma had to have. I placed the bags on the floorboard in the front on the passenger side. Already there was my brand new leopard skin tote, my new black sling back sandals and this month’s edition of Vogue with Natalie Portman on the cover.

I made it to the restaurant in record time, parked on the side near the front where we always park, and joined my family inside. Even though we had seen the grill catch fire, the onion volcano, the “egg roll” trick and regale over the Tepanakyi Chef’s ability to catch shrimp tales in his hat many times before, tonight being a celebration, the goofy routine seemed extra funny.

My mother-in-law and grandmother were excited about their upcoming trip to Belgium and Holland the next day, while my father-in-law mentioned three times how much he was going to enjoy having the house to himself. My spouse and two step-sons entertained me with their lack of social graces, as usual and I enjoyed watching all the high-school kids having dinner in their prom clothes. I wondered if they realized their David’s Bridal dresses would smell like grill smoke by the time they left for the festivities, but hey….let them have their fun. If you're lucky, you only have to endure the prom once.

After finishing our delicious food, we all made our way outside to the front of the restaurant. Hugs were exchanged, greetings and salutations were said and everyone went to their prospective cars. Our youngest son insisted that he ride home with me so I could listen to his new compilation CD he had made himself.

As I unlock the jeep, I watch the slide on the passenger door unlock and we both pile in. Immediately I realize that my shopping bags are no longer in the front but having made a comment earlier that the front sit would need cleaning out for my son to ride with me, I thought my sweet husband had already moved things around. About that time, my son asked me why the lock on his side “looks weird”. That’s when it hit me……..once again the ding of the bad karma bell rang.

I immediately cell phone my husband who had just pulled out of the parking lot and confirm that NO he had NOT moved things around, and in fact, had not even been to the jeep. I tell him that we need to call the police. He calls his parents and they all return to the parking lot to comfort me in my daze of horror.

As I’m sitting there waiting for all of them to return, I begin doing what those of us who are cursed with the bad karma do. We start reliving all the other episodes scene by scene.

The first time crime came knocking I was in the 8th grade, home alone after school working on a Home Economics sewing project when a member of Fat Albert’s posse broke in on me. Never having been a victim of crime before, I stupidly chased him out of our house with my sewing shears. The only reason I’m still here to write about this is because I was heavier than he was and he knew I meant business when I rushed at him screaming, “I’m going to cut you into meat chunks”.

The second time was in the Piggly Wiggly on Charlotte Avenue, circa 1988. I was grocery shopping on a Tuesday night with my then sister-in-law and she was ahead of me in the grocery isles. My purse was in my cart and I turned around to pick up a jar of something and when I turned back around, my purse was gone. Thinking she played a trick on me, I called ahead to her but quickly realized she had not. I mourned the loss of my purse for weeks and months. It was during the handbag craze of the leather bags with patchwork animals and scenes. Mine was zebras, elephants and palm trees. Oh the injustice!!!

Before I can go too far down memory lane, up pulls a white and gold Ford Explorer. The first thing you see other than the huge rims and butterscotch detailing is a silk lei of many colors hanging from the rear view mirror and a crystal angel the size of a beanie baby hanging from the visor. Out steps the restaurants “rent-a-cop”. Her name is Donna and she looks much like Dawg the Bounty Hunter’s girlfriend. Donna is very buxom, dressed in black, make-up for days, long, dyed blonde permed hair, three inch acrylic nails and a cigarette dangling from her mouth. She proudly sports her rent-a-cop badge on a Puff Daddy-sized silver chain around her neck and a very large glock on her expansive hips. “You got hit tonight?” Uh, yeah….that would be me.

She goes into a long and drawn out dialogue of how this same thing happened last week to another patron, on the same side of the car. This poor woman lost her laptop and case. Okay, you’d have to kill me if someone stole my computer. Life as I know it would not be worth living.

Anyway, she explains that Metro is on their way but to realize they take their time and I might as well take a load off and have a cigarette. I explained that none of us were smokers. Too bad she said, as this would have been a good time to start.

After several minutes, one of Metro’s finest pulls up. We go through the whole story again, and he completes the report for our insurance company. The only neat thing about that experience is that he let me assist in finger printing the “crime scene” aka the passenger door. I immediately waxed into my best CSI/Law and Order mode and made inquiries of the probability they’d catch the “perp” and how long it would take “trace” to run the prints in the bank before we’d have any further “leads”. “Huge fan, are you?” he asked at one point. Uh, yeah….that would be me.

You know it wasn’t the few items from Walgreen’s that bothered me. It was the total feeling of violation and the loss of my new bag and shoes. I feel I must justify my right to bags and shoes all the time. Dog gone it! An addict shouldn’t have to explain themselves to thieves too! I had only tried on the shoes once. The lining of the tote still had that new smell, having just found air earlier in the day.

Dejectedly, I headed home after all the drama was finally over. All I could think about was some thief reading my Vogue, admiring all the pretty handbags and shoes on the beautiful, glossy pages.

There was one thing that struck me as ironic about the whole episode. I had purchased my step-sons some t-shirts that day. One of the shirts I got for our youngest, because it had a slogan he repeats on a daily basis at least half a dozen times. It read, “It Wasn’t Me”.

So if you see a Tepanakyi Chef walking around south Nashville in a pair of black sling backs, carrying a leopard tote and wearing a shirt that says, “It Wasn’t Me”, call Metro immediately. I’m sure they’ve had a great weekend enjoying my things. They may even have some friends that will say, “Hey, great shoes, did you get those recently?”

Uh yeah….that would be me.

New Logo for Bigots Anonymous

Wonder What Leo Would Say?


Perhaps the most recognizable painting in the world is the Mona Lisa painted by Leonardo Da Vinci. As in most cases in the art world, the painting did not garner it's infamous prestige at the time Leo painted her but everyone, even the most ignorant of folks, can recognize the enigmatic smile of her ladyship. Have you ever thought what people might have said to Leo when he invited them over for a nice glass of wine and some cheese to view his latest work? Did they tell him how mysterious her smile was? How the shadows are woven so intricately you know there's more than just a painting of a woman? Or did they tell him that Mona really isn't that pretty and how the colors should have been more blue than yellow? This leads me up to my case in point......

The whole world's a critic and I'm pissed. Being a girl raised in the south, there is one common trait you will find in all southern women: we will smile and be polite even if we are mentally plotting your assassination right in front of you. It's called having manners, social graces, consideration for your fellow-man. I've recently decided this is a dying art.

Everywhere you look there is some wind-bag spouting their opinion of how, what and should. Whether it's a local, wannabe Howard Stern on the radio shouting their disapproval of the latest Metro Council debacle or the neighborhood watch-dog crying over the next Walmart ground breaking, everyone seems to feel they are entitled to share their opinion.

But wait! What about freedom of speech, you say? It was obviously important enough to our forefathers to include it in the declaration of independence - doesn't that mean everyone CAN and SHOULD be able to speak their peace? CERTAINLY! That's why I can write this blog and tell all you self-appointed critics to kiss my lily white southern ass.

Here's the rub.....I know that putting yourself in the public's eye opens yourself up FOR criticism. You put yourself out there far enough and someone, somewhere is going to eventually tell you how evil you are and offend not only you, but your family and anyone that has ever known you. It's a given. I suppose that is part of the "trade-off" for having a public life.

Being a songwriter/musician is one of those areas that automatically puts you on the radar for the critics. People will make their decision whether or not to listen or purchase an artist's work based on what reviews the critics decide to give. Personally, I think this is a bit short-sighted and prefer to make my own judgment call, but hey, there are those that do not like to think that much and leave it up to the "experts" to guide them on their next trip to Best Buy. I accept this and know full well, everyone has their own tastes and not everyone is going to like all or even some of Tassany's music. I can even live with this basic fact. I'm prepared for this basic fact.

HOWEVER, I need to point out....NO, EDUCATE is a better choice of words, on the proper way to critique and indeed when it's appropriate to critique at all.

Read each scenario carefully....this is extremely important to those of you who live to critique:

Case Study #1:

If someone says to you, "I want you to listen/look/show you something and give me your honest opinion. I want to know exactly what you think about XYZ.

Appropriate response meter: THIS is pretty much a signal to you that this person is truly asking you to critique XYZ. It's appropriate to share your opinions and ideas, whatever those might be.

Case Study #2:

If someone says to you, "I want you to look/listen/show you something. I'd really like to share XYZ with you. I'm really proud of XYZ and I think good things will come to my life as a result of XYZ.

Appropriate response meter: This is when you smile politely if you really think XYZ sounds like finger nails scratching a chalk board and say something like this; "Wow, thank you so much for sharing something so important to you. I really wish you the best with that."

Case Study #3:

If a friend comes into work wearing a new outfit and they say: "Tell me the truth, does this skirt make me look too dumpy?"

Appropriate response meter: Women will ask women this question expecting a truthful answer. Women asking men this question expect you to lie. This is the whole reason of knowing WHEN and HOW to critique.

Case Study #4:

If a friend comes into work wearing a new outfit and they say: "Hey look! I got a new skirt and it was on sale for 50% off! I just love the color and feel."

Appropriate response meter: The skirt looks like colored saran wrap stretched over a pig's ass but instead, you say, "don't you just love a good sale and wearing something new?"

Are you getting the idea yet? So the next time someone asks you to critique something, think about the way they are asking the question before you launch into how badly it sucks ass.

I harken back to the original question of this blog. What would Leo have done? I'd like to think he would have replied something like this:

"Thanks for telling me how much you hate my work. While I'll continue to paint and live on bread and moldy cheese, I will one day rejoice in knowing I created a piece of art that lives through the ages that was once said to be a piece of shit by YOU."

Without A Trace


Experts say the most crucial time in a missing person's case is the first 72 hours. After that, the chances of finding the person alive or otherwise diminishes by half. That's pretty startling statistics if you ask me.

This morning while going through my morning ritual of forcing myself from bed to shower I made the mistake of switching on the morning news. It was full of the daily horrors, maladies and political blunderings of our ever-popular elected officials. Just as I was about to tune it all out with the noise from my sleek and powerful blow-dryer, something caught my ear.

At first I thought I had heard incorrectly but after listening further, realized that my ears were working properly. I even sat on the edge of the bed just to get my balance again.

Exactly when did we all lose sight of our journey from child to teenager to adult? I vaguely remember that progression to be alive and well in the 80's. At least I THINK it was alive during the 80's....it's for sure the music wasn't. (All you Big 80's fans just pipe down, I stand by my statement!)

You remember the time, don't you? When you couldn't wait for Friday night to arrive so you could all pile into the nearest Dodge Hornet or VW and cruise the Sonic looking for cute guys? But not before watching the high school football game and dancing with all your girlfriends in the gym at the dance after? (Funny, men STILL don't dance in their 30's or 40's either and are still sitting in a line on the couch while their wives/girlfriends get drunk and dance to old disco tunes in the middle of the living room.)

My point is, where has innocence gone? Is it extinct through all the cell phone, XBox, myspace mentality? What I'm referring to, (rather long winded, but it's MY blog and I can be long winded if I choose), is the report from this morning's newscast.

The Warren County School Board has passed a rule that no person over 21 years of age can attend the high school JR./SR. Prom. Makes sense right? I mean what self-respecting 21 year old do ANY of us know that would WANT to subject themselves to the humiliation? The bad rented tux; the trailer park dress with the huge gaudy bow in the back; the rented DJ who will only play "Disco Duck" and "YMCA"?

There are a number of girls in the senior class that have boyfriends older than 21 and have been told they are not allowed to bring them as dates to this year's prom. The injustice! Even notes from their parents asking permission has gone unnoticed. The Board is firm in their decision - no adult boyfriends!

One tearful teen agreed to be interviewed on camera and was seen as saying, "Just because my boyfriend is 30, I'm denied this special moment in my high school career. It ain't right." It ain't indeed.

My thought was, I want to read those notes from the parents. What would you say? Here are a few potential suggestions:

1. Dear School Board - please excuse Britney for her choice in men. Kevin just got off probation and I know they will act real nice at the dance. Besides, my grandbaby needs a picture for the family scrapbook.

2. Dear School Board - I have spent $1,000 on a Vera Wang prom dress for my precious Amber and how dare you to deny her the right to attend her prom!? I didn't send her to your school for an education; I sent her so she can hone her social skills and snag that handsome young man that runs the family business. His daddy paid for that gym - they should be able to dance there!

3. Dear School Board - What is your problem?? It's not statutory rape if they are 18 years old.

4. Dear School Board - you smell.

5. Dear School Board - missing -- my youth. Do you know where I can find it?


NOT in Warren County.

Good Friday Gone Bad


Yesterday was known, in the Christian world, as Good Friday. This is the day recognized as the Eve of Christ's crucifixion. Most respectable, God-fearing business owners give their employees this day off in preparation for the Easter weekend. Since the owners of my company, who shall remain nameless are all from the East Coast and Jewish, well....you get the picture.

So I rise at 5:55 a.m. as usual, a very UN-Christian hour I might add, and shoo myself towards the coffee pot and shower. Upon reaching the coffee pot I realize that the on-again, off-again headache that I have been nursing all week has reached epic proportions. Just the day before, I had several people ask, "are you feeling okay?" Try as I might, I realize that going into work was not on the agenda for me. As a good girl from a family of nurses and self-appointed doctors, I medicate appropriately and head back to bed after making the dutiful call-out to work.

I have settled into a nice drug induced sleep when I hear something. I realize it's my cell phone. DAMN! I forgot to turn the volume to vibrate. It's my loving husband calling to see how I'm feeling. I grouchily let him know. He immediately ends call with the standard, "sorry, go back to sleep". Once again, I settle into a nice drug induced haze. About the time I am dreaming of a nice conversation with the dirty-haired Gucci guy model, I realize there is an annoying dog barking in the distance. DAMN! It's Holly, our dog. She needs to go potty. After stubbing my toe, cursing loudly enough that Hank my cat runs from the room, I decide to check my email at work while waiting on Holly to return to the front door for more barking to come back inside.

Thankfully no storms are brewing and all seems quiet at work. This is good. Holly's back and I once again head to my big, cloud-like bed for another attempt of sleep. I manage ONE blissful hour. Yes! Head is still pounding but is better. I hear my cell phone vibrating off the table. It's my loving husband texting me to see if I'm up. I respond, yes. It's quickly determined that I should come pick him up for lunch at 12:30. For reasons beyond my control, I agree. This means I must really get in the shower and make myself presentable.

I do something I rarely do; after taking a shower and getting dressed I leave the house with a wet head AND NO MAKE-UP other than a touch of lipstick (of course). Now this may not seem to be much of anything to you, but trust me, in my world, this was HUGE. Having been schooled from the time I was 6 years old on the proper way for a woman to look outside of her home, a wet head and no make-up was almost sacrilegious. For once, I didn't care. Mother is 550 miles away and who is going to tell her? My sister here in town KNOWS better. I have too much dirt I could share on her in my own defense.

Anyway, we go about our business of having lunch but due to traffic and errands we realize we'll have to do drive-thru. Naturally this defeats the whole idea of having lunch "together" but I refrain from saying so since I was so bitchy earlier in the day.

I drop him off at his front door and wave on my way out of the parking lot. Visions of my cloud-like bed, and yes, I believe it is time for more drugs, are in my near future.

I-24 E is moving nicely even though a busy time of the day. Yes! About a mile from my exit I look down and realize my RPM gauge has stopped working. Hmm..interesting. Wonder how long it's been that way? A few seconds later, I see my speedometer is acting like it's been possessed by Linda Blair. What the?? Before I could ponder much longer, I realize the car feels like it's losing speed. NOT good. I ease over in the outer lane just in case, but thankfully I'm at my exit. My house is only 2 miles from the exit. Please oh please don't let me break down.

What can I say? Obviously, I have not been a very good girl lately (we won't talk about it) because as I get to the first redlight and brake.....Whitey Ford gives up the ghost. It is finished and I'm pissed. NOTHING will work. No flashers, nothing. OH, except the electric windows...go figure! I quickly pull out the phone, call my husband and tell him of my dilemma. We get cut off. DAMN! I try calling back. No answer. Double damn! I call my music partner and tell him what's going on. Can he look up the number of a wrecker for me? He is at Opry Mills with his wife and says he will find a phone book and call me back.

In the meantime, husband calls back, he's leaving work and will be right there. Traffic is flowing all around me. My head has started pounding double time again and to say I'm not happy is an understatement.

What occurred to me as I'm waiting to hear back from everyone is the differences in people today. Some people were going around me, blowing their horns and a few wise-ackers even had the nerve to flip me off! Bad karma will eventually catch up with you friends, be VERY afraid.

Just when I feel like giving up on the human race as a whole, a very cute guy on a motorcycle pulls up to my window. "Ma'am, are you okay?" I explain the situation. He asks if I have a phone...I wave mine for him to see. He parks his bike, jumps off and tells me to put the car in neutral that he will push me into the turn zone lane to get me out of traffic. OH thank cute bike boy!! He does this with very little effort. I offer to pay him for his time, but he refuses and makes sure someone is coming to help me before whizzing away on his shiny bike. Proof there IS still kindness found in strangers.

About this time, music partner calls with a tow service in Smyrna. I thank him profusely. I explain to the voice that answers where I am and what I need. An older man's voice sounding of too many cigarettes and coffee tells me that he will be there in less than 10.

I look in my rear view mirror to see my husband pull up behind me. Yes! Crisis almost over! We are discussing where and what we should do with Whitey Ford when here comes Mr. Tow Truck. Out jumps a very wrinkled version of Robert DeNiro with a cigarette dangling from his mouth.

"Your car dead?" Uh no...just thought I'd stand out in the middle of Sam Ridley and enjoy the sunshine. He proceeds to load up Whitey and we decide that it MIGHT be the battery so he tows it to our house. Turns out it's probably the alternator but we have a plan and all will be taken care of first of the week.

Once again I return to my bed, giving up hopes of really napping but maybe just resting for a bit. My husband informs me that we've been invited to hear a friend sing that night and we're going and will have dinner after. He says that I have been acting "depressed" this week and I need a night out. I explain it's not depression but searing pain in my head.

He didn't bother to tell me WHERE she was singing so while we are in his car on the way a little later, I ask. Turns out her Methodist minister Dad has talked her into singing at their church's Good Friday service. I smile to myself thinking that it is a tad bit ironic that I've spent most of my day bitching and now here I find myself on the way to church. Obviously someone thinks I need some religion.

We arrive at the church in the Rivergate area, and I'm thankful that I'm dressed appropriately and am having a good hair evening (yes I did fix it and the make up while getting ready). The service was nice and while we were singing out of the Methodist Hymnal which was actually the Baptist Hymnal with Baptist scratched through and Methodist added, I thanked the Man upstairs for the cute bike boy that helped me. I ask Him to do something about those others that were mean and flipped me off during my crisis. I even ask Him to bless wrinkled Robert DeNiro for coming so quickly; my sweet husband for leaving work and rushing to my side; my sweet music partner for getting me the appropriate phone numbers and yes, for not breaking down on the way from work at the end of the day.

While sipping a nice cold drink after dinner with our friends later, and seeing the beautiful moon in the sky on our drive home, I realize it really had been Good Friday after all.

SINGING ON THE SIDE PORCH

LELA LEE BENNETT HUDSON
APRIL 10, 1901


Today is the day my paternal grandmother was born. She was the only grandparent that I ever knew. My Dad's father died when my sister Jill was a baby as did my Mother's parents. She has been on my mind today, so I will do what I usually do when something gets stuck in my head - write.

She lived next door to us, sharing a yard. As a kid, I made a path from her back door to our back door that was easily seen from either vantage point. She was my main care-giver the first three years of my life due to my brother, Terry, being sick with cancer.

To say I was her "favorite" grandchild is an understatement and yet another thorn in my side with my two older sisters. Bigma, as we called her, lived in a big white house with three separate porches. The one on the "front" of the house was open and only used for very special guests. The side porch that faced our house was an enclosed screened porch and the two of us spent many hours in her old glider. She would brush my hair, which was very long back then, and hum some tune she made up. The "back" porch was totally enclosed and held odds and ends of furniture that she no longer thought "proper" for inside the house but was the perfect place for a young girl to use as a playhouse.

Bigma was an interesting woman. She came from a tragic upbringing that left her scarred in many ways and unfortunately hindered her relationships with her children, in-laws and most everyone else but me. I like to think I saw the real woman behind all the drama and chaos that usually followed where she had been.

My Mom felt guilty (and still does) that my first three years were spent with Bigma while she had to be away with my brother. At that time, the nearest cancer treatment facility was in Jackson, Mississippi, a full 2 hours away. So Mother stayed during the week while Daddy worked and my two sisters kept the house going, and on the weekends, my Daddy stayed with him and Mother came home to rest. It was a trying time for all but being so young, I only remember the good times.

Bigma taught me how to sew; cross-stitch, quilt, embroidery and crochet. She tried and tried to teach me to crochet but I never really did pick it up. She was known for her handwork and quilting and made many over the years. I am blessed to have two of those and an afghan that she made for me one Christmas. I only have to look at them to feel her presence again.

She taught me to love nature, birds, flowers and the beauty of the simple things. Standing 5'2 in her stocking feet, she was what we call a "plus-sized" woman but she had a beautiful face, blue eyes and thick wavy hair. My Mom has always said that of all us kids, I get the texture of my hair from Bigma, and yes, those blue eyes that all the Hudson's seem to have.

She always wore a big straw brimmed hat on her head when we were out doors and she loved working in the garden with my Dad. The barn was directly behind her house and she was forever out there asking my Dad endless questions of different things that she thought needed to be accomplished in the garden. I'm sure this aggravated him but he always seemed so patient and gentle with her.

Bigma never learned to drive. This drove my Mom nuts because this meant we had to take her everywhere she wanted to go. I'm not sure why she refused to learn but she was a stubborn woman and if she said no, you could forget it. Driving was one of those NO's you didn't question.

I remember watching Watergate on the black and white TV in her living room together. We watched "Days Of Our Lives" everyday, much to my Mom's chagrin. For her to have had such a sheltered life in many ways, she knew everything that was happening with national news and politics and I remember asking question after question over the Watergate saga.

Someone gave her a grey and white Persian cat that she named PopCorn. PopCorn idolized her and would follow her around like a dog. She even learned to get in the bathtub and have a weekly bath. It's the only cat I've ever seen that went willingly to the water to be drenched. At times I worried Bigma was going to drown the poor thing!

My best memories were spent on the "back" porch where I had my make-believe house. All of my dolls lived there and I could play for hours. She had an old second-hand stove that she refused to part with for some reason and had given me old pots, pans and dishes she no longer used. I would play like I was cooking dinner and all the dolls where my children. Also, there was a huge storage closet attached to the porch where she kept boxes and boxes of scrap fabric that she used for quilting. If someone had a dress or something they no longer wanted, she would ask for it and cut them into squares. She would also purchase bolts of fabric on sale "just in case" someone needed something extra special that would require a lot of material. My favorites were the silks and toiles and I would play "dress-up". Most of the time I was a princess, a bride or a movie star.....you know....same shit I play now. LOL

My most cherished thing that once belonged to her is my china cabinet. It wasn't overly expensive but I loved it from the time I even knew what it was. She kept "what nots" in it instead of china and I would constantly re-arrange everything. I guess she got tired of me playing in it or asking for it because when I was 12, she insisted that Daddy move it from her house to my bedroom. I remember he argued and argued with her but she had her mind made up. I was having that china cabinet, end of discussion. I kept books and things in it for years but when I became an adult and started on my journey of collecting china (I have about 10 different sets, most antiques) I began to display things. It's in my living room now full of beautiful Wedgewood china that I picked out when Jerry and I married. After she was moved to the nursing home, her two daughters made sure that no one got anything that belonged to her so I'm so thankful that it was in my possession.

She passed away in 1992. I was already living in Nashville and married to husband number two. She was 91 and had been in a nursing home for a while. I hated that. The few times I went to see her there, I cried all the way back to my Mom's. Her mind went and some days she would know you and some days she wouldn't. The interesting thing is that when I'd go see her, she would remember me....but I was that little girl again. It made me feel special that her memories were of those times too. I will forever be indebted to her as I truly feel she is the person that cultivated in me the gift of imagination.

Perhaps the music I write now is born from an endless tune I learned long ago on the side porch while a sweet old woman brushed my hair.

A Field Of Onions

Growing up in southeast Mississippi, a common occurrence about this time of year was the planting of the garden. My Dad was known throughout our county for having the biggest green thumb around. If someone's harvest didn't produce as well or much, people came over to find out if "Pete", as he was called, had any for sell. He usually did and insisted they "take what you need" without receiving a penny from anyone.

Daddy was a handsome man. Jet black hair and blue eyes just like mine. He was about 6'1 and played basketball in high school. I often thought in his younger years that he looked a little like Andy Griffith. He had an easy smile and a personality that drew you to him. He was always ready with some joke or funny yarn he had heard down at the Co-op.

His days were full of business things. Over the years he held many different types of positions; he was co-owner of a Buick dealership when I was very small; owned a small grocery store with a butcher shop, and at the time of his death in 1979, was a top-selling insurance salesman. I always knew that if there was anything about me that I inherited from him, it was his need of adventure and excitement. Dad never really seemed "settled" and was always looking for the next big thing to try.

At the end of the day, the suits were hung in the closet and traded in for his old jeans and work boots. Gardening was his true passion. If the rich Mississippi soil would yield it, he could grow it. Our land was divided into tracts behind our house and virtually, other than a fair size "back yard", the rest really was a HUGE garden as far as your eyes could stretch.

The "small garden" directly behind the house held the smaller plants that were lower to the ground and easier to navigate and harvest. The farther fields were reserved for the broader crops such as sweet corn, field peas, watermelons, cantaloupes, honey dew melons, green peanuts and for the fall, pumpkins. The side garden was for the "vine growers" such as climbing English peas, pole beans and the winter crops of turnips, collards and mustard. The back "lower 40" was for potatoes. I'm amazed at how much I remember about planting and growing vegetables. While I do not have a garden of my own, I do have a green thumb with plants. If any of us inherited his green thumb, it would be my sister Jill. She can nurse a dead weed back to life.

Our summers were spent harvesting all of these vegetables for canning. As a child, I hated it with a passion. Number one, I was allergic to everything that grew outside and within two minutes of stepping foot on the soil, I would be sick with hay fever symptoms. Number two, mosquitoes LOVED me and would eat me up. After a couple of summers spent back and forth to the doctor, Daddy finally banned me from the garden and instead put me in a rocker, with a huge metal pan of something to shell, shuck or snap on my lap, sitting with my Granny by the box fan on the carport. This was fine by me! I knew I was a Diva, even then. We both especially enjoyed having the radio going at full blast with a nice glass of fresh lemonade while we worked. I would sing for her all day and even take special requests. (My sisters hate me to this day that I was banned to the carport while they slaved in the MS heat.)

Looking back, I cherish those memories now. Some of my best days as a kid were spent with my Dad in the garden. My favorite memory of all was the planting of onion sets in late to early April. For you city slickers, onions sets are tiny little onions that you plant for green onions. Dad would walk ahead of me with his hoe and post digger and make a small hole for me to drop the onion in. Being a family that loved onions, he planted several long rows. Up and down we'd go until my basket was empty. It had a certain rhythm. Make the hole, drop the set, cover the hole, move forward - and on it went. I remember the earth smelling of this pungent odor that I sometimes still smell as I travel through a country side. Instantly, I'm transported back to the "small garden", walking behind my Dad, feeling proud that this was something I could to with him - just me, by myself.

By early May, you could see the bright green stalks sprouting up from the earth. Each day after I got off the school bus, I'd run to the back garden to see how much they had grown. The best part was being able to pull them up later in May to see how white and pretty their bulbs had grown. It was like pulling up a hidden treasure which each stalk. You never knew how big the onion would be until you pulled it free.

We kept an old wheel barrel behind the house near a facet with a garden hose. Whatever vegetables we gathered were deposited into the wheel barrel and washed first before being carried inside to Mom for preparing. After the heat of the garden, washing your face, hands, and feet under the hose was so refreshing. I'd usually end up getting soaked from head to toe and have to strip down in the laundry room before bolting inside to my bedroom.

I hate that kids today really do not get to see that side of life. Growing vegetables, whether for a living or personal use and enjoyment is hard work but oh, what satisfaction you get when the harvest is made!

I miss my Dad the most this time of year; he passed May 14, 1979 at the age of 52. He had so many gardens still left to plant. I like to think he is in some grand garden enjoying a lifetime of plantings and harvesting. If I'm lucky enough, maybe I will one day be able to walk behind him again, dropping that tiny little onion in the hole and anxiously watch for another field of onions to grow.