Everything's Coming Up Daisies

Spring has sprung.

Then clocks were flung- when some of us realized we’d lost an hour’s worth of sleep.

Where does the time go, really?

 If only I could find it, I’d like to get some of it back, please.  And it’s not like I’m asking for too much.  It’s only time, after all…not carb-free calzones, roomier airplane seats, or world peace.

My oldest daughter, who refuses, like me, to grow up, always seems to have the right answer for questions such as these.

Her: “We need magic beans.  Are magic beans in season?”

Me: “I don’t know.  Let’s Google it.”

See, Livi, because she is so acutely aware of her surroundings, is in no hurry to hurl herself directly into the harm’s way of life.

If you were to tell her- go on, the world is waiting for you- she’d ask if it’s some sort of trap.  You know, a place filled with heartbreak, hunger, unrealistic health care premiums, and 5 dollar gallons of unleaded gasoline.

I get you, sister.

I, like you, want to live in a slice of space where joy is eating Chick-Filet Polynesian sauce with your finger, love is unconditional, and freedom is sleeping in and watching Saturday morning cartoons while eating buckets of Captain Crunch topped with whipped cream.

Sometimes when I watch Livi turning cartwheels barefoot in the grass, her long wavy hair trailing behind her, she reminds me so much of my Aunt Beverly.  I adored her as a child. 

I adore her still. 

As the wife of my mom’s youngest brother, Beverly seemed more of an older cousin to me even though she was 19 years older.  On the weekends we would drive to Colbert, GA, I couldn’t wait to see her making the hour and a half drive seem twice as long.  As soon as you were sprung free from the car, she would chase you around and around the house, tickle you until you were utterly exhausted, and let you brush her lush long, blonde hair for hours on end without complaint.

Beverly was light and air and pixie dust.

She was beautiful.

She loved daisies, too.  I remember them in vases at her house, loosely arranged and lovingly picked.  They embodied her, as well, with their simple elegance and innocent beauty.  Like Beverly, they signify kindness, patience, loyalty, and love.

I still think of her whenever I see a daisy.  And if I were to close my eyes, I can picture her running through the woods, laughing, her long blonde hair flowing behind her, forever young. 

See, I never did get to see her grow old.  She lost her battle with breast cancer at 38 years-old, when I was a freshman at Georgia.

She never got to see her two young kids, Kimberly, 11, and Chris, 9, grow into adulthood, either.

Time, that tick tock span of inevitability, can be cruel, sometimes too. Well, a lot of times…..if we’re honest.

But what if that makes the young at heart, the youthful spirits, the Beverly’s of this world the wisest of us all?

What can we learn from those who have the insight and sensitivity to know the heartaches and pains of life, but instead embrace the joys and small wonders of the world all the same?

Her son, Chris Butler, is getting married here on the island at the King & Prince on the 30^th of March.  It’s hard to believe time has flown by so fast. 

If I could say anything to Chris and his bride-to-be, Erin, it would be to enter into your new lives together with the same wild abandonment, love of life and curiosity as your mother.

I’m reminded of the song Forever Young written by Bob Dylan around the time Beverly was 18.  He wrote this after taking a break from touring and had become a father: 

 

“May God bless you and keep you always

May your wishes all come true

May you always do for others

And let others do for you

May you build a ladder to the stars

And climb on every rung

May you stay forever young.”

 

“May you grow up to be righteous

May you grow up to be true

May you always know the truth

And see the lights surrounding you

May you always be courageous

Stand upright and be strong

May you stay forever young.”

 

“May your hands always be busy

May your feet always be swift

May you have a strong foundation

When the winds of changes shift

May your heart always be joyful

And may your song always be sung

May you stay forever young.”

 

Congratulations, Erin and Chris.  May your song always be sound, honest, pure and full of light and lots of love.

And once you walk the aisle and stand together, ‘building your ladder to the stars’, just know how proud she’d be of the both of you. Together. Always.

 

 

A Poem:

First Place-Grand Prize Winner

Eber &Wein Publishing

June-December 2012

 

 

The Wedding Gown of Marriage

by Laura Packard       

The quest for less baggage
Seems all wrapped up in a neat tiny
box, not a gift
Still nice, but tied up real tight.
Only does it hold up to the tulle and the tussle of cool, vacant sheets,
The layers and folds and creases that told of pain and misunderstanding.
Or bittersweet words that linger with time
Like layers of buttercream
Artificially sweet.

It came off at once,
This veil of complexity all sheer and white.
The iridescent taste of raw silk bunched up then spread stiff in a harsh morning light.
Has the essence of sweetness dissolved quickly with one caress
And at the first touch of the tongue?

A garter, a martyr
A groom, a self starter
A bride made of blushing bravado
Complete with slick pearls
And polished silver reflected in mirrors
Of doubt.

Who knows what happens within each hand - stitched thread
When passion and bunting and (dis)honesty met.
A nod, a cold shoulder, a toss of the head,
Where things of the heart are often unsaid.
Who knew that chamber in which you were led
Would end without words but a stroke of a pen.

Mamma Mia

 

I finally figured out what I want to be when I grow up.

It only took me four decades, 11 moves, 5 states, 5 years of college, 1 husband, and 2 kids to do it. 

I want to be an Italian grandmother.

I know, I know. No need to state the obvious, since I am not Italian, nor I’m I married to one.  And genealogically speaking, on both sides, I’m as English as English comes; but I still can’t stomach stout filled pints, Prims, or pies with organ meat stuffed into to them.  I don’t like rain, trench coats, royal watching, fog, or those ridiculous fascinator’s English people wear to weddings. 

What I do love are figs, capers, rich cheeses, wine, sundresses and three hour lunches.  I like to move, not with great purpose to get somewhere, but with great curiosity to find the purpose in the commonplace.

            Sometimes, in the evenings, when I am taking a can opener to a 14 ounce of Hunt’s stewed tomatoes and snapping my Winn Dixie brand spaghetti in half so it’ll fit in the pot while listening to the sounds of doors slamming and pre-teen fighting, I can’t help but yearn for the salty taste of paper thin prosciutto, the heady smell of orange blossoms, and the sweet sound of children’s laughter.

            On occasion, I will spend an entire Sunday in the kitchen nurturing my fantasy.  I will simmer my sweated pearl onions in garlic and white wine sauce for an hour before I even toss them into my homemade tomato sauce that’s been slowly bubbling since dawn.  I will cut, with love and military precision, my own tagliolini made from dough of farm fresh eggs, organic flour, and the finest of virgin olive oil. It will not matter when I sit down with family and friends at our outdoor table draped in heirloom linens and lined with tea candles and carafes of Chianti when someone salts the food before they taste it.  I will not be deterred when someone proclaims they hate tomatoes and then asks for ketchup.  And even after one of my angels refuses sauce on top of her pasta then politely declines to eat it because it resembles snot, I will smile over my wine and think of lemon trees, wandering goats, sea salted breezes, and olive groves.

 

I will simply image a time and place where my children will bring their children and their friends and their children over every Sunday.  I will rise early, feed the chickens, pick the tomatoes off the vine, stir my eight hour Ragu and decant the red table wine from an earthen jug outside in the garden.  We will dine for hours under the shade of an old cypress tree on fresh cheeses, mussels, figs and berries.  There will be no iPads, Dsi’s or shouts for extra TV time; only kissed cheeks, salutes, and everyone calling me “Mamma.”  Because we will eat, we will drink, we will tell stories, and we will be grateful for all that we have; the simple pleasures and, of course, each other.

 

An old lady can dream, right? 

           

And it will not bother me aging and weathering in the salty air of the mediterrean sea like an aged grape- nope, not in the slightest, since we cannot all look like Sophia Loren- the deep wrinkles, the course gray hair, the unending aches and the pains of tending to a lifetime of lush gardens because I will have lived la dolce vita- the good life.

            Y’all may be wondering about now why and when I came to this epiphany after all these year?  Why I suddenly figured out what I wanted to be and how I would like to grow old.  Most people fantasize about writing a novel, climbing the world’s largest mountains, traveling to outer space or discovery something unknown and new and life altering- a cure for cancer, the fountain of youth.  But to aspire to become an Italian grandma?  Why in the world-and how, exactly- does someone hope to become that?

            It was simple, really, like any great meal; a few ingredients tended with love.  It just happened to occur one morning over a crock pot where I usually threw them all in and hoped for the best.  And what I got out of this magic post-war invention that saves time, money, and energy, was usually pretty darn good.  And I felt I sense of accomplishment; coming home, removing the lid, and dishing something out. 

But like life, easy isn’t always best.  Simplicity, yes.  But short cuts? No.  Because there is so much you miss in between. 

There is an old saying in Italy that goes something like this: A tavola non si invecchia.  At a table with good friends and family, you do not become old.

Italian grandmother or not, I wholly concur.

Buon Appetito! Let’s all take the time and enjoy the simple pleasures that come from enjoying the meal of life.