One of my very dear friends invited me to join Twitter so that I could keep up with her life. I sent her an e-mail saying that I just didn’t think that I could take up yet another computer habit.
It’s not that I don’t want to stay in contact with my friends who Twitter. The truth is, I don’t believe that I would be a good Twittererererer. Please, if you don’t believe me, just look at one of my entries. I average 1200 words per post. The people who read me regularly must really like me or enjoy my cynicism. I don’t know how to do 150 characters or less or whatever the optimum Twitter limit is.
I can picture it now:
Twitter from James:
“Hey. What’s up?”
Response from me:
“Well, my head is exploding. The tiles are falling off the wall in the bathroom, and I’m pretty sure that there is extensive water damage. Jeez that’s going to cost a lot of money, and well, who has money right now? Eamonn is driving me up the wall, and I just found out the Ranch flavord Doritos have MSG, which is probably why they give me headaches. Why didn’t I ever notice it before? Do you /
Cut off in midstream.
I would spend a good 10 minutes yelling about how inane it is to expect anyone to be able to respond in so few words, and then I would try to pick up midstream where I left off in another Twitter, by which time, Jammi has tweeted me back about five times.
Let’s try again.
Twitter from James:
“Hey. Things are good here. How are u?”
Response from me:
“Would it have taken that much longer to type you? You type an ungodly fast speed, as fast as I do, probably faster. How are things good? What happened? Did Korb actually make it through the night two nights in a row? That’s fantastic. Boys are so much easier to potty train than girls, but you have to watch out because they get sneaky and hide behind end tables sometimes when they don’t want to take the time to go to the bathroom. I remember one time when Eam/
Jammi, I love you. I miss you, and I wish that we still talked daily. I wish that you were on your way through Chick Fil ‘a, picking us a sweet tea for both of us, yours without lemon, mine with, and that we were working the floor together, just the two of us. Then we could try on clothes and pretend that we didn’t hear the pages. I miss seeing Kennedy grow. I hate that I don’t know Korb. I think that Kyle and Corey would really like each other. But sweetheart. I can’t Twitter. It’s impossible. You know that it is. I even text in complete sentences with punctuation.
I have a better idea. Why don’t you guys move back east? Then we could talk to each other face to face . . .
So, dear readers, what do you think? Am I cut out for Twittering? I mean Rachel Maddow does it. Obama did it. Demi and Ashton Twitter each other all day long (but I think that I’m just jealous because Demi still has such a rockin bod, and I don’t).
To Twitter or not to Twitter . . .
I’ll try one more time.
“Hey. What snoo?”
Lying is easier than trying to be succinct. I hate that . . .
More later. Peace.
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When I was a little girl, I mean really little girl, about 8, my Aunt Ronnie used to have one of those electric chord organs in her back bedroom. My Aunt Ronnie is my mother’s oldest sister and has pretty much served as my surrogate grandmother on my mother’s side. My mother was the youngest of 12 children, and Aunt Ronnie was the oldest, so there is a big age span between them, which is why I have always viewed her as my surrogate grandmother, that and the fact that she is the grandmother to all of my second cousins who are my age.
I should probably be explaining this better, so let me regress a little. When we came back to the states after being in England, we settled in Norfolk for a number of reasons, but one of the main ones was that several members of my mother’s family live in Great Bridge, which at that time, was still a pretty rural place in Chesapeake. Every Sunday, my mom and I would drive to Aunt Ronnie’s house for Sunday dinner, and I would spend the afternoon playing with my second cousins, which was a wonderful thing for me because as an only child, I wasn’t used to playing with family members my own age.
Those Sunday dinners deserve some space all their own. My Aunt Ronnie and whoever happened to be in the kitchen helping would turn out these incredible meals: roast chickens, chicken and dumplings (home made dumplings), pot roast, but the main course was always accompanied by southern style green beans, home made biscuits, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, and some kind of homemade dessert, like banana pudding or an apple pie. None of it was frozen. Nothing out of a can.
I remember my first dinner—It was my first taste of southern sweet tea. I drank it down in one big gulp. Everyone looked at me as if I were some kind of weirdo, which, of course, I wasn’t. I just had never had anything as wonderful as sweet tea. Those were also the days of the kids’ table and the big table. We had great times at the kids’ table . . . until the adults remembered to look in on us. But, as usual, I digress.
My first cousins, Aunt Ronnie’s three daughters, were mostly my Mom’s age. Those Sundays were some of the best times of my childhood. Before them, I knew nothing about running wild through fall leaves, playing tag, playing hide and seek, finding toads, having sticker ball fights, getting bruises from climbing tall trees, swinging on tire swings, all of the fun things that normal children do.
In England, I had friends, and we went to the park, but it wasn’t with the same wild abandon that I had with my cousins. It was the difference between being in a city and having to be watched and being in what was still relatively untouched country neighborhoods with few cars coming down the streets. We could play in the streets, and every once in a while, one of the grown ups might yell out the front door to get a location on us, and we could hear from ten houses down. The windows were open. Everyone knew who we were. We could run through everyone’s yards, and no one really cared.
Of all of my cousins, I was probably the one who was the most scared to do things, not because I was a girlie girl, but because I didn’t know how to do a lot of the things that seemed to come second nature to them, and I knew that they would laugh at me. For example, they never could get me on a minibike. But I was one of the best at climbing trees. I wasn’t afraid to climb anything. Stick ball. Nope. I pretty much sucked at connecting any kind of bat at any kind of ball (I had bad eyes but wouldn’t admit it for years). I tried a couple of times, but decided that I liked rolling sticker balls in the mud and then playing war with them until we were cold, wet, and filthy.
“How Sweet the Sound”
Sometimes, my mom and I would go to my Aunt Ronnie’s house during the week, and none of my cousins would be around, and then it would be totally different. It would just be Mom and Aunt Ronnie sitting around drinking coffee, and I would have to amuse myself however I could. That’s when I discovered the small electric organ in the back bedroom. I think that these organs were probably popular during the 60’s. Some were small enough to sit on desks, and others were on stands. This one was on a stand, and I think that it had 18 keys on it. There were a few chords on the left. Very simplistic.
At that time, I hadn’t begun formal piano lessons. I was playing instruments by ear only. I picked out some rudimentary tunes: “Silent Night,” “Jingle Bells.” And then I found an old hymnal, and I taught myself a couple of hymns, “The Old Rugged Cross,” and “Amazing Grace.” Now, in all of the times I was in the back room playing with the organ, no one ever bothered me. They just drank their coffee, and once in a while said something about how nicely I was playing. But when I played “Amazing Grace,” I knew right away that I had done something, but I wasn’t sure if it was good or bad.
My mother came into the bedroom with this strange look on her face. I had been playing and trying to sing the words as I was singing. She asked me very quietly to stop. Of course, I wanted to know why. The only thing that she would tell me was that Aunt Ronnie didn’t like to hear that song. So I stopped, but being a child, the next chance that I got, I played “Amazing Grace” again. This time, the reaction was much stronger. My mother came stomping back to the bedroom and turned off the organ and gave me one of those looks. I got up and started reading my book, and that was that.
I never played the organ again at her house other than the occasional Christmas carol, and that was much later when the cousins were older, and by then, we were sneaking bourbon, beer, and wine into the back room. The organ was just something to play to irritate the adults with more noise. I never found out why the hymn upset my aunt so much other than a quick explanation that it reminded Aunt Ronnie of something sad.
“And Grace Will Lead Me Home”
Personally, I have always loved “Amazing Grace,” and I decided years ago that when I die, it’s one of the few things that I want played at my memorial service—on the bagpipes, of course. Because, if nothing else is true, I believe in grace, perhaps not in the most traditional sense, but grace nevertheless. And I believe that even though the child in me could not understand how a song could elicit such painful memories in my aunt, something led me to that particular song in that hymnal.
And more than once in my life, I have been brought back to the lines “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound/that saved a wretch like me.” They have come out of nowhere, when I have least anticipated it, at times when I have most needed it. As always, my spirituality is very personal and private to me and therefore, I am not willing to say more about it, nor do I believe that this is the forum in which to do so.
But mulling over Thanksgiving dinner brought back fond memories of those really wonderful Sunday dinners with my family in a time and place long gone. Those streets are unrecognizable now. Everyone has moved on to different places. My aunt wouldn’t know me if she saw me. The tragedies of Alzheimer’s. I have third and fourth cousins who I have never seen since we stopped going to the family Christmas gatherings long ago. But it’s nice to revisit these memory sand castles that we have tucked away in long-term niches gathering dust in grey matter, if for no other reason than to know that we still can.