Well, what a wonderful way to spend a Friday afternoon in NorthCentralish Texas (I always think of us as central, but then some folks central is more down toward Austin way). Our little Johnson County took quite a beating, so I hear from Mr. Finfrock on NBC. The Mr. has expeditioned between waves to the grocery and beer store (we wouldn’t want to be stuck in a tornado with no food beer. Anyway, I’m sure he will bring back tales from the road.
It was such a blessing though, to have this Doppler radar to depend on. Back in the day, my mother was terrified of storms. It seems she’d done a stint in Kansas when I was a baby and living in tornado alley sorta ruined her for being able to appreciate a nice Texas thunder boomer. She didn’t care if they were big or small, if it “was comin’ a cloud,” as they used to say in Glen Rose, Texas, we were going to the cellar. It didn’t matter if it was 9 in the morning, 10 at night or 3 in the morning, she knew when a storm was brewing. If, on the 10 o’clock news, Harold Taft mentioned we had a chance of storms overnight, she’d sleep with her clothes on and her purse tucked safely beside her in case we had to make a fast getaway to the cellar.
It was funny this afternoon…as we were preparing for the big cell to come over, I realized not only do I not have a purse, I can’t really think of any important documents I couldn’t just get another of if need be. That’s the difference, see. My mom did. In that purse were the most treasured of documents…my adoption papers and her citizenship papers. I used to laugh at her, sitting in the doctor’s office or in the car, clutching her beloved purse, but back then I didn’t really realize the significance of what she carried in that bag.
When she died, her purse, her sweater and her pillow were the only things of value I cared to keep. I sleep on the pillow, or at least it is on the bed, every night, the old sweater hangs in my closet, complete with the gravy stains…probably from when she’d made a roast or sweet and sour chicken or chicken and dumplings or noodles and beef gravy…any one of the dishes she made with so much love it seemed they’d last forever. I never knew back then that if love was an ingredient and you were poor that a pot of chicken and dumplings could feed you forever. Anyway, it occured to me that I can’t find that purse the other day when I was looking at that old stained sweater. After she died, I would go through that purse and wonder…why the hell she keep this receipt for a payment she made on that TV she “bought on time” from the Western Auto back in 1976? In that ever important bag that carried all her treasured history, was a pay stub from my father from when he was in the Air Force back in 1965 and the terrible letters he sent to her from the mental ward of the Air Force Hospital after he sent us to Texas. I would sit and wonder, why in the world would she keep something so hurtful? There were S&H Green Stamps from the grocery store, pictures of all the kids she had helped raise over the years, pictures of the girls, a few quarters in a change purse, and her treasured glasses. I can’t even tell you how many times the treasured contents of that purse were gone over, read, opened, change counted, glasses opened and closed and put back in their case. I just understood then why my mama always had her purse with her wherever she was. That purse chronicled her life. The good and happy parts and the horrible dark parts that helped shape this little German woman who never said Uncle no matter what life threw her direction.
I didn’t give my mama enough credit when she was here, but sitting in the dark in the living room at 3, telling the LittleYub how it was “back in the day” when it would “come a cloud” and about my mama, the grandmother he would never know, sure did bring it all back to me. I gotta find that purse.
With me knowing, thanks to the Doppler radar and David Finfrock, that there was no need for me to grab the twin mattress off the bottom bunk and huddle in the hall until the tornado sirens stopped blaring, LittleYub was free to entertain us in this grass skirt he found in the back closet…for a loooooong time.
And the thought popped into my head, as I watched this 8-year-old whirlwind in a grass skirt dancing in front of me that, in the midst of a storm, he would have driven my poor mama batty.
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