So here we are back to that widely-held idea that writers lead these wildly glamorous lives. I mean I ain't complaining. I'd rather do this than serve up Dilly bars at DQ. But it's Mothers Day and I'm alone, save for a dog that doesn't even know my name.
I went to the early service at church today. Enjoyed it very much because it was held in the chapel. The minister gave a very good message about anxiety -- the very subject of my upcoming book. And if you haven't read what others are saying about it yet, you should check out my homepage -- heromama.org. Yes. A shameless plug.
So after church I planned myself an excursion that did not include noisy restaurants or coffee bars. Me & Jackson went in search of Magnolia Cemetery in Mobile. I read about the cemetery in John Sledge's book Cities of Silences. A beautiful book that includes a lot of local history.
One of the most difficult aspects of living out west for me is I ain't got any dead kin there. On Memorial Day there is no one to memorialize. There's no graves to tend. No one to take flowers to.
What makes me southern in ways that my children aren't is my connection to the traditions of the south. Westerners don't care for the dead the way a southerner does.
And their graveyards reflect that.
You will not find ornate statuary in the graveyards of the West. They are much too practical for such affairs. They are minimalist when it comes to the graves. Just a slab of stone in the ground, etched here and there. Maybe one of those new fangled photos lasered into a headstone. That's about as done up as they get when they go down under.
I have always loved roaming the cemeteries. My mama says I get that from her. She used to roam them too.
The other thing I've notices is that Sundays down south are still all about MeeMaw. Everyone spends their Sundays going to visit MeeMaw, Nana, or Granny. Nobody talks much about Poppy. And they don't have to have any special holiday to do that. It's just a given. Everybody still talks about their mamas.
Skip Jones was at church with his mother today. Going to church with her once a month was his Christmas gift to her. What a lovely gesture. She looked pleased to have her son with her.
I found Magnolia Cemetery with the help my new trusty GPS. It worked great. I parked under a shady oak, got out and walked for a few feet when I discovered I was in the Jewish cemetery. Yes. Still segregated here in the south. Only now it's more out of tradition than racism. That's where the family plot happens to be.
After some wandering around I found some of the images that Sledge talks about in his book. Here's a looky see:
I love the expressions on these girls. One died at a year. The other at 4, I think. I'm not sure but it may have been Typhoid fever. A trip through Magnolia on Mothers Day is a sobering reminder of how many mothers spent their Mothers Days grieving for children dead and gone.
Sadly I think this may be a mirror of what my thighs look like from behind. I love the feet though. The way one foot is crossed behind the other. And the broken wing. That's the kind of angel I'll be -- the one with the broken wing. Wonder where do angels go to heal theri broken wings?
I loved this vision of the angel writing in her own book.
Loved so dearly, lost so early. Such was the inscription on this grieving mother, for her little Rubie. If you look closely the stains look like tears.
There is a song on a CD I bought, a prayer of sorts, for an old angel. One who knows their way around heaven. One like this old gal I suppose. That's the sort of angel I need. One that commands attention.
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