Category Archives: Memories

Kinfolk

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My brothers and I are transplants. Our mother’s side of the family came from the Philadelphia area, first emigrated from Italy. My father was from South Georgia. We were transplanted as a result of his Navy career. Growing up just south of the Mason Dixon line, it was easier to see family on our maternal side and we also had the added benefit of having our maternal grandfather live with us. That offered us a built in connection. My father’s side seemed so distant as it was more difficult to maintain that connection. I have shared before that at the age of ten I first read To Kill a Mockingbird. It portrayed the era that my father was raised and I thought reading it was imperative to understanding my southern roots. I will also admit that Gone with the Wind gave me a very inaccurate picture of the environment where my father was raised. He had shared that he grew up on the Colton plantation. What I had envisioned was far removed from the dark brown framed humble abode which was the reality.

With my retirement quickly approaching, I had planned a trip to Savannah, Georgia, as a gift to myself. There was no familial connection to the area yet it was front and center on my bucket list. In conversations with my Georgian cousin we came up with a plan to visit Savannah and then spend time together becoming reacquainted as family. I won’t go into details but that plan was abandoned and I spent my week with family enjoying a long overdue visit. My cousin and I hadn’t seen each other face to face since we were young but our connection has become strong in adulthood. I felt totally comfortable with accepting her offer which embodied perfect southern hospitality. I still have plans to visit Savannah but I thought it was more important to delve deeper into my family’s history.

What did I take away with me? I was already familiar with the red clay and the abundance of pines. Here in the north, we are fortunate not to fall victim to kudzu. This invasive vine can be seen everywhere, as it takes over hills, valleys and fields. The only plus I could grasp was the sea of green it created. Not every neighborhood has a wandering goat but my cousin’s does and I found it delightful. For the first time in my life, I tried boiled peanuts. That might be the last time they cross my palate as I think it takes a considerable amount of time to get use to the texture. I gave all the other southern fare a big thumbs up! Tender baby back ribs and the boiled shrimp was most enjoyable. I learned to appreciate many of the foods as a child since my father introduced it to us as part of our smorgasbord menu growing up. Good fried okra and pimento cheese is not considered a staple here, north of the Mason Dixon line, but I was grateful to find an abundance there. My cousin made a point to expand my sweet tooth and I found buttermilk and chess pies to be a wonderful dessert added as a delicious finish to a meal. It is amazing that we found so much time to talk, and catch up, when she spent so much time in the kitchen, cooking items to expand my horizons and waistline. We have talked about future trips and I hold out for the addition of peach cobbler and corn dogs the next time I am there.

Obviously I enjoyed my time visiting, eating and sightseeing. What I found more gratifying was the opportunity to meet my cousin’s grown children and her grandchildren, her husband and his siblings. It was important to me to understand what I had missed by not growing up there and fill in many blanks, as well as rehash family stories and histories. The last time I made a trip to Georgia I was able to visit with two of my aunts. They have since transitioned and I considered my brief time with them a gift. One expects the loss of their parents, and my aunts’ deaths, although mourned, didn’t come as a shock. What I do find unsettling is the loss of six of my Georgian cousins since my last visit. Little by little, I see time slipping away but I don’t want my southern roots going too. This visit has me reflect on the questions I wished I had asked earlier. In retrospect, I can’t make up for lost time, but I can change the future. Conversations and visits will continue and if they include fried okra and brewed tea, all the better.

Dump Runs

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In a previous blog, I mentioned that I began to take my trash to the dump as a cost saving measure during a very lean period in my life. It is a benefit offered to the local community, who choose to take advantage of its fee free establishment. Now that paying for trash pick-up is feasible for me again, I can’t explain why it remains more acceptable to make this run on Saturday morning rather than gathering my refuse and putting it out every Thursday evening. For some reason I grew to resent that weekly routine. Now I travel the back roads with my trash and recyclables and gaze out across the mountains. I believe I currently enjoy the backdrop more these days since I don’t have to cross that mountain daily for work.

I also have reason to believe that going to the dump is in my DNA. Yes, I might be the only person who admits going to the dump and feeling sentimental over the trip. It was not unusual for my father to utilize the local landfill. Our home was often under construction and he undertook various other projects that created waste. Since my father has been dead for over thirty years, protocols and regulations at the landfill have greatly changed. Ages ago, items were not bagged and they lay in a pile which allowed everyone access. I have no idea if there were signs that stated no one could retrieve items once they were discarded. If that was the case, my father, who always had a very ethical approach to life, ignored them. If there was something that could be salvaged at no cost, why not go for it? It may be cliché, but one man’s trash is another man’s treasure. It is not a stretch of the imagination to say my father’s childhood was challenging financially. His father died before my Dad even reached his teen years and I know what a struggle it was for my grandmother to provide for the family. It could be that is why my father was comfortable with dumpster diving before it became a popular activity. I doubt if anyone used the term biohazard when sharing what they scored at the dump. It didn’t seem to be much of an issue at the time.

My father chose not to keep these adventures solely to himself. It was not unusual for him to take my son along for the ride. During one of his reconnaissance missions, I recall him finding a plastic figure about four inches in height. It looked like it could have been some kind of action figure, just the kind my son and his cousins would enjoy playing with for hours. It was clear that this figure’s plight was to be discarded at the dump due to a missing head. Between his shoulders, where his head should have been, there was a screw. My nephew, who continues to maintain his creative streak into adulthood, named him Little Head Man. I don’t recall if Little Head Man was on the side of good or evil, but his distinctive feature fit well into my nephew’s narrative.

Before you find your stomach turning thinking about the removal of items from the dump and being handled, know that all the treasures were washed well before they were used. I can recall how my father’s thoughtfulness extended to me one time that made me question his rational in determining what would be a good castoff selection. I have always enjoyed handicrafts and it wasn’t unusual for me to fill my time with sewing, crocheting or cross stich. My father, knowing this, spied a bountiful stash of yarn. It was burnt orange in color and had the texture of rug yarn. Although I appreciated his generous donation of yarn to my collection I was queasy about the thought of touching it. There was no practical way of washing it prior to its use and in order to make something with it I would have had to hold it in my hands for several hours. As distinct as the memory of receiving this contribution to my inventory of hobby items may be, the final destination of this yarn has been forgotten. I have a feeling it was returned to its original location, the landfill. I probably held a bit of guilt returning it with the adage of looking a gift horse in the mouth heavy on my mind. So strong is that memory that I will not purchase thrifted yarn to this day.

Yes, policies have changed and no one has permission to access the trash being brought to the waste management site. These days I consider the Saturday morning dump run a trip to the social mecca of my small town as it is easy to see people you know. I enjoy the usual comments about the recycling bins not emptied often enough and how short people like myself struggle with getting items in the bin without it all falling back on you. I appreciate the irony of seeing so many yard sales set up along the way, tempting you to stop and fill the void that your trash run might have created. Most of all, I enjoy my trips to the dump as they bring back memories of my father and a simpler time. I have never forgotten that upon return from the landfill we would enjoy the reveal of what surprises returned with my father. With this all tucked away as memory, it doesn’t take much imagination to picture my Dad riding shotgun when I go.