Poor Lilly

My Aunt Tattie and Uncle Nib were always my favorite aunt and uncle. Aunt Tattie was my mama's second to the littlest sister, right before Aunt Sis.

We all lived really close to each other all our growing up lives, just a couple of ten sections away from one another. Grandmommie and Grandaddy lived to the east of us. Me, mama and daddy lived in the middle. Aunt Tattie and Uncle Nib and their four lived to the west. Their names were Cousin Stub, The Twins, and then there was Poor Lilly. (Poor Lily wasn't ever really right, if you know what I mean.)

After Grandmommie and Grandaddy died, all us grandkids got a little bit of money. Some more than others. Gma and Gpa had to help The Twins and Poor Lily out time and again when we were growing up. You know, some bail money when someone got caught with too much beer. One of them got into a little bit too much trouble and a lot of his inheritance money went to a Senator who got the record cleaned for a few years spent in the Army.  Poor Lily had to spend some time with our cousins in Arkansas for about seven months one summer and they paid for that. Each time something like that happened, Grandmommie and Granddaddy happily took care of it, but they also kept tabs on it. 

Stub and I both got full scholarships to college; I went to UT in Austin and Stub went to Southern Methodist. Since our tuitions were taken care of, Grandmommie and Grandaddy footed the bills for our respective college lives. They always said it cost less to help someone get an education rather than bail somebody out. There were no hard feelings amongst us kids because we all knew that's the way it was. Grandaddy always said "that's the way the cow ate the cabbage". I never saw any cow eat any cabbage, but that old man was pretty damn smart, so I guess that's the way it really was.

After college, I stayed in Austin and went to work in the film industry. Stub moved back home and made a killing in real estate and land management. The Twins moved to California and completely disappeared. That was during the Manson times and I have always wondered if they are both buried under the sand at Spahn Ranch. 

Poor Lilly got on drugs.

Stub bought all of us out of Grandmommie and Grandaddy's old home place, but let Poor Lilly live in the old farmhouse rent free, with the promise she would take care of it. The only problem was, Poor Lilly kept nickel and dimeing her inheritance on nickel and dime bags of pot and coke and kept asking Stub to supplement the upkeep of the farmhouse.

He kept giving it to her, full well knowing she would spend it on booze and drugs until he finally realized that, one of these days, his future would be in jeopardy.

One Sunday, as he was getting ready to go to church where he played the piano for the services, Lily called and wanted money to fix the leaky roof to the house. Stub knew she was only going to blow it up her nose and said "Lilly, I'm done up to my ass giving you money. As far as I care, you can just burn that goddamn house down to the ground and collect on the insurance".

Then he couldnt wait to get to church. He quickly fed the dogs, ran out and fed old Smokey the horse. Then, as he got in his truck, he thought he smelled smoke, like someone was barbecuing.

As he turned down the drive, and was about to pass within a half of mile of Lilly's house, he saw out of the corner of his eye smoke, snakey tendrils of black. He kept on driving. There were more important things to do this day. He had to get to church to play. 

Stub had never played Onward Christian Soldiers with so much energy, verve, and excitement in his life. It seemed the tempo had never been heard that fast, or that loud, in the Hard Shelled, First Baptist church building ever. The choir could hardly keep up. Later, a lot of folks wondered if maybe he'd done it to keep everybody from hearing the sound of sirens. As sweat beaded on his brow, he prayed to the good Lord that Poor Lily had not taken him at his word.

A Turtle In Need Is A Turtle Who's A Pain In The Ass

Leaving work for lunch the other day, I risked life and limb to save the life and limb of a turtle. It's a very busy street, especially at noon time. I knew the guy didn't have a chance if I left him. When I picked him up off the road, the little shit thanked me profusely by profusely peeing on my leg. I didn't have anything to put him in, so I just set him on the back right floorboard of my car on a towel I had. 

I have a friend who has turtles in her backyard. She loves turtles. I call her and convince her she needs a new turtle. Yes, she says, but is it a box turtle or a water turtle? I tell her I don't know from turtles, but I'm coming to her house anyway.  

I pull into my friend's driveway, get out of my car, and retrieve Mr. T.  My friend looks at him and says, oh no, that's a water turtle. His home is water, not a backyard. Well great, I say. But I guess I'm lucky you live by a park that has a pond.  I will just take him there. 

So, I put him back on the floorboard of my car, and, after handling him all this time, go into Helen's house to get a pair of gloves. When I come back, he's not on the floorboard anymore. He has crawled under my passenger seat and has latched onto the carpet for dear life. I don't want to hurt him by forcing him loose, but I am also on my lunch hour. And I don't need a turtle nesting under my passenger seat while I'm at work. It would be to his detriment as well as mine. And to top it off, when I got dressed for work that morning, I was not planning to be a terrapin rescuer. As I am leaning into the backseat compartment to try to get him out, the wind keeps blowing my top over my head, not only impeding my view, but probably causing concern for the neighborhood mothers who have children at home. There was nothing to the imagination. 

I ask Helen to get something bright that perhaps she can wave in the front part of the seat to scare him enough to make him turn legs and back up. She comes back with a bright white tin sign, jiggles it just in front of him, and it does the trick. Mr. Turtle does the moonwalk back into my gloved hand. 

Long story short (Hahahaha!), I put him in a paper bag that Helen gave me, drive to the pond, and release him. 

But there's a loose dog running around, so not knowing turtle and dog interactions, I put him back in the paper bag, and drive to a different spot. And release him.  

Then I see the lawnmower guy. I don't personally know turtle and lawnmower interactions, but I have a really graphic imagination, so I put him (turtle, not lawnmower guy) in the paper bag, and drive to a different spot. And release him. 

This time, turtle nirvana! He does the Turtle Shuffle on the short path of land that he has, but a full Mark Spitz once he hits the water. 

My work there was done. 

Transition

 

 

I am really conflicted about this Caitlyn Jenner situation.

 

* Formerly William Bruce Jenner.

* 1976 Olympic Decathlon Gold Medal Winner.

* Was the Best Athlete in the World

* In the Olympic Hall of Fame

* Photo on the Wheaties Cereal Box

* "Stellar" Acting career

* Nominated for the 1980 Golden Raspberry Award for Worst Actor for his performance in the film Can't Stop the Music (1980).

* Former Patriarch of the First Family of Reality Television - The Kardashians

 

All of these accomplishments (prior to the acting thing ;-) ) . All of these accolades. All of these adoring fans. Man needs to be a woman?

 

Yes! Man needs to be a woman. Man has to be a woman. Man has been a woman in everything but body, until now.

 

Does Caitlyn Jenner coming into her own affect my life? No. Does it affect your life? Only if you feel the same as Caitlyn has felt her entire life and her transition gives you courage to follow a similar path.

 

My conflict, maybe you ask? It's not about Bruce Jenner finally becoming Caitlyn Jenner. No. It's about how some of my friends have reacted to Caitlyn Jenner finally becoming herself. I have always known how some of these people feel about others who do not vote the same way they do. I know how prejudiced, bigoted, and homohated some people I know are. I have heard the most horrendous things spoken about a person that none of us knows personally.

 

My conflict, you ask? It's not about accepting Bruce Jenner finally becoming Caitlyn Jenner, because that does not affect me. It's about Mellie from Texas rejecting her friends, because that does.

Laz

It was a perfect spring afternoon in Houston, upper 70s, low humidity, and an ever so slight breeze. Baby Lucas was napping and my niece and I were enjoying the day, each other's company, and the hummingbirds slurping and flirting at the feeder.

There were many females at the feeder, but only a few males, including one who was a little bit disheveled, perhaps a little long in the beak. Occasionally, a very large male hummer would swoop in, chasing away the other males to keep the nectar, female and liquid, all to himself. It seemed that all the boys deferred to the large chap, with the exception of the older guy, Laz.

I noticed old Laz didn't mind Biggie H when he demanded they leave his honey hole. In fact, Laz preferred the comfort of one spot on the feeder. Second by second, minute by minute, he sipped and sipped, and licked of the nectar. So content he was supping that he hadn't moved in about five minutes. Wait, five minutes? That's just not right. Hummingbirds don't stay in one spot eating for five minutes. Old Laz had apparently croaked. There he was, immobile, perched there with snout firmly inserted into the yellow plastic feeding flower, not a feather quivering.

If birds are capable of having a look of contentment, satisfaction, even satiation, on their faces, old Laz had it. I think it probably was the equivalent of an old man dying just seconds after orgasm after having sex with the most desirable partner of his dreams.

I reached toward him, placed my thumb and forefinger on either side of his tiny, beautiful body, and gently lifted him away from his sugary death tube, but I felt the tiniest bit of resistance from his beak area. Just then, his little body shook, his wings extended to their full four inches, and he hummed happily away.

Old Lazarus wasn't dead, he had just been stuck.

Next week, I'll walk on water.

happy Birthday

I haven't seen my mother in, oh shit, four years. I remember I had gotten up early that morning. It was my birthday, and momma always put out my presents on the kitchen counter for me to find when I got up.

When I woke up, something just wasn't right. I went to pee and then wash my face, thinking that maybe she had planned something really special since this was an important birthday for me, but I wasn't hearing noise, no voices, not a sound from anything.

I walked into the kitchen and saw the envelope. My name was scrawled across the face of it, like it had been done in a hurry. I ripped it open. It was one of those pull out cards that announced what a wonderful day the recipient would have. I started pulling out the message, seeing my message:

H A P P Y A N N I V E R S A R Y

That was the day I turned 13.

That was the first day I started raising myself.

I think of that day often. I think of it every time I get up on the pole. I see it behind my closed eyes every time a john is licking my face and telling me how beautiful I am. I think of it every time some Christian minister walks in the club, trying to put his "Jesus is coming and you're going to hell" pamphlet in my hand and saying girl you can do better for yourself than this.

I want to yell, "I have already been to hell, but someone else sent me there, and nothin else can be worse than that."
But I don't. Because that same minister, that shepherd of lost lambs, that emissary of a so called higher being, comes back in two hours with dark sunglasses on his face, and makes my rent for a month. And sometimes, if he has gotten an especially full plate of tithes the week before, two month's.

Today is my birthday. I am not old enough to vote. I cannot legally drink, and I cannot sign any type of contract without a parent, but I am alive without having one.

This is the day I turn seventeen.

Broken

I walked into the coffee shop and sat down. I don't know why. I'm not a coffee girl.

The guy was there before me. And had obviously been on the phone for awhile. "I don't need a girlfriend, " he said. "Why would you say that?

"If you think that, then you don't know me like I thought you did.

"I don't need a girlfriend!"

He slowly removed the phone from his ear, looked at it in disbelief, and laid it on his table. "I need you." 

Then he put his face in his hands and wept.

I sat there, one table removed, one life separated from another by a piece of furniture, and shared his grief, his pain. He didn't know I was there. I didn't care.

02.20.02

He hadn't spoken in days. He couldn't.

I hadn't spoken in hours. I couldn't.

I was going to be the last witness to my Daddy's life. I was the one to see him off on his next journey, wherever that may be.

I was to bid him bon voyage and Godspeed.

Before he quit speaking, he was talking to my dead Mother, which brought a certain amount of comfort to me. He also thanked Charlie for the hearing aides Dorothy gave him after Charlie died. Then there was the old cat that seemed to be always jumping into the clothes dryer. My dear old Dad asked a kitty to give him back his shorts.

He chattered, I listened, I laughed.

I held his right hand with my own. I didn't want to squeeze too hard for fear I would bruise him. I cupped his face with both hands. I told him that I would be all right. I told him my brother would be all right. I told him that we loved him and that he did a good job as a Daddy, as a Friend, as a Man.

I told him he had suffered for one second longer than was too long.

I told him that it was ok for him to go.

He looked at me, his hand relaxed, and one single tear fell from his eye.

Rest in eternal peace, Hugh Lang Pettit.