dirty, rotten, no good day.

The gentleman who subbed for our human sexuality class today smelled so strongly of afternoon coffee with Papa that I had to bite my tongue to hold back tears. I'm not really a cryer, but there are just some days when they come with strong smells.



I could hear his shuffled step as he paced from the sink to the stove, water to coffee pot. He tried to do this quietly, but the click-clack of his tiny heels gave him away.
As if the man could be quiet. He was half deaf, after all, and I was more than awake after trying to pretend I was sleepy for the extra hour Grammy slept off. She was gently snoring on the sofa beside me.
He poked his head around the corner.
"Coffee, gal?" he whispered.
I responded by hopping down from the chair to sit at the kitchen table and watch the remainder of his ritual. As I sat there with my top half sprawled across the table, I counted the green tile pattern in the linoleum floor. Amazing how one house could have so much green. Green linoleum. Green carpet. What's strange is that none of that ever struck me as odd, simply one of the many quirks of Grammy and Papa's house.
The clock in the living room struck fifteen after.
Papa started to hum something I had heard a hundred times. Then came one of my favorite sounds. He started to sing as quietly as he thought quiet was.
"Now if I had a nickel, I'd tell you what I'd do, I'd buy it up in candy, and give it all to you."
Uncle Pill finally pulled up in the drive. The gravel crunched under his little Toyota truck that was more trouble than what it was worth. He loved that thing, though. Men of the Miles family loved their vehicles, even if they were the closest things to being god-forsaken on this earth.
We walked outside to the patio, where we were met with green again (astro turf, of course). Uncle Pill opened the screen door and let it promptly slam behind him.
"Well howdy, Brother. See your beauty nap didn't do you much good," he opened with.
"I thought today would be different, but maybe tomorrow will be better," Papa replied.
The two men settled their creaking bodies in creaky lawn chairs, styrofoam cups in hand. Papa had already poured mine. It was more milk and sugar than coffee, but at least I got to sit outside with two men I couldn't get enough of.
For all the conversations that ensued, I don't remember too much about them. I remember how hazy it was. Sometimes there were peaches on the glass table we sat around, other times tomatoes. Either way, there was something to talk about, some old story to relive, something to hoot and holler about, something to shake your head about.
My favorite thing memory, though, has to be how Papa's blue eyes would crinkle when he laughed.

like water for chocolate

just irresponsibly finished "like water for chocolate." I love Spanish writers who twist a little bit of mysticism in their stories. Esquivel also used so many recipes that it made my heart hurt for home and the foods that are just as good as the feeling you get when your mommy wipes away your tears.



Making Christmas candy and Texas Trash means waking up at the butt crack of dawn and heading to Grammy's house. Mom had already turned on the light in my room. That was a sort of last warning call--get up now or I will get you up and I promise you won't like it. I forced myself out from under my perfect temperature covers and dressed in less than five minutes.
"OK, I'm going to go warm up the car, and then we'll head out," Mom told me very matter-of-factly. She slipped on her driving gloves and braced herself as she dashed out the door. Within five minutes she was back.
"Booger, it's cold!" Hmm. "Booger" was probably one of my favorite expletives my mom uses. Let's be honest, the woman has no qualms about cussing like a sailor if need be. However, she saves "booger" for when it's unbelievably cold outside. I can always rely on Christmas to bring me boogers.
We made it to the car and Mom promptly put on Christmas music and attempted to sing. Not just any Christmas music, mind you. Mom loves the Celine Dion variety of Christmas music. You know, anything with a female powerhouse hitting notes only audible to a few humans and dogs. At 5:45 in the morning, that is the last thing I want to hear. She pinched me gently on the arm because I was already set on being Mister Grinch as I turned my body to the window.
"Mooooommmmmm..."
"All right. Fine. But you better straighten up by the time we get to Papa's house."
Good. Great. Awesome. I could do that. Just freaking leave me alone for five minutes. I will be straight as a board if need be. Just. Give. Me. This. Car. Ride.
She gently hummed with good ol' Celine under her breath.
We made it to Grammy and Papa's house after what seemed a Celine-Mariah-Braxton eternity. I got out the car to be welcomed inside by my grammy and a kiss. She cradled my face with her warm hands.
"Hi honey, not awake yet?"
I managed a small smile. "Uh, no..."
"Well you'd better wake up fast! We gotta lot of work to do!"
Yay.
I decided to plunk myself down on the chair in the kitchen. I knew going into the living room would be a death sentence. Grammy and Papa didn't have central heat. Instead, they had these large space heaters installed into the wall that emit copious amounts of dry, toasted air. When you breathe it in, not only are you a.) immediately warm for the next three years, but you are also b.) lulled into a dream-like state that can only be remedied by plopping on the couch and sleeping it off. Sleeping through Christmas candy making would mean certain death by my own mother's hands.
Papa came into the kitchen, announcing himself yards before by whistling. He slapped and squeezed my shoulder simultaneously.
"Howdy, gal. Lookin' good this mornin'!" He laughed at his own joke in a way that shows all of his false teeth. Even though I was slightly peeved that he was poking fun of my misery, I loved it when that man laughed.
Fudge and Divinity were the tasks of the day, with my aunt, grandma, cousin Charyl, mom, and I all laboring together. Grandma mostly took a watching glance over us as she attempted to teach me the magic of making the items without relying on candy thermometers. Aunt Charlene joked that even after candy thermometers came out, they liked their ancient method of deciding when the sugary substance was ready better. Texas Trash kind of makes itself. I liked mixing it together in the big vats that are meant to cook turkeys and the like. I always nip at the bits of pretzel and peanuts as much as I can before Mom tells me to quit.
My favorite part of it all has to be the insanity of all of those women singing together. My Aunt Charlene is my favorite to watch. Try as she might, she cannot sing for the life of her. Instead, she shakes her little pear shaped bottom to an inner rhythm and hums to something indiscernible except to herself.
After everything is finished, all of the Divinity is separated and placed on wax paper. The wax paper is then carefully transported to the room that used to be Mommy's for drying and hardening. Then, everything gets separated into colorful tins for every family of the family to have their own.
Before you know it, it's time for sandwiches (or grilled cheeses in my case, duh), and nap time. Sneak a few pieces of fudge, head to bed, wake up with dry toasted air in your lungs and light filtering through the mini blinds, and wonder what it's like for someone who doesn't get to have a crazy, wonderful family like this.


*edit. when telling my mom about this post, she exclaimed, "I always say colder than a well-digger's ass in Montana, and booger-cold, not just booger!"
see? told you.

...it lasts longer

Whenever I look at older pictures of my grandma, I'm always amazed by her facial expression. If anyone had the luck to pass through my grandma's life for a second, they'd recognize her strength of character, her warmth, and her love for her own. Yet, in her pictures, she stands in silence. She is stoic, blank, and devoid of anything. If I didn't know any better, I'd imagine her as cruel and empty as she portrayed herself.

Maybe she stood in pictures like that because she was unhappy. She lost her mother when she was six. She was raised by her Uncle because her father suffered from Parkinson's. She married a man she loved only to find him to be an alcoholic. She lost everything she had...twice. I think her life did not turned out as she imagined it would have, but that did not matter to her.

In all of her grief, she found hope. Grammy still loved beyond measure, and she loved you the way you needed to be loved.

I've always been afraid that I would not be able to love like that. I've thought that when presented with the opportunity, I would be hesitant and cautious. A few lifetimes ago, I had the chance to give myself to someone as she did, and I did it without a second thought. Even though things did not end out like I thought they would, I now know that I am not afraid to love.

Because of that, I will give myself over and over until there is only a husk left, and I then will then give that. And I'll be damned if I'm not smiling in every picture on the way.