The Grapevine Art & Soul Salon

AROUND TOWN WITH NANCY ROSE

A Personal Celebration

Early in January my sister Barbara phoned to say she wanted to host a party to celebrate my January 23 birthday and did I mind having it at my house? Wonderful, I answered, as I anticipated the chaotic atmosphere of a party, a good chaos, in contrast to my normal quiet life with the sounds of television or of my Pekingese, Winston, snoring.

Then I remembered the surprise thirteenth birthday party she planned for me at the little one-room, concrete block community center in Aragon, Georgia, the mill village where we grew up. That day she fussed around making sure I was properly dressed, hair coiffed and teeth brushed. Why all of this trouble, I wondered.

I understood once we arrived. I had a crush on one of her senior classmates, Denny Franklin, and he was there, along with a few of her other friends. Funny, I don't remember my friends. I felt like an adult at thirteen, but he didn't see me as one. I'm not sure he even realized the party was for me. A sad note on an occasion that otherwise made me feel special, even as I was bewildered.

Two generations later, preparations began for my 2018 celebration with a guest list, decorations and food planning. I insisted on baking my birthday cake, not a traditional birthday cake, but an apple cake like the one Granny Motes made for us when we were children. My daughter Laurie called with a peculiar question: what would I want as my last meal if I had a choice? That was disconcerting, but I played along. I love turkey and dressing, I recited, and sweet potato souffle, corn casserole, canned cranberry sauce and coconut cake. I always order some version of that meal on our outings to eat at OK Cafe, regardless of the season.

Now, a disturbing thought was nagging at me. I was not celebrating a milestone birthday, so why the big celebration, and why would anyone ask me my favorite last meal? Did the doctor call and tell them I was dying? I expressed my concern to them, and they were astonished I had such thoughts. Barbara simply wanted to give me a birthday party, she said, and Laurie just wanted to prepare one of my favorite dishes. Assured that I was not dying (at least to their knowledge), I committed wholeheartedly to enjoying the planning and the party.

I made my shopping list for the apple cake, part of the cooking tradition of ancestors from Ireland who settled in the Appalachian region of the U. S. They called it an apple stack cake (six thin buttery layers stacked, filled and covered with a dried apple sauce), and the folklore declared it had been "on tables since God was a boy." It was served at weddings and holidays probably because the apples were plentiful, and it was cheaper than fancier cakes. Our grandmother made one regularly for the family and stored it in her kitchen "safe," a cabinet with glass door panels that kept the flies away but allowed us to see through and smack our lips at what we saw. Mine would be a three-layer yellow cake with spiced apple filling made with dried apples.

Finding dried apples took me on a journey. Publix had none. At Whole Foods I found four small packs hidden away behind other fruit on a top shelf and out of eyesight. I bought all four packs but needed two more. I searched Walmart grocery shelves and found exactly two packs. I cooked and cooked and mashed and mashed those dried apples, but they never became the consistency of my granny's apple filling that spread like puree between the layers and over the top and sides. However, my sister later said the flavor was perfect.

I'm not sure who spent the most time preparing the cake: my granny, who had to pick, peel, core, slice and dry the apples for days or weeks, then chop and cook and mash them for me, as I drove up and down Barrett Parkway in Marietta to Publix, Whole Foods and Walmart and, once in the store, had to search the shelves myself because clerks didn't know what I was talking about. They thought I meant apple chips for snacking. Thanks, health food craze, for bringing dried apples back in another form.

On Friday, January 22, I began preparations for the party: arranged table decorations, made sure I had tea and coffee and ice and decided on what outfit to wear. I added chairs and moved them around, hoping everyone would have a place to sit. Barbara arrived early on Saturday to set up. When I looked outside, she was backing up to the garage. I opened the garage door, and her trunk popped open, revealing all kinds of food: vegetable trays, cheese trays, crackers, fruit, a crockpot of turkey sausage with mango sauce and trays of biscuits to go with the honeybaked ham I already had on the table, along with a choice of mustards and mayonnaise.

Laurie arrived with a corn casserole, her choice from my "last meal" list. Granddaughter Jessica brought a bouquet of sunflowers to decorate the table. Sunflowers were my father's favorite, and I remember walking around with him, looking at them and other flowers he loved.

My nephew Jonathan brought a small crockpot of spinach artichoke dip made with smoked gouda. We had dipping chips, trays of pickles, olives and drunken tomatoes. Barbara brought a huge selection of salad makings, with dressings to choose from, and set out individual cups of a new healthy, tasty Golden Buddha popcorn she had discovered.

Earlier I had decided one cake might not be enough, so I'd cooked a German chocolate cake in addition to the apple cake. The German chocolate cake did not originate in Germany, I discovered. It was named for Sam German who in 1852 developed the main ingredient, a mild dark baking chocolate bar, for Baker's Chocolate Company in Massachusetts. The first published recipe for German chocolate cake, made by Mrs. George Clay, appeared in the Dallas Morning Star in 1957.

Just after noon, people began arriving with birthday cards and bags overflowing with tissue paper and ribbons in a rainbow of colors: red, green, purple, pink, blue. They also brought overflowing love for me in Happy Birthday wishes and hugs and kisses.

My sister had even arranged for a surprise visit by Jeff Fields, a friend of ours from the 1960s when he was best man and I was a bridesmaid at the wedding of Barbara and Charles. Jeff went on to write, among other things, the bestselling novel A Cry of Angels. I was delighted to see him after a long time, and he seemed charmed by the beauty of all the girls who had grown up in the meanwhile. He brought chocolates which he correctly guessed would be a perfect birthday gift.

We filled our plates with the wonderful array of food and found places to sit, continuing to talk and laugh and make introductions as people arrived. I loved the hubbub of so many people in my home, swishing sounds of people moving around, the indistinguishable conversations and the whiff of different aromas that filled the air: fresh brewed coffee, sunflowers, roses, hot mustard, perfume.

After eating, we sat in a circle where everyone re-introduced themselves by sharing a memory of me. My sister held up a long piece of cinnamon, what she called a talking stick, used in aboriginal traditions to give clear signals about whose turn it was to talk (the one holding the talking stick). She began by sharing a story familiar to me, about how she reacted to my birth with jealousy. Until I came along, she was the baby and got to sleep in bed with mother. She was Uncle Ira's favorite. He didn't like to see her unhappy, so he gave her a Raggedy Ann doll to sleep with, and she got her own bed. At that point, my big sister passed the stick to the next person and so on around the room.

Another Barbara took the talking stick and described the adrenaline rush we experienced as roommates living in Ansley Park in Atlanta in the sixties, a time of hippies, the Vietnam War and civil rights demonstrations. We have maintained our friendship through marriages, children, grandchildren, divorce, death and distance.

My son Greg and daughter Laurie, and two granddaughters, Jessica and Kelly, recalled their favorite memories of me.

I was surprised that Greg, my introverted older child, shared such poignant and heartfelt memories from his childhood as well as recent ones. As a toddler, he loved snuggling in bed with his mom and dad and German shepherd, Jay. When he was in high school, I was teaching and also working on my Master's degree. He recalled that he would come in late at night and find me sitting at the kitchen table studying. The most powerful thing he said was to thank me for being with him as he struggled and won his battle with cancer.

A story about me that Barbara mentioned and that has been told and retold so many times it has become legendary is that when I was a kid of about six or seven, I was so limber I could sit down and raise my legs and hook them at the ankles behind my neck. Laurie, the extrovert, not only re-told this story but demonstrated it with a Barbie doll. Her love of performance came out as she presented me with a host of amusing gifts (starting with the miniature Barbie doll), each one accompanied by a memory. Here are a few examples. She used a box of Kraft macaroni and cheese to illustrate the fact that she loved my homemade mac and cheese and said I would never have made it from a box. My experience with online dating has led me to date a few jerks. She illustrated that with a pack of Jerky. She thinks I am a "hot tamale" as illustrated by the box of cinnamon Hot Tamales and, even though I am a teacher and love to read, I am not a Nerd. The sweetest thing she did was to use money (a ten-dollar bill) and a package of LifeSavers to thank me for helping her out when needed. Her one-woman performance had the group laughing and applauding.

Jonathan, my nephew, recalled how, when he was very young, I let him sit in my lap and play-drive the yellow Camaro. Barbara, Charles and Jonathan spent many holidays, especially Christmas, with us when they lived out of town and our home was their home-away-from home during holidays.

Kelly, my youngest granddaughter, told of the many times I would pick her up from elementary school and take her to Chile's for nachos, where I would always order coffee. She mentioned that after a few times of getting a cold cup of coffee that had been around for hours and having to send it back, I automatically asked for a fresh pot to be made because I like my coffee fresh and hot.

A favorite memory I have of Jessica, my oldest granddaughter, is of her visiting us in southern California when she was about four. I thought a good grandmotherly thing to do was to teach her to plant flowers. I had the perfect spot in the front yard to plant begonias. We took the hoe and the flowers and began digging the dirt. I don't know how it happened, but I hit her toes with the hoe hard enough for them to bleed. They were scheduled to go to Disneyland the next day so I medicated and bandaged and kept her off her feet the rest of the day. She did go on to Disneyland. I'm glad our experience did not destroy her love of gardening because last year, using creative containers, she grew a beautiful garden on her patio.

Newer friends that I have known since moving back to Atlanta (from the West Coast and then Alabama) in 2005 recounted special memories of me, and it was marvelous to see myself through their eyes. It's like describing yourself in a photograph and then reading descriptions by other people and wondering, are we looking at the same photograph? Bill and Ravi have become so dear to me through our Voices of the World group meetings that include Charles, Barbara and Jonathan, where we discuss different cultures, art, religions and books. Sometimes we meet just to laugh and eat. We share things happening in our own lives and give and receive comfort.

Bill and Pearla gave me a book titled Snapshots of Dangerous Women with a note inside saying, "We expected to see your picture in this book. Nancy Law, the original velvet time-bomb." It's all about women doing outrageous things: "In 1929 a group of young society ladies march in New York's Easter Parade smoking Lucky Strike cigarettes, touted to the press as "Torches of Freedom." In 1907 police were called to the Moulin Rouge because a riot had erupted during the pantomime Reve de Egyote when Colette and Missy kiss onstage.

Other dangerous women mentioned are Ma Barker, Mata Hari, Josephine Baker, Amelia Earhart, Linda Dugeau and Dot Robinson who in 1940 established Motor Maids, the first women's motorcycling club in North America. In 1920 the 19th Amendment to the U. S. Constitution, giving American women the right to vote, was passed by Congress. Of course, I wanted a picture in this book.

Pearla gave me a handknit beret. I took a selfie wearing the beret and holding the book in a provocative way, partially covering my face. I think I look dangerous.

Ted, my neighbor, has become not only my very good friend but also godparent to my dog Winston. Faith (another neighbor) and I took a Viking river cruise last summer from Amsterdam to Budapest. She has two granddaughters, Avery and Jane, who have adopted me as their honorary grandmother. I first got to know Maryann in her role as a personal trainer at Wellstar, but our relationship has evolved into a close friendship. I describe Maryann as my trainer, and she describes me as her therapist because we have shared so many experiences over the past twelve years. Her husband Craig expressed his appreciation that I wanted to honor my family by baking the old-fashioned apple cake.

Fay is a childhood friend from Aragon, our home town. We went to elementary and high school together and after graduation went our separate ways. Later, we discovered that we both moved to Atlanta, got married, had children graduating from Kennesaw State University, pursued a career and got divorced. We didn't see each other until a recent high school reunion, where we reconnected and have become closer than we ever were in school. She introduced me to ballroom dancing, dance lessons and studios where we often dance on Friday nights.

Then sister Barbara shared old family photographs, reminded me of my teenage crush on Elvis Presley and my current adult crush on Leonard Cohen. She read my review (described by Jeff as x rated) of a Leonard Cohen concert we attended together at the Fox Theater.

Leonard Cohen, You're My Man!

The Fox Theater pit,
three rows from the stage,
sitting slightly left of the microphone,
I wait for his arrival.
I squirm, stand up, sit down,
drink coffee, join in conversation
with the couple behind me,
admire the starry night sky
on the Fox ceiling
take pictures of stage hands checking equipment,
tuning guitars, strategically placing glasses of water,
share memories with my sister.
Finally,
backup singers and musicians walk on stage.
Then my lover comes on.
With 4600 other fans, my affair begins,
but I know I am the only one.
Seems so long ago, Nancy.
That's a song he wrote about a sad life, and now
he must be looking for me.
I become the microphone he caresses.
Every song selection, every gesture:
smile, bow, tip of the hat,
kneeling to the floor, and thank you
is meant for pleasure.
When it is time to leave, he says
he hopes I am satisfied.
I am. Best concert I've ever had.
I want one.
I want a Leonard Cohen for home
and not just for his song.
Where can I get one?
Online catalog? Amazon.com? E-bay?
Can you tell me, L. Cohen?
Sincerely, N. Law

Barbara has always been the best big sister. One of my favorite memories of us took place when I was in high school and she worked in Atlanta. When she came home for visits, she brought me the latest fashionable items from Baker's Shoes on Peachtree Street in Atlanta. That's when my infatuation with shoes began. Now I have a hoard of them. A few examples include collectible shoes figured in measuring spoons and pie servers, a shoe that holds a wine bottle, a shoe tree decorated with miniature shoes, popup books about shoes, a shoe puzzle, decorative shoe wall plates.

In 2015 a friend and I flew to Albuquerque, New Mexico, to see the traveling exhibit of "Killer Heels, The Art of the High Heel Shoe" at the Albuquerque Museum. Wesley Pulkka wrote the following review for the Albuquerque Journal on June 28, 2015:

With more than 160 pairs of historic, high-fashion, kitsch and far-beyond-the-real-world shoe designs and videos, "Killer Heels" is a knock-down-drag-out romp through the world of fashion, fetishes, feelings and foolishness guaranteed to entertain and maybe edify escapees from the dog days of summer. This traveling collection, originally from the Brooklyn Museum and enhanced by the Albuquerque Museum, is an enveloping and seductive exhibition of functional and nonfunctional sculpture that revels in the art-in-the-dark museum mandate of low light levels to preserve delicate art objects. The subdued illumination creates by default a romantically mysterious mood throughout the installation.

After the exhibit, my friend and I took a hot air balloon ride and became even more exhilarated.

Back at the birthday celebration, another feature: my brother-in-law Charles, who knows my love of theater, performed an eloquent reading of Poem in October by Dylan Thomas, who lived richly until he died at the young age of thirty-nine.

Poem in October

It was my thirtieth year to heaven
Woke to my hearing from harbour and neighbour wood
And the mussel pooled and the heron
Priested shore
The morning beckon
With water praying and call of seagull and rook
And the knock of sailing boats on the net webbed wall
Myself to set foot
That second
In the still sleeping town and set forth.

My birthday began with the water-
Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name
Above the farms and the white horses
And I rose
In rainy autumn
And walked abroad in a shower of all my days.
High tide and the heron dived when I took the road
Over the border
And the gates
Of the town closed as the town awoke.

A springful of larks in a rolling
Cloud and the roadside bushes brimming with whistling
Blackbirds and the sun of October
Summery
On the hill's shoulder,
Here were fond climates and sweet singers suddenly
Come in the morning where I wandered and listened
To the rain wringing
Wind blow cold
In the wood faraway under me.

Pale rain over the dwindling harbour
And over the sea wet church the size of a snail
With its horns through mist and the castle
Brown as owls
But all the gardens
Of spring and summer were blooming in the tall tales
Beyond the border and under the lark full cloud.
There could I marvel
My birthday
Away but the weather turned around.

It turned away from the blithe country
And down the other air and the blue altered sky,
Streamed again a wonder of summer
With apples
Pears and red currants
And I saw in the turning so clearly a child's
Forgotten mornings when he walked with his mother
Through the parables
Of sun light
And the legends of the green chapels

And the twice told fields of infancy
That his tears burned my cheeks and his heart moved in mine.
These were the woods the river and sea
Where a boy
In the listening
Summertime of the dead whispered the truth of his joy
To the trees and the stones and the fish in the tide.
And the mystery
Sang alive
Still in the water and singingbirds.

And there could I marvel my birthday
Away but the weather turned around. And the true
Joy of the long dead child sang burning
In the sun.
It was my thirtieth
Year to heaven stood there then in the summer noon
Though the town below lay leaved with October blood.
O may my heart's truth
Still be sung
On this high hill in a year's turning.

(reproduced from poemhunter.com and the World Poetry Database)

Wonderful to hear these words resound through my house, taking us to Wales, where our Jones ancestors came from, and back to where my own heart's truth was singing: I was surrounded by family and friends who know me so well, as demonstrated by their cards and generous gifts of chocolates, wine, Starbucks gift card, Betsey Johnson jewelry, collectible shoes, books, Chanel No. 5 perfume, a handmade knit beret, flowers, movie tickets, one of Ravi's paintings framed just for me, and Jonathan's red rose made of glass, chosen in honor of my middle name.

Our celebration ran long and as my guests took their leave, I gave them pieces of cake to take with them. I hope I have expressed my gratitude to every person who was so thoughtful in celebrating me. Everybody should be so honored at least once in their lifetime, but they might need a sister like mine to make it happen. Thank you all.