BLACK-EYED G AND THE PEA PICKERS

We sat around our kitchen table, reading the Corpus Christi Caller Times newspaper and drinking coffee. Mother was the only one of us who still lived in the house, but my sisters, Barbara and Doris, and I, still thought of it as ours. It was the place we had lived from the day we were born until we went off to school and points further down the line, and we tried to reunite there for a visit every summer.
Mother exclaimed, "Here's an ad for a place in Aransas Pass where you can pick your own black-eyed peas,"
Barbara's husband, Phlete, came in the back door while Mother was speaking, and said, "Mary and Gino didn't come all the way from California to Texas to spend vacation time picking peas." We females all looked askance at his statement. "Oh. Is this a girl thing?"
"Probably," said Doris. "Among hunter/gatherers, I think most of the hunters were men and most of the gatherers were women. We must go gathering."
"Besides," I said, "the only fresh black-eyed peas I can get in California have green dye added to them."
"We could take the car ferry over to the island afterward, so Gino could play on the beach." Mother cleverly enlisted her five year old grandson's interest in the outing.
We set off from Corpus Christi early the next morning, dressed in long pants, long sleeves and sun hats, in an effort to avoid too much summer sun. When we arrived at the large sandy field of peas, Gino proposed a contest between the three generations of pickers to see who could fill their bushel basket first. We all accepted the challenge. Mother separated herself from the group and bent to the task, moving methodically from one low bush to the next. In her calico sun-bonnet, ruffled in back to protect her neck, she had an old fashioned look that went back further than her actual years. Gino looked at his Grammy with a mixture of disappointment and new respect when she won the contest.
Nothing stimulates the appetite like hard work, fresh air, and feelings of virtue. We were ravenous. We went to a seafood restaurant on the Rockport harbor. Without looking at menu's we ordered fried shrimp and oysters. Like our peas, they'd just been harvested that morning and still tasted of the salty Gulf water. Softness of small oysters off-set by coarse, crunchy corn meal crust. Sweet white shrimp in fluffy golden batter. Incomparable.
As we ate and sipped tall glasses of iced tea, we watched a shrimp boat arrive in port from the Gulf of Mexico. A raucous entourage of black masked Laughing Gulls followed the boat, ready for their lunch too.
Mother said, "Except for the watermelon and that itty bitty bag of okra, the trunk of the car is full of black-eyed peas."
"We sure are good pea pickers!" said Gino, his black eyes wide in amazement.
"We should call you black-eyed G," Barbara said to her nephew. “In the dark of your eyes I see my whole family, but none of us have whites like yours. They’re so perfect and bright.”
"Now we have to shell all those peas," said Mother, her tone neither resigned nor

discouraged. She sounded like the fun had only just begun.


Heading down the two lane highway to the ferry boat landing, Gino pointed to a Great Blue Heron wading in the shallow lagoon that embraced with side of the roadway. Although we couldn’t yet see the landing, it was already the only possible destination. The blacktop charged straight ahead to land’s end, but blinking lights and automatic roadblocks prevented us from driving off into the water.
“Here comes a ferry,” said Doris. “Have you ever been on a car ferry?” Gino shook his head no.“ After all the cars on the boat drive off, we can drive on, and it’ll take us across the water to Port Aransas.”
On board we got out of the car and stood at the railing, watching an escort of leaping porpoises and a daredevil diving exhibition by a Least Tern. Gino nearly cried when we reached the other side because the boat ride had been too short.
At the beach, we drove directly on the hard packed sand. It was a weekday, so it wasn’t crowded. Se drove further than we needed simply because it was fun. “This is so rad.” Gino used his favorite 1984 expression.
I parked the car, and Barbara, Doris, Gino, and I stripped down to our bathing suits. Mother took off only her shoes and socks and rolled her pants up a bit. She set a folding beach chair just beyond water’s edge. An occasional energetic wave would race far enough in to dampen her toes. She’d saved some bread from lunch and showed Gino how to feed the crowd of Laughing Gulls that had magically materialized as soon as she brought out the bread. They would tear off a little piece, throw it in the air, and a sea gull would swoop in for a bite to eat. When the bread was all gone, Mother watched Gino and her “girls” play in the warm Gulf of Mexico water. No matter how old we got, we’d always be her “girls.” She started shelling the black-eyed peas.
Separating the peas from their slender outer pods took days. In the mornings we shelled in the shade of the deep front porch, in the afternoons by Barbara’s pool, watching Gino and taking turns swimming and playing with him. One night we worked in front of the TV. Another evening we sat around the kitchen table, watching the pile of pods in the middle of the table grow taller as we also savored the subtle aroma of black-eyed peas simmering with a ham hock. Friends who dropped by pitched in, visiting longer and leaving happier for not being idle. That community of effort is the secret ingredient in many a pot.
On that trip I felt I traveled not only through space but also through time, back to an era when life was slower and women could share and enjoy child care and gathering and preparing food. I know there are many who would say, “Good riddance to those old ways.” But I would gladly buy a return ticket to that woman’s world; If only I could. The car ferry, sweet shrimp, great bird watching, and miles of white sand beach are still there, and surely there’s a field of pick-your-own black-eyed peas in season. What’s missing is my people. My Mother passed on. My sisters and friends moved away. Another family sits in that kitchen. The white’s of Gino’s eyes aren’t what they used to be either.

photo: Grammy & Gino feeding seagulls, Texas

Child Walking - Mother's Day Tribute '09

Some of the neighbors thought I was crazy when I was a child. They thought that because I often walked up and down the sidewalk in front of our house for an hour or more. Other neighbors thought I must be composing music or fantastic stories or something exceptionally creative.
I didn’t encourage either idea of what was going on in my mind, but neither did I volunteer any information on what I was thinking. I was embarrassed to say what I thought about during all those hours because, mostly, it was nothing. I might start off day dreaming about what I would be like when I grew up. Beautiful, like my Mother, I hoped, but more sophisticated, with a leopard skin coat, and maybe a leopard too. Or a housewife with children, like her, but one who made chocolate cakes, unlike her. Or maybe one who played bridge in her underwear on hot summer afternoons? That Mom didn’t make cakes. She made “Ladies Drinks,” & the other ladies in their undies enjoyed the drinks and the game. Although I didn’t know anyone with a leopard, or even a leopard skin coat, my imagination didn’t usually roam far from our neighborhood or my parents circle of friends. Despite those limitations, it was obvious that there were many variations in female adults. But after a short while of imagining my adult self, I didn’t think about anything. I just walked my blank mind back and forth. Now I realize it was a moving meditation. The only strange thing about it is that I was a child. Wasn’t I lucky that my Mom never said, “Stop it! The neighbors will think there’s something wrong with you.”

Mother’s Day tribute, 2009

HOUSE OF BLUE LIGHTS

HOUSE OF BLUE LIGHTS

The family finally stopped talking about Dad's slow recovery. There was no recovery. His kidney was sacrificed to gods satiated with internal organs, goats, sheaves of corn, rocks wrapped in prayers. They wanted more, much more. Mother called. She said, “He’s dying.” Doris was already on her way home from college, and Evey would be there tomorrow. Rebecca and I put aside our vows not to go home again when Evey was there. She was a mean drunk, and nothing cranked her up like being at home. But we four sisters returned to the house of blue lights to say good-bye to our father. The blue neon house numbers had been there all our lives, like Dad, but now he was in Spohn Hospital's Intensive Care Unit.
When we were children, he took us when he went to Spohn on his weekend rounds. He parked his Packard right in front, as doctor's were allowed. We didn't usually venture into the hushed hospital with him. We ran in and out of the palm tree shadows that reclined on the lawn. When he came out, we dipped our hands into his suit coat pockets and found lemon drops or orange gumdrops. Then he made his house calls, taking his black medical bag inside with him.
House calls, medical bags, and Packard’s are no longer made, and a modern Spohn hospital and paved parking cover the once gracious garden. Now Dad's in there on the wrong end of a stethoscope. It’s hard at the hospital and harder at home.

At the hospital, Evey goes in to see him first. She comes out shaking her head, her long brown hair moving from side to side. There’s a lot of long brown hair in the waiting room - Evey’s, Rebecca’s, Doris’s, mine, and Mother’s, although Mother’s isn’t loose. Rebecca returns with tears falling out of her big brown eyes. There are many large brown eyes there too. When Doris comes out, she walks past us and keeps going. I go in and tell him, “ I love you.” I get no response. Nobody does. He’s in a coma.
We sat around, subdued, until Mother said, “You girls go home and eat dinner. We’ll do some of this in shifts.”
“I could make tostados,” said Evey.
“There’s no need for that,” said Mother. “There’s so much food at the house that friends have brought.”
Evey borrowed money from Rebecca to buy beer and cigarettes on the way home. After eating, Rebecca took a plate to Mother. Mother sent her right back home. “You should all get a good nights sleep. You’re exhausted from travel and grief.” At home, everyone does as she says, including Evey. So far, so good, except for the dying part.

We sat down in the waiting room to begin the second day of our vigil. "Damn it!" said Evey. "I forgot to get cigarettes. Can I bum one of your Mexican smokes?"
Rebecca pushed a blue and white package of "Records" toward her.
Evey lit it. "They taste better than they smell."
"I think they're as good as American," said Rebecca, "and they only cost fifteen cents a pack."
"How about selling me some?"
"I hoped they'd last me till I go back to Mexico.”
"Just one pack?"
"All right. I'll sell you a pack for Forty cents.”
"That's more than double what you paid," said Evey.
"True, but it'll cost me fifty-five cents to replace a pack here."
"Really, Rebecca, you're the stingiest person I know."
"How can you say that? I'd be losing money on the deal."
"You wouldn't either. You'd be making a quarter."
"If I replace the pack, I lose fifteen cents."
"This is stupid. I'll go back to the store and buy a carton. I think I've got enough money." Evey started rummaging through her purse.
"Don't forget you owe me $7.00," said Rebecca.
"I'm perfectly capable of remembering my own debts. Are you charging me interest?"
"No," said Rebecca.
"I should never have borrowed money from you. I knew I'd never hear the end of it."

That evening Evey took two Lone Star beers to her bedroom. When she came back out Mother said, “We have everything for the tostados you want, Evey I thought you might want to fix some for supper."
"I might. Right now I'm going to look around the house."
"What're you looking for?"
"Oh, nothing. Just looking."
"I think I'll go ahead and cook the meat for dinner," Doris said.
"And I'll mash the beans," said Mother.
"Why don't you rest, Mother? I'll do that,” Rebecca said.
"You can make the guacamole. All Evey will have to do is grate the cheese and lettuce and fry the tortillas."
When we were through, we returned to the living room. Evey appeared a few minutes later. "When are we going to eat?" Rebecca asked.
"Eat whenever you want."
"Aren't you` making dinner?"
"No, I'm not. I don't appreciate you telling me when I'm going to cook and what I'm going to cook. If you're hungry, why don't you fix your own?”
"I think I will. I'm starving," I said.
In the kitchen, Evey took a bite of guacamole. "It needs a little more lemon. Is this all the meat? I’d use that amount just for myself. By the time you all get through, there won't be anything left."
"We'll save you some."
"Don't bother. There won't be enough to make a decent one. When I make tostados, I'm not chintzy with the meat. Stingiest Goddamn bunch of people I've ever known." She walked out with two more Lone Stars.
She returned to the kitchen while the rest of us were eating. She entered a hostile atmosphere. I didn’t like Evey eating guacamole out of the serving spoon and then putting it back in the bowl earlier.
Evey had cultivated this field of hostility, and she wasn't going to let it lie fallow. "I can't go back to that bedroom. It's too damn depressing. You can't even be bothered to fix the leaky roof."
"We fixed the roof," said Mother.
"Then why don't you do something about the wallpaper? It looks crappy."
"It costs money to make repairs."
"Money, money, money! That's all I hear around here. You manage to find enough to keep the rest of the house looking nice, but my room looks like a damn storage room and none of it's mine. There's very little evidence that I ever lived in this house."
"You removed the evidence last summer," said Mother.
Evey's eyes narrowed. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Remember the night you tore around the house collecting everything that was yours? You were mad about something," Mother said. "You even took the pictures of yourself off the walls. I'd like to have them back."
"You don't have them?" Evey asked.
"If I did, they'd be back up."
"I wonder where all the stuff is?" said Evey.
Mother shrugged. "I'm going to call the hospital. Aunt Margie Rae said she’d spend tonight there. After last night, I'm too tired to go. I think we could all use a good nights rest."
"Are you going to eat, Evey?" asked Doris from the stove. "We saved you some."
"I told you not to bother."
Doris said, "Why don't we split what's left? Joanna? Someone?" She spread a thick layer of refried beans on the crisp, open tortilla, sprinkled on the remainder of the meat, grated cheese and lettuce, and topped it with guacamole.
As Doris opened her mouth for the first bite, Evey said, "You're getting fat."
“That’s not true, and it was mean,” Rebecca said.
“What about the way you treated me this afternoon? Bugging me about the money?”
"Can't I say anything without you taking it the wrong way?"
"You knew I wouldn't forget in one day. You're so worried about your fucking money, you and your slum landlord husband.”
I looked up at the wall clock and said, “Hey, it’s time for our show.” All but Evey moved to the den and started watching All In the Family.
Soon she appeared with a sandwich. “What’s happening?” She asked. “What’s so funny? Who’s the new character?"
"Shhhh," said Rebecca.
"Shhh yourself! I can talk if I want."
"It's hard to hear the show with you talking," I said.
"Can't you think of something better to do than watch the boob tube?"
"I like the show too," Doris said.
"Let your brain rot then," said Evey and stormed out. Ten minutes later, she stuck her head in the door and said, "Don't ever tell me to shhh again, or I'll hush you for good."
Rebecca continued to stare, silently, at the television.
"Do you understand?”
"Shhh!"
Evey's face turned grim. "I'm going to get the sharpest knife in the house, and I'm going to slit your throat.”
Rebecca stood, picked up her cigarettes, matches, and coke, and turned toward the other door.
"Did you hear me?" Evey screeched.
Rebecca turned around. "I've heard nothing but you since this show started. You'll be happy to know that you're saving me from brain rot." She left the room.
Evey tried to follow Rebecca, but I stood in her way.
Evey said, "She walked out on me."
"What did you expect?"
"She does that to me every time."
I thought distraction might work better than reason and said, “Let’s play some gin rummy.”
She ignored me and tore through the house, turning on the lights in every room, calling, "Rebecca!" She returned to the kitchen for another beer, and said, “That chicken shit is so scared; she’s hiding.” She laughed wickedly. "Imagine, grown-ups playing hiding-go-seek. She's so stupid."
"So is this rampage you're on. Let's go to bed."
"If you’re tired, go to bed. No one's forcing you to stay up."
"Who could sleep with all your screaming and racing around?" I said. "You've already looked. She's not here."
"Where'd she go?"
“Over to her in-laws probably."
"I didn't hear a car leave."
"She rides the bicycle sometimes. Or maybe she walked. It's not that far."
"I'll see if the bicycle's gone." Evey headed for the back door.
"Pssst!" Mother peeked around the kitchen door and whispered, "Rebecca's hiding in the bushes outside my bedroom. Give me all the car keys. I don't want Evey driving drunk. Oh, and the flashlight off the refrigerator." She took the things back to her bedroom.
I looked at the wall clock. Only 11:00. It seemed much later. It was going to be a long night. I stomped my foot in the empty room, the same kitchen where I’d stomped my little foot as a child, in the same house where I’d spent too many long nights with Evey. She used to threaten to kill herself. Now it was Rebecca. I didn't understand her animosity toward Rebecca, but when Evey talked about her family, it didn't sound like we were from the same family. It was strange and sad, but it was also getting old and unforgivable, a bad combination.
She dashed back in and started rummaging through the mess on top of the refrigerator.. "I swear I saw the flashlight up here today." She opened the refrigerator. "Shit! There's no more beer." She moved to the liquor cabinet and pulled the handle on the blue gray door. "It's locked," she said quietly. "After all these years, it's still locked." She began to bang the door with her fist. "I HATE IT HERE!” She whirled around and ran to Mother’s room, hurled open the door, smashed on the light, marched over to the bed, and held her hand out. "Hand it over."
"Hand what over?"
"Hand what over?" Evey mimicked in a sarcastic tone. "The key to the liquor cabinet.”
"You've had enough," Mother said. "Go to bed."
"Don't you tell me to go to bed. I'm 30 years old, and I go to bed when I damn well please. I take a drink when I please. I fuck when I please. I'm not your little girl anymore, and if you don't like it, you shouldn't have asked me to come home. Don't bother to ask me again because I won't come. I'd leave right now if I had any money."
Mother ripped the bedcovers off and stood up. "I'll write you a check. Get your things together."
"Where do you expect me to go in the middle of the night?"
"Away."
"When it comes to getting rid of me, you're only too willing to be helpful."
Mother looked at Evey and sighed.
"Now we get into the sighing routine. I like you better when you fight."
“I don't want to fight. Surly you can appreciate how difficult this past week has been for me?"
"Can you appreciate that it hasn't exactly been a picnic for me?" Evey banged her own chest with the outstretched fingers of both hands.
"Of course."
"Okay. I'll go to Waco and see Melody. I'll call her now." Evey sat down at the telephone.
Mother went to the kitchen. "I hope she leaves. I can't take much more. I thought for once I could count on Evey to behave."
I said, "I guess we all expect people to rise above themselves in an emergency, which isn't very logical because that's when they're under the most pressure."
"We're all under a strain, and the rest of us aren't getting hysterical," Mother said.
"Don't you think it was a little hysterical of Rebecca to hide in the bushes?"
"No. I'm not sure Evey isn't dangerous. Are you?"
"I guess not. I hid all the knives while she was in there with you."
Evey flounced in and announced, "Melody said I'm more than welcome, so you can make the arrangements Mother."

On the way to the bus station, Evey looked at the moon shining over Corpus Christi Bay, silhouetting palm trees, and said, “I hope this is the last I see of this cliché of a coastal town. It's not the place it used to be. This town and I were young together. The palms and St. Augustine grass were vibrant and green, the waves in the bay fresh and frisky, the sky as perfect as baby's skin. Now dead palm trees line boulevards and bay like decapitated war trophies. They say some of the trees will leaf out in the Spring. Then they'll know which ones to cut and which to save, but I think they should cut them all. And while they're at it, rip up the miles of parking lots without trees and the assassin malls that have killed downtown. Corpus hasn't grown up so much as it's grown deformed and faded. This winters hard freeze was nature's retribution. With it's tattered palm fronds and dishwater bay it’s exactly the kind of place you'd leave on a Greyhound bus in the middle of the night. It's good I'm getting out of here without hurting Rebecca. They'd lock me up so fast. No F. Lee Baily or Percy Foreman to defend me. I'd get the loony-bin or the clink.”
Evey had a knack for finding the weak spots in people and places. Corpus did look sad, but I felt like my head might burst if I had to listen to her much longer. I was ready to end our relationship unless Evey made some drastic changes, but this wasn't the time to talk about it.
The cashier wouldn’t accept the check.
"My Mother called here an hour ago and was told that you would."
"I'm the one who talked to her, and we do accept checks when the manager's here. But he's not here in the middle of the night."
"Since my Mother called in the middle of the night and wanted the night schedule to Waco, I'd say you qualify for the dumb-ass of the year award."
The cashier looked hurt.
"I don't want to go back to that house," said Evey, "but I don't know what else to do."
And I sure don't want to take you there, I thought, but back we went. Our street was dark except for the house of blue lights. I pulled the car into the garage. Before I'd turned the key off in the ignition, Evey was out and running. The back door slammed behind her.
I hastened after Evey to our parent's bedroom. Mother was sitting up in bed reading. Evey dropped the check onto the newspaper and flopped down on the empty side of the bed. "They wouldn't take the Goddamn check."
"The man on the phone said they would."
"But they won't if the manager isn't there to okay it, and the manager isn't there this late. I feel like a little kid who's tried to run away from home and had to come back because it started getting dark."
“I have an idea.” Said Mother. “You two wait for me in the kitchen."
In a few minutes, she appeared and placed a pile of dark blue packets on the table. “My coin collection. I don't know how much is here. Let's start counting."
I picked up a packet and opened it. Pennies. "Fifty-eight cents. You may not be able to go very far, Evey.” Everyone laughed.
"Write that down," Mother said.
Doris came from her bedroom with a piggy bank and poured the contents out.
Short pillars of coins multiplied across the table.
Mother said, "Let me add this up. Four plus ten...ummm...carry the five...we need 8 more dollars."
"Right here in the 50 cent collection."
"That's it then," said Mother, standing.
Evey surveyed the table. "I have to admit I like it. It's a good way to end things."