Springtime in Columbus, Georgia

Way down here in Columbus, it’s not so cold. Oh it gets cold enough to snuggle under several quilts with the window open and to start a fire, but not so cold that you can see your breath, very often. Today it’s 69 degrees. Only bad thing is that the Tulip Poplars tend to bud out early, pretty pink silk petals amid the bare grey branches. Daffodils and Crocus are peeping out of the cold hard ground,”outside the lines”, of our more recent, proffessional landscaping. Whether Daffodils, a random Iris, or the Four O’clocks that open late summer afternoons, these old flowers come back every year. It’s usually in the first warm week after the first freeze. Just like your Mama’s homemade Lemon Meringue, made extra special and delicious just for you, you can always count on these gracious flowers to unfold a little sooner and smell a little sweeter than you remembered the year before. It’s always about as soon as you can wear your shirt sleeves. And around here, that could be mid-February. Before you know it, we’ll be serving breakfast on the veranda and swatting at honey bees. You’ll wish you could stay all Sunday afternoon, just to walk along the Chattahoochee and watch Herons swoop down to the riverbank, pose with an impossible grace and wait for someone to admire their silhouettes.

Going to Mexico in my mind

sma_sunsetI am searching Amtrak routes. Why? I hate flying. I actually don’t hate to fly. It’s just the thought of flying in a mile high Pringles can. With the right amount of Margaritas I could maybe look forward to it. Unfortunately, Margaritas don’t last for months and it’s the time leading up to the flight that freaks me out.  I have single handedly talked Delta into and out of non-cancellable tickets, four times, for the same trip. Once, we flew from Atlanta to Acapulco and drove home. It took six rental cars, one way each. You see, I am persuasive and imaginative. You’d think I could think myself safe. But, then I would be able to think myself thin….Anyway, as I pilfer the railroad routes, I find myself longing for the warm Carribean breeze of the Yucatan, where hotels are old monasteries, dressed in fuschia Bouganvilla. Or, I am sitting in waist high water in Playa Maya. Under the leaning palm tree, sits only a taco stand and a plastic table with four chairs. The water is aquamarine and it’s so clear, you can watch the fish swim past your knees.  It’s completely Gilligan’s Island. Or sometimes, my view is a sunset from  a tiled patio in San Miguel de Allende, overlooking the cactus and scrubbrush and faraway mountains on one side. Terra cotta rooftops and patios overhang scarred pastel walls of the city, in the other direction. Cobbled streets snake between  sidewalks,  half a person wide. Church bells ring in the zocolo. A tall stray dog passes me on the street. He seems to be in a hurry to get somewhere.

Big Hair Days

win-pictures-aquanetOne of my earliest memory is sitting in the hallway leading to the bathroom, saying, “Mooooooommmm, come on”. At least that’s how I remember it. My mom’s particular about her hair and in 1971, she had a lot of it and it took a lot of fixin’. She didn’t have long hair back then. It was short, black and big. Yes, she’s a white woman and we were in Cullman County Alabama, freshly divorced from my dad, with a red pontiac and big sunglasses, bigger than 80’s sunglasses. I think they had to tone them down for the 80’s. People started to take stuff a little more seriously 10 years down the road. But there I sprawled, across the hardwood floor in white tights and white patent leather shoes and a red and white polka dotted bow, tied to the top of my big red hair. But my mom and that can of Aquanet were one wih the mirror. And I remember, it involved a bunch of teasing and maybe a pick, but I’m not exactly sure about the pick part. The rest of my life, say, after age 10, it was more of hot rollers and a big brush kind of hairdo. Anyway, I waited. And waited and waited and waited and waited… And finally, it was deemed acceptable enough to sit on top of her head at the Cullman County Courthouse, until, sometime midday, she’s push open the enormous wooden door, marked, “ladies”, set the enormous black purse on the counter by the sink and pulling her pocket mirror out, check it from all points, refreshing where neccessary with adequate amounts of Aquanet, in the red bottle.