some things i remember

the sound of cars rushing past the front bedroom window too fast and loud for the starlit darkness. it was most noticeable in the night when all other sounds had faded to quiet breathing and even mema's late night snuggle talk of old-time boyfriends and all night dancing had broken off abruptly with a soft snore. the sound of car motors began as a faint growl - quickly grew to a full roar in front of the house and just as suddenly vanished to the hush of crickets and bullfrogs and breathing. the noise was always accompanied by headlights shining through the white polyester sheers covering the windows and i would sometimes watch them late into the night when i had drawn the long broom straw - winning the privilege of sleeping in the feather bed with mema. the first dive in was like falling into a cloud but soon mema's deep sleep would send an arm over my chest or a heavy leg across my small mosquito bitten ankles. we all wanted that spot, but the best sleep was for the ones who nestled into feather beds spread on the floor - covered with homemade patchwork quilts smelling faintly musty from the cold back room. where we slept didn't matter so much because lying awake watching headlights from the feather bed - listening to the cadence of car motors and sleeping breath - were all part of the rhythm of a summer sleepover at mema's.

and i remember

picnics in her short front yard - so close to the highway we could feel the wind from the cars. we spilled from the front porch into the yard where we lounged on quilts under the shade tree. trixie wandered - begging for scraps of ham or cornbread - collecting ear scratches or belly rubs and finally settling next to mema in the porch swing. those days felt serene - family enough to never feel alone - uncle troy telling big-hearted stories of his latest swindle - casual conversations with no thought of saying the right thing or making an impression - simply accepting each other gratefully on an endless hot sunday afternoon. sometimes it was a fish fry with just caught and cleaned catfish and hush puppies with coleslaw on the side - or maybe homegrown black eyed peas and field corn -big warm slices of tomatoes ripe from the garden- with pork sausage freshly made in mema's sunny kitchen.

and i remember

the wonderfully ugly white vinyl couch in the den at 4 almo drive. the kitchen and tiny den were attached with a half wall so we could see mama when she cooked. the house often smelled of hot grease - too hot - because mama only cooked with the stove on high - perhaps a little indication of her impatience - or maybe just four hungry kids wanting to eat right now. after dinner the lights would go off and the tv on - all of us piled together on the ugly couch. saturday night was gunsmoke with matt dillon, miss kitty and festus - and we looked forward to that night all week. except for the sliding glass door right beside the couch - facing the dark woods. mama and daddy always heard noises out there - believed prowlers were watching us - infused us with fear for the unknown evil outside our own back door. i was so afraid at bedtime - covered myself from head to toe - no neck exposed for the vampires to taste - nothing tumbling out of the covers to be grabbed and never released. don't close my eyes - it might sneak up and take me. don't open my eyes - too many frightening images - i saw the outline of a man - i saw movement - something looking at me from the crack between the window and the curtain. i am terrified. i try to sleep when the heat is on - it covers the noises of demons in the night. i am the only one awake - the only one afraid - i wake kathy and for a little while i am alright. she begins to sleep again - but kathy i need you closer - i'm so scared. we move the twin beds together in the large master bedroom with red carpet, window airconditioner and a tiny half bathroom with a window facing the dark woods. i can touch kathy - she keeps me safe.

and i remember

the night lana sue died. i was little, maybe six or seven, and the house was cozy warm - lights on, gentle ben on tv and mama cooking supper. it was sunday. the phone rang and mama answered - her face contorted - tears came - she collapsed into the hard kitchen chair as daddy took the phone. before, sundays had been good days - after, they were a reminder - gentle ben was part of the unforgettable night lana sue wisdom - mom's beautiful gidget-resembling cousin with thick hair flipped up at the bottom - cousin who swung us around and around at family gatherings - mom's just-like-a-sister cousin - died in a car crash with her boyfriend on a terrible sunday night. they said she went through the floorboard of her boyfriend's car as they drove too fast over the bridge. he lived. she died that night just before she would have been sixteen. the house was dark for days and we didn't go to school. the sadness was suffocating and i wanted it to end. i was little - i wanted to play - i wanted to go to school - i wanted to live.

at last we opened the shades and let life in again.