Summertime in The Country | 90s Kid Edition

I miss summertime in the country as a kid.

Grandma's sun tea was always the right amount of syrupy-sweet. All the movies on G5-20 pulled in from that giant satellite were the best. We could play outside even after the street light came on because we were with family & didn't have school. We'd be outside from sun up to sun down, & didn't care about smelling like "outside," nor did we ever get too tired for hide-and-go-seek. And mamas always said yes when we asked to go stay with our cousins in "The Hill."

I loved the sleepovers. Even brought church clothes with me when I stayed on weekends. Went to church even though we stayed up all night & I'm fighting sleep while Reverend Peterson's heavy preaching got the entire congregation "hoopin' & shoutin'." We made it through the sermons unscathed. May have even caught the Holy Ghost ourselves a few times. And I even promised mama I wouldn't get my church dress dirty. Though I rarely made good on that promise once church was over & I hit grandma's backyard (where those bitter, dark berries I secretly indulged in hid).

But anyways, you know the type of broken promise I speak of. Like when summer ends & your cousins have to leave "the country" to go back home, promising to keep in touch with you via the landline. Perhaps those weathered scraps of paper with our phone numbers delicately scribbled on them got lost in the backseats of Cadillacs & Buicks. Months pass. Seasons change. But best believe, once summer hits-- we'll be back outside again racing by foot "in the net" like we never lost touch. And I'll always be that country girl that gets excited about a race.

[used this pic with these words because I totally just stole this from one of my cousins on FB. Thanks for sharing this, Consuela. And yooo, we look cute, Callie! And yes, that's Jj on the accidental photo-bomb. The family reunion brought back memories.❤]

When you think about your favorite summers as a child, what comes to mind?

Dre Writes | Grandma's Sunroom

Being in grandma’s sunroom has always been cathartic for me. At an early age, it was this nearly forbidden place she entered each morning, drawing the curtains and watering the vast array of plants with limbs encasing the entire room. My brother almost got in trouble for knocking over grandma’s plants in there one day, but of course, I took the blame. We'd both learn that day that grandma did not tolerate any "horse play" in that sunroom, and her swift punishment would be the teacher. Those lessons, thankfully, were few and far-in-between. I adored my grandmother and wouldn't dare do anything to fall from her grace-- or lose access to that majestic sunroom.

 

Late at night, grandma would seek solace in that room, pulling the chair from under her sewing machine to create something new and beautiful with her hands. Humming along to some unknown song, Grandma transformed linens and lace as she pat her foot on the pedal. I was as quiet as can be, watching from the kitchen entrance, as grandma drifted off into her own world. 

I snuck away to the sunroom in the afternoons while my aunt was in class, thumbing through her English textbooks and records scattered by grandma’s desk. It wasn’t long before I was sitting at the desk completing assignments, too. Grandma never scolded me. I just heard her tell someone on the phone that I was so smart, I was doing Teeny Gal’s (as she affectionately called my aunt) homework. This affirmed me, taking to writing at that desk every chance I got. 

Before long, some of the plants were replaced with more seating space. Grandma always hosted holidays at her house and tables with pie, cakes, and savory dishes soon filled that sunroom. More grandchildren came and the sunroom eventually filled with cabbage patch dolls, books, tonka trucks, and skateboards. The occasional plant adorned the writing desk by the door. Flowers were eventually transported just outside to the front porch. Nonetheless, I’d catch grandma standing at the kitchen entrance of the sunroom in awe, smiling at nothing but the mass of race cars scattered on her shaggy, seafoam-colored rug. She’d dry her hands on her apron and just look around at it all, saying nothing. Gone were the days when she scolded us for not cleaning up our toys. 

Several years passed and the sunroom I once knew became a makeshift bedroom for me and my two children, complete with a tv set, DVD player, and couch that converted to a bed at night. By this point, grandma’s house was a refuge for us after a bad break-up. Grandma was no longer making grandbabies breakfast at the crack of dawn, but was instead sleeping in until nearly 11 AM, slowly dragging herself and her bedroom slippers from her quarters as my cousin Andrea pleaded with her to come and eat. Grandma’s smile would come and go, but her words were less frequent. Her stories from “way back when” were still intact, but she’d began to mistake my young daughter for me. Her place at the dinner table was made by someone else. Her and granddaddy patiently waited at the table while my sister and I served “not quite grandma’s” fried chicken and mac & cheese. And while she usually objected, my sister and I cleared the table and washed the dishes grandma never allowed us to touch before. 

Now that grandma and grandpa are both gone, I miss so many things about them. How grandma made breakfast in the morning, watched the stories at 1PM (with the illustrious John Black, need I say more), kept me and all my siblings in line with only a few words and powerful stares, how she had dinner on the table at the same time every night, and how her and grandpa called me smart when I got the answers right on Jeopardy. But one thing I didn’t notice until I was watering my own plants this morning, was how grandma’s own personal sunroom transformed into a “safe haven” of sorts for all her grandchildren right up under my nose. She gave us everything and kept nothing to herself. Not even her space. Nor her precious memories. 

photos by kate darmody for unsplash

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Dre Writes | Childhood Stories

Coming up, it seemed as though we were inseparable.  I reminisce back on the days of kindergarten, and trading the grape ICEEs I detested for your cherry medicine-flavored ones. I smile at the thought of you kneeling down to help me tie my shoelaces because I had not yet learned to do so.  To the onlooking elder  it could have appeared that I was too stubborn to learn, and you too caring not to help. Truth is, I had become so lazily conformed to my velcro-strapped Mary Janes, I had no use for acknowledging those pesky strings until the new white shoes with flashing soles were now forcing my steps.

Dre Writes: The Burgundy Lipstick Story

My obsession with lipstick dates back around two decades ago.  I was always fascinated by the way it made my aunt's lips the first thing I noticed when visiting her as a child.  It left such an impression on everything.  It made others hang on to every word that escaped her lips.  It even left its heavy stain on the glasses she drank from and the silverware she ate from.  It made such a statement that I wanted some of my own.  Somehow I knew I would not be able to get my hands on any for myself though.  Grown-ups have a way of letting children know that certain things are for grown-ups only so I knew none would be outright handed to me.

One day I came up with what then seemed like a novel idea.  I made up in my mind that during the next visit, I would get some lipstick from my aunt without her knowing.  The wheels of the plan were set in motion on the way to her house soon after.  Upon arrival, I was so anxious I couldn't even sit still!  While no one was looking I decided to sneak up to her room and find her makeup bag.  It wouldn't be very hard, because when my mother went anywhere, she had four children with her.  I was one of those four.  No one would notice I'd be missing with three younger children to fuss over.

In the short moments that led to me being in this space and time,  I had to make sure to remain unseen and quietly creep off into my curiosities.  In record time, I found myself quietly closing her room  door and spotting that bright red vintage makeup bag with the golden zippers. I carefully drew back the opening seams of that bag to uncover hidden treasures of  honey brown-stained sponges, circular contraptions with "Fashion Fair" imprinted with gold strokes, black pencils with clear toppers and big fluffy brushes.  I rummaged through the bag with my little curious fingers and large inquisitive eyes looking for the big prize.

Finding that single tube of lipstick immediately made me feel powerfully statuesque in all my 4 foot glory.  Twisting the bottom of the cream colored tube and smearing the stick of burgundy color onto my lips made me very visible.  In fact, it transformed me into quite the diva.  Wearing it removed me from the blur that was "the four."  It also gave me access to a secret of beauty among the women in my family. It was their way of being noticed in a room full of women without saying much.  It was also a good way to get in trouble with my mama, had she caught me wearing it.  It would be worth the risk though. After basking in the application of the lipstick and enveloping the magical, mystical feeling I imagined my aunties felt, I would wipe it away in a haste, without anyone noticing.  Or so I thought.  The haste of my mother's footsteps was much faster than the quick swipes of my forehand I thought would make me go back to being unnoticed.  Too bad the color was so heavily pigmented, my lips were left stained with shame until my bedtime bath.

I had almost forgotten the burst of excitement I felt in that brief moment of time.  My reflection in the illuminated mirror back in 1992 with a crimson grin dripping from my chin had nearly escaped me.  It wasn't until I peeked into my bedroom twenty years later that I found that same bashful smile grinning back at me, one part proud yet one part afraid.  I smiled to myself, and indeed let my reflection know I was amused by her new smile.

I didn't make her take it off, either.  But I did inform her that I could see her just fine without it.  I still wonder to myself, however, if she feels the same way about me.