While there, brother-in-law Bill Till and I went to one of the family cemeteries located in Shiloh, Alabama.
Click for a larger version. Below is a shot with my grandparents gravestones and the church in the background.
octagon
Father’s Day Memories
So much of what I am comes from where I grew up and how I was raised. It becomes more and more evident every day, really. On today, Father’s Day, it seemed appropriate to talk briefly about Papa, who gave me so much of what makes me who I am.
I like to think the spark of laughter and good humor–and the desire to make others laugh is as present in me as it was in my father. I can only hope, as he was such a jokester.
The other day, though, I was with my friend Ben having a drink and enjoying stories together, both funny and serious. We were joking about photography and I was relaying my story of going down into a coal mine to take photos for American Mining Insurance Company. Going into an underground coal mine is pretty intimidating to begin with. Going in with a bulky camera on top of the hard hat, overalls, rubber boots and big, heavy belt complete with large battery pack that powers your head lamp along with something that provides air in case of a cave-in–now that’s tough. Did I mention cave-in?
Anyway, I was so off-put about going underground (I wasn’t expecting to be allowed to carry my camera into the mine anyway as this isn’t typically something that they allow), that I managed to get only about 3 photos. My camera flash wasn’t fully charged and I couldn’t figure out just what to do about it. (I’ll do better if I get to go again.) One photo I took managed to capture several people’s feet–there were vehicles moving by underground, the ceiling was less than 6 feet high, there was dust everywhere, the air was thick and it was very intimidating so I’m impressed I even got that shot.
Back to the story at hand….
I was telling my friend Ben about this exciting event. And nothing felt better than hearing him laugh and spew his drink across the room. I remembered the many times when Papa would have the whole room laughing.
No matter what, Papa worked to make people laugh and he kept that sense of humor for pretty much his whole life. I can’t imagine how he did it. Growing up in the Great Depression. Going through the Pacific theater in World War II. Having 6 children (oh my God!)–including one that came WELL AFTER he had turned 40.
Still, he managed to enjoy life in a way that few people could. His ability to handle pretty much any situation with a smile, with black medicine (a cream he brought home in bulk from the paper mill where he worked as a mechanic), a band-aid and a pocket knife is legendary. If those wouldn’t solve the situation, some sand paper, some WD40 or some duct tape–only in a real emergency as this couldn’t be reused with ease–surely would. He just never seemed to get terribly rattled about things.
I got, I hope, at least a touch of his laughter, his smile and his humor. I still need to work on not getting rattled by things. Sadly, I did not get his ability to fix things. If it is broken, my only remedy is to take it to the basement–where it can live forever in a broken state!
Here’s to you Papa.
My Very First Knives
My cousin Deborah mentioned in an earlier blog post just how much I loved hats, boots and guns as a child. What she failed to mention was my undeniable love of all things knife-oriented. My dad made hundreds of knives, some pretty rustic, but some with really pretty wood handles. I still have a nice selection–my sister Julia even has two matching ones in a shadow box frame.
I think I must have picked up Papa’s love of knives. Unfortunately, I did NOT pick up his skill with power tools. The knives in this photo aren’t ones that my dad made, but they are more or less the first knives I ever had. Both came from my Uncle Bill (my father’s brother who shared a love of knives). He sent them to me by my Aunt Gladys and Uncle Edward wrapped carefully in a box with a note that said “Be Careful. Sharp!”
I’ll never forget the joy I felt when I opened that box. Several years ago, I sent my nephew William a pocket knife with the note “Be Careful. Sharp!” inside.
I had no idea that a picture of this wonderful moment existed. How amazing it was the other day to find the moment captured in my Uncle Edward’s boxes of slides.
Styling 1970’s
Not sure whether I should just be happy I had a shirt on in the first picture–apparently in addition to loving hats, I hated shirts as a child (something that hasn’t carried forward as evidenced by my farmer’s tan now). Oh, if we only still had the clothes in the photo at left! (Photo at left is from left to right–Margaret, Madeline, Cynthia, Julia and of course there I am in the center!)
A Nice Note from a Cousin
Last Friday night, I got what was one of the nicest emails I’ve received in quite a while. A cousin I see with less frequency than I’d like sent this. Makes me very pleased to have such a strong family! (And I did ask permission to put this out, so don’t fear sending emails to me!)
Nollie told Lillian about your blog, then Lillian told me. What a blessing you have created! I love Octagon, too. I wish gasoline weren’t one thousand dollars a gallon (slight exaggeration) and I weren’t so busy so I could go “home” every weekend.
As I have gotten older, I am mortified that I was not prouder of my parents and my upbringing when I was younger. We really did have idyllic childhoods in Octagon–roaming the woods, playing in the catch-pens, riding Ida’s wagon-of-death down a 90- degree hill, and jumping off the chicken- house roof. ( You were not born when we used to do that. Be very grateful.) Then there was running from Daddy’s schizophrenic red bull. And the time Nollie stuffed feed corn kernels in my ears and up my nose. And the time we Hinson children agreed to let Daddy sell our pet baby bull, (which we had named Bull-ette and which we had hand-fed with a calf bottle since his birth) so we could buy Hoola-Hoops. And the sad Christmas children we were at Aunt Sadie Lou’s house because we had to wear Sunday clothes and sit and be polite and use good manners. And leave our new toys at home.
Your Mother’s Day tribute to your Mama was lovely. Your mother was a remarkable woman. I am so grateful that she was my aunt. I wanted to contact all of her children on the anniversary of her tragic death, but I couldn’t find the words. There are no words. But Aunt Sis was brilliant and wise and warm and lovely and genteel and kind and wonderful. I think of her and miss her every day, as I do Mama and Daddy.
Your mother and father; Mammy and Papa; my Mama and Daddy; Uncle Clifford; Aunt Sadie Lou and Uncle Larry; your Uncle Edward and Aunt Gladys–they all influenced the adults whom all 17 of us Hinson first- cousins would become. I am sure I would be a better person if I had paid more attention to the advice and love they gave when I was a child and adolescent. I like to think that I absorbed some of their wisdom through osmosis, if not through minding them and taking their instruction to heart.
Although I was nearly grown when you were born, I remember you well as a little boy. You always wore hats and you usually wore boots and carried a gun. Your parents were so proud of you. A son at last!
Cousin Deborah Hinson Kelly
(Well, I couldn’t find photos of myself with a hat, boots AND a gun, but I managed to find a good collection of hats and one with a great toy gun! I really did love a good hat–the captain’s hat was my all-time favorite, though. I think I need another.)
Thoughts on Mother’s Day
Well, today isn’t actually Mother’s Day, but Ann and I will be gone tomorrow and thought I’d just go ahead and put this out today.
I believe in Mothers. I guess I almost have to…growing up, I had six: my real mother, of course, and my five older sisters. When I was young, everyone took care of me. I guess I was lucky that way. I don’t recall, of course, but reportedly I didn’t speak for the first couple of years. I only needed to point to achieve the prize I wanted, for with a simple point or a quiet honk, I had five sisters snapping to attention to fetch something for little baby brother. Oh, those must have been the days.
And my real mother was magical. She had the experience of raising five children before I came along. (All different in so many ways, but more alike than any of us care to admit.) She had the wisdom of age—she was forty-five years old when I was born. She had the patience of a saint. We went for long walks in the woods, often resulting in my little legs being exhausted before our return home. We’d stay out in those woods for hours and hours, reading stories, looking at bugs and just listening to the sounds of nature (almost always soothing but never silent). When it was time to head back to the house, she’d often carry me home. I really don’t know how. I’m not forty yet, but I doubt I could carry a 4-6 year old child a mile on my shoulders or back. But somehow, she always managed to get us home, and often with a lovely assortment of new sticks or pine cones or leaves. (Once, in the fall, we brought home a collection of beautiful and brilliant red leaves. They turned out to be poison oak leaves, but that’s for another story.)
Those walks in the woods gave me the wisdom to believe in nature, to love the outdoors and to enjoy the simple beauty of an oak leaf or a weed in bloom. The walks in the woods really prepared me for my future. Sure, college, graduate school and years of working and networking gave me some preparation, but the time in the woods getting to know myself and learning from Mama really cemented my personality. Those walks also gave me the strength to endure what was to come.
Just a little over a year ago, my belief in the power of Mothers was sorely tested. Murdered. It is so very hard to type that word that I really can’t express it. My fingers freeze and continue to hit the wrong keys. But that’s what happened to my Mama. Murdered as she was getting ready to enjoy her favorite time of the year—spring. The flowers were just starting to bloom. In fact, she had come to Bessemer to meet several of us for lunch at the Bright Star restaurant to celebrate her 83rd birthday just the weekend before. As we were preparing to part ways after lunch, she reached into the trunk of the car and pulled out a bouquet of jonquils and daffodils for Ann and me. I was so pleased to have them then.
Now the flowers brighten my heart and mind when I think back about them—doubly so when I saw the few bloom this year that I have transplanted from our home place in Octagon to our yard here in Birmingham. Immeasurably so when I saw the thousands blooming in Octagon this spring.
But the flowers are nothing compared to the woods. I’ve gone walking in the woods more in the last year than I had in many years past. I’ve fought my way through blackberry brambles, I’ve slipped through muddy patches and I’ve crouched through wisteria vines wrapping themselves around trees. I’ve paused in the deepest, darkest of these places to think, to pray and to be with Mama. It is at those times when I truly feel her presence, telling me it will be okay, reminding me of the power of those deep woods.
I can really think when I’m in those deep woods, so very changed from my youth but still remarkably the same. I can think, too, when I stare into the bloom of a jonquil or, more recently, an iris. Looking closely, I can make out the beautiful color variations, the intricate details and most importantly, the power of the earth and the power of my Mama. And that’s what all this really comes down to: my belief in my Mama. Those woods and those flowers sustain her today. I feel sadness when I go to the cemetery and put flowers on her grave, but no overpowering connection. Sure, I cry each time and I feel the deep loss that we all feel.
I feel sadness when I walk behind the house to put flowers on the place she was found. Certainly, I feel anger here as well, something I’ll hopefully work my way through in years to come.
But it is in those woods, that land, that dark red, unbelievably muddy, sticky as glue earth that I feel the true power of Mama. I feel love and strength and the gentle beauty of nature, I feel my love of the outdoors, and I feel my Mama when I go to the deep woods. Those woods sustain me. And that is why I believe and will always believe in mothers.