The Nana Gang. or Why you shouldn't sleep like a possum.

I was asked to post this little bit of writing that I have previously posted in a facebook group that I belong to.  I live to serve.  (Okay so the truth is I live to eat chocolate, read romance novels and spoil my grandchildren but I'll serve this up today.) 

I had this dream today.  I should explain that I sleep during the day and work at night just like a possum.  Anyway, I had this dream and I keep thinking about it.   In my dream I'd accomplished losing the weight I need to.  I must admit in my dream I looked mighty good!  So there I was all slender and sleek in my black skinny jeans and zebra print blouse, my dyed red hair fluttering in the breeze of a fan while my perfectly pedicured toes peeked out of my snappy little red sandals.   Okay so I STILL had thunder thighs but I had those when I was 18 and so sick I'd dropped down to 97 lbs.     And I was at the tattoo parlor.  

WHAT?   Me at a tattoo parlor?   What is even more shocking is that I was getting a tat.   Now for many people this might just seem normal but for me the idea of anyone sticking me with anything sharper than a cotton ball is reason to sob hysterically.  I have an extremely low pain tolerance on the surface.  Now you can break my bones, whack me on the head, attempt to shove a 10 lb 50oz baby out of my hooha and I'm as brave as marine.  But poke me with a Q-tip and I'll cry like a baby and bruise as though you used a lead pipe. 

But there I was at Fat Daddy’s Tattoo Parlor signing the papers for a tattoo.  Go figure.   As for the tattoo itself, it was a rather ambitious little project with tulips, an orchid and the words nana forever, forever nana.  

And this is the point that concerns me.   The words nana forever, forever nana as a tattoo is just so similar to the Hell’s Angels’ tats of angel forever, forever angel that I’m suddenly wondering if being a nana/grandmother is like joining a gang.  Have I now become a member of some secret society that wears leather, rides motorcycles, gets tats, breaks the law and the only way out is death? 

Oh wait.  Maybe I have.  Except our gang drives cars, little pink vespas, three wheel bikes and the occasional wal-mart electric shopping scooter all while wearing cute clothes which on occasion do happen to be leather.  We quite often break the laws of our grandchildren’s parents and we have a secret motto that only we and our grand kids know that’s “what happens with Nana stays with Nana”.   And yes, the only way out of this gang is death because no one would ever dream of leaving the nana gang. 

I’ve come to the conclusion that my dream wasn’t so far fetched after all except for the tattoo.  That tattoo and the corresponding pain concerns me.  Perhaps I could just get a henna tat.  Or draw it on with some glitter pens?   Or maybe just have it put on a tee shirt.  In zebra print with red sparkles.  

nana forever, forever nana

We rawk!  *makes all sorts of nana gang hand signs* 

Rawk on nanas, rawk on!

Why Mockingbird? or Why you're not allowed to kill me.

I was asked today “Why Mockingbird Texas”?   Actually, there are a few parts to the answer.  First off I’ve struggled trying to decide what I want to have in this blog and the final decision is I want to share without pretense with whoever gives me the gift of reading my words.  Whimsy is part of who I am, so if I wanted a home for my thoughts it had to have some whimsy and fantasy.  And where else does one make a happy home but in a small Texas town.  Next is the question why Mockingbird?  Hopefully the following tale will answer that.

When I was growing up each Saturday my Daddy would go to do his errands and get the supplies he would need for his weekend project.  Daddy always had a project going on.  Almost every Saturday I’d go with him and our first stop would be Home Lumber Co which was the greatest lumber yard ever in the world of my childhood.  Then on we’d go to other places but our last stop was always the feed store.  Now the feed store didn’t just have feed but held instead a dazzling array of any and everything a man could be looking for, so Daddy spent quite a while there.  Two doors down was my own spot of heaven.  Two doors down from the feed store was the used book store.  Each Saturday my daddy, who took enormous pride in my passion for reading, gave me whatever spare money he felt he could spare and sent me down to the used book store.  I might be given a quarter or even a dollar and there were the rare times he gave me a five dollar bill to fill what he called my treasure chest.  My treasure chest of books was in fact a used and battered army foot locker from the thirties.   To any one else it was only a dilapidated, ugly, army green foot locker but to me it held adventures, foreign places, mysteries, and characters who became my friends as I read each book. 

So with money stuck into my sock I would charge down the sidewalk to heaven and seek that week’s treasure.  It wasn’t the quick trip to the beautifully decorated children’s section of Barnes and Noble that we all take today but instead it was a journey into a rather shabby world of used books governed by Professor.  I loved Professor primarily because he was the keeper of the books.  But also because he was a kind and gentle man who would take time to discuss books with a child as though her point of view and ideas were as relevant and important as his own.  Not to mention that when I struggled with the choice of which book to buy when I got to the end of my money he would often decide he’d forgotten to mark down the price thus suddenly my book was on sale and I could afford it.   He told me once he’d been a literature professor at the University of Texas but “couldn’t stop dancing with the demon rum”.   When I asked my dad what Professor had meant he explained and then told me to not share that information with Mama. 

So almost every Saturday morning I would spend an hour or two lying on the cool concrete floor amidst the dust bunnies and aging books seeking that week’s treasures while discussing books and writers with Professor and his current hippie employee.  And what treasures I found at the used book store.  What inspiring authors, amazing tales, and mind grasping adventures.  What incredible bargains!   Books that were ten cents a piece!  Reader’s Digest condensed books, which at that time always had four books in them, for only a quarter! Children’s books priced for a nickel.  To a child whose parents never censored what she read it was Mecca! 

So there I lay one day testing out books to decide which ones I’d buy when I found the love of my life in book form.  A book that no matter how many times I read it I always find something new.  A book that still surprises me in how many ways it touched my soul.  To this day it still teaches me.  I wonder if Harper Lee has any idea how greatly her words twined themselves around a young mind and simply never let go.   “To Kill a Mockingbird” taught me so much, it shaped my mind about races, civil rights, fairness, justice, equality, injustice, respect, courage, love and the list goes on.  But it also left me frightened for decades; frightened that my own words would never measure up to Harper Lee’s.  I have been frightened that my efforts would never be good enough or accepted and that my own tales would never be able to touch the hearts of readers.   And so I have kept my tales and songs of words hidden and stifled despite the encouragement of others. 

Until three things happened recently.  The first was meeting a group of women who give me support in many ways and who continue to prod me to write.  Secondly was an author, Connie Reece, whom I so deeply admire said to me she was thrilled I was writing again.  And the third was I recently reread “To Kill a Mockingbird” for what might possibly be the fiftieth time.   I reread it because I became acquainted with a very brave little girl who likes to call herself Scout.   She reminded me quite a bit of Harper Lee’s Scout and so I found myself back in the pages with Scout, Atticus, Jem, Boo, and all of my old friends.   There I learned something new about my love for this novel.   I always thought I needed to change and become greater, to be more like Scout or Atticus but that’s not true at all.  Just as the mockingbird will never soar like an eagle, migrate like geese, or glide on the water in perfect beauty like a swan; I will never be an Atticus, a Scout, a Boo or a Harper Lee.   The mockingbird is content to simply be a mockingbird and sing.  For the record the mockingbird has been known to sing over 600 songs which are comprised of the sounds of other birds.  The mockingbird’s simple, pudgy little body sits and fulfills its purpose of singing to the world.  It is enough to be the mockingbird.   Much like that bird I am and always will be me and finally it seems that being me is enough. 

“Mockingbirds don't do one thing but make music for us to enjoy. They don't eat up people's gardens, don't nest in corncribs, they don't do one thing but sing their hearts out for us. That's why it's a sin to kill a mockingbird”   From to Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee

So I promise, I won’t eat your garden or live in your corncrib.  All I desire is to paint you astory and tell you a song.  So I’ll be as the mockingbird, singing you tales of my own as well as others.   And you can leave me a comment if you like it and even one if you don’t.  However, you can not kill me, Harper Lee said so. 

Mockingbird Texas is a quaint, small town in the center of my imagination.  Populated by friends, family and the meanderings of my mind Mockingbird awaits to give you rest, joy, thoughts, recipes, a few of my stories and whatever else comes to mind. 

Built from the support and prodding of friends and my homesickness for Texas, Mockingbird is a town like no other and I welcome you to say what you need or want so that you may find joy here. 

So take your shoes off, find a seat and sit a spell on the porch because no matter where you are or where I roam we can always find Mockingbird - forever Texas, forever home.