DeMarCaTionVille

You know my life kinda resembles a bad Hee Haw skit.

If it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all.

Over the past six months, my daughter nearly died.  I lost my job, which isn’t surprising.  I work in the print industry.  Therefore, I have a lot in common with a horse and buggy driver.  We’re both obsolete.

What’s next?  Well, I’m too old to become a brain surgeon or a rock star  (which were my other two career choices) – so the hell if I know.

To make matters worse, the hubby was laid off from the factory where he’d worked for 2o years.  Oh, his “change in employment status” wasn’t unexpected either.

American automakers, which accounted for over 90%  of the production at the local plant, didn’t hit the skids overnight.   The meltdown had been a long time a’coming, so we’d prepared financially and were waiting for the other shoe to drop.  We did not, however, expect the shoe to knock up upside the head during the same week Diva’s thoracic surgeon mailed out his bill.

Our family also lost two relatives this year,  my father-in-law and great-grandmother-in-law.  These deaths introduced a new set of issues that I wasn’t prepared to face.

Suddenly, the hubby and I were discussing merging households with my mother-in-law, who is over 60 and lives alone in the deep backwoods of Tennessee without reliable transportation.  (I mean so far back in the woods, you have to pack snacks for the drive over)  Since the hubby figured 2 Southern women + 1 Kitchen = a  bad idea, we talked about building a garage apartment.  Oh.  Yeah.  There’s that whole recession/we’re po’ folk now thing.   Next, we talked about moving closer to his mother, at which time he pointed out my parents, who reside here in Hawkins County,  aren’t spring chickens either.

This observation made me mad – irrationally, uncomfortably, cheek-aflame, if-looks-could-kill, nuclear-type mad.  I really wanted to stick my fingers in my ears and sing na-na-na-na-I-can’t-hear-you.  I mean, c’mon, everyone knows as long as I can still outrun my nine-year-old,  have all of my original joints – no plastic – can rock 5 inch heels, drink younger folks under the table, and then dance on the table while wearing the heels  AND I do not need industrial-strength Lycra to hold in, up or down any body parts: then I am young, therefore my parents are young.   And these issues are something adult children of a certain age must think about:  not me.  I’m not at that age.  Seriously.  I’m not.   My parents are fine.  Fine,  I tell you.  Now, discussion closed.   I mean it.  Na-na-na-na.  I-can’t-hear-you.

While these issues were still lingering around unresolved  (because I’ve yet to take my fingers out of my ears) the dog got sick.  My Daddy’s blood pressure got stuck somewhere between elevated and “Holy Shit!”   Oh, and my son officially declared me a horrible mom, which means I’m just a hop, skip and jump away from “ruining his life” on a regular basis.

Coming from the kid, who once claimed I could outsing Aretha, outcook Granny and outglam a supermodel… well, it stings a little.  Not to mention, he was far more amicable back he was delusional and tone deaf.

Add to this, the perfectly-imperfect non-judgmental mommy friend, with whom I would normally discuss my I’m a bad parent fears, packed-up her family and returned to her home state of Alabama.  The humidity there was easier to handle than the hypocrisy here, I guess.

The sad truth is she left in the nick of time… because I honestly believe the  people here are losing their ever lovin’ minds.

Folks are short-tempered and hot-collared.  I fully expect the little ladies at church to start resolving those “what hymns shall the choir sing next Sunday” disputes by stabbing one another with hatpins.  And it seems the only thing increasing faster than the local taxes and petty bickering is the crime rate.

I’m no sociologist, of course, but I’m guessing all of this might have something to do with the fact that the only people still getting a paycheck here are the the politicians, the repo guys, the bail bondsmen and maybe the Ku Klux Klan recruiters.

Yeah, the KKK.  In Hawkins County.  It was a fairly predictable thing, don’t you think?  After all,  it’s one thing for white folks to stop holding black folks down:  it’s quite another when they realize black folks no longer require their help in getting a leg up.  I mean – a black president?  Woo.  That’s  some scary shit for a lot of white folks right there, particularly those who have nothing against “the blacks” shucks some of their friends are “blacks”, and they aren’t racist at all,  really, they aren’t… because if they were the people at church would talk bad about them.

Shortly after the inauguration though (or perhaps before,) these folks got scared, frustrated, decided to hell with social mores and freaked right  on out.  Of course, when they did, they were pleasantly surprise to discover not only the preacher but four of the deacons held views similar to their own.

Consequently, I’ve overheard insulting comments made by community leaders, school staff members, the neighbors, and my family.  Earlier this year,  the Klan even held a rally close to where I grew up and where Mama and Daddy live now.  It was hosted on the property of  a Hawkins County school system employee and there were quite a few  rumors circulating afterward about who was in attendance.

(I have not been able to verify these rumors.  Turns out there aren’t many  “reliable sources” attending those events.  By reliable I mean one who does not drink beer for breakfast and/or didn’t out his brother-in-law/wife’s ex-boyfriend’s as a Klan member because the summabitch borrowed his lawnmower/wife last year and has yet to return it/her in the same condition it/she was in when he took it.   After talking with these people,  I’m still not quite sure if the wife came back pregnant or the Murray 0-turn mower was out of gas.   I certainly didn’t gather any useful information.)

Either way,  (and in spite of  the burden of proof  because you don’t need  proof for purposes of  repudiating individuals  in the South: the truthful-like statement of their mother’s cousin’s hairdresser will do just fine)  I am becoming mistrustful and somewhat suspicious of … well, anyone I haven’t seen naked.  And some of those I’m not entirely sure about either.

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m not complaining here.  About anything.  I’m not.  I’m a southerner: we don’t complain.  We summarize our tribulations, which I’ve done.   Then, we assure ourselves that things could be worse and we keep plodding on.   (Of course, I’m a woman.  So, I’m expected to plod three times faster and shoulder twice the burden while wearing high heels and deep-frying something beer-battered and all without messing up my hairdo.)

I’m actually handling most of these challenges -  the job loss, illness, grief, goodbyes, new phases, new neighbors, financial inability to buy myself pretty new shoes whenever I want them – quite well.  Granted, some have inspired me to curse more than others  (particularly the neighbors) but there is an upside to facing so much turmoil in a short period of time  – eventually, you aren’t shocked or upset by much of anything.

For instance, yesterday when the kid’s got a tennis ball stuck in the toilet, I didn’t yell.  It seemed like small stuff to me, so why sweat it?   Likewise, last week, when the TV blew up…  I was completely unsurprised.

I did, however, mope for a few days when the the new television required us to rearrange the living room furniture.  Hey, at this point, there are very few things in life that I can count on to remain constant: the position of the couch was one of them.  I figure if I’m going to have a middle-age meltdown wherein I try to wrap my head around the fact that I am getting to a certain age where I cannot be a rock star, probably won’t marry Steve Perry or Rick Springfield – for all I know one or both of them might be dead -  I haven’t taught the world to sing in perfect harmony or set it afire – shit, I haven’t t even made it smoke a little – I might have to take care of my parents and continue to care for kids,  who don’t like me as much as they did when they were two  – and this is my life because it’s too late for do overs – I wanted to do this in my usual sittin’ spot by the window.

Ah, but I can’t.  That’s that – and I’ll adjust, probably by doing what any self-respecting Southern Gal in crisis would do.  I’ll go fishing… or I’ll ponder  on the front porch with a cold beer in hand.  Maybe I’ll get out the guitar and sing some old Negro spirituals… mostly to annoy my neighbor.   I might even borrow a fiddle or set of drums.  No, I don’t know how to play the fiddle either. Did I mention that I don’t like the neighbor much?

Either way, whatever happens,  as long no one moves the refrigerator or shuffles the beer around,  I’ll be fine.  Growing older and poorer by the minute… but fine nonetheless.

Tags: Hawkins County, Hee Haw, illness, job loss, KKK, middle-age, parenting, racism