Emotional Archaeology

Recently I have been experiencing what therapists refer to as a “breakthrough.” A breakthrough is when you come to an important realization, an “AHA” moment when you recognize cause and effect, among other things. Bear in mind I am not currently, nor have I ever been, in any kind of therapy, unless you count the all night conversations my wife and I get to have once a year with our friends from high school, Jeremy and Sherry (she actually is a counselor).

These breakthroughs have been self discovered. Of course any good therapist will tell you that ALL breakthroughs are self discoveries. Each of them came unexpectedly and unintentionally. Two of them occurred while visiting in the home of a virtual stranger, one came during a conversation in the foyer of the church building, and one actually occurred during the writing of this entry. Let’s tackle them in order.

My friend Wayne and I had stopped by to see a man who had visited our church a few weeks ago, when I noticed an old blue GMC truck, early eighties model, sitting in the front yard. Anyone who knows me at all will tell you I am not a “car guy.” My only questions about a vehicle are, “Does it start? Does it have a/c and heat? Does it have cruise control? Does it have a working stereo?” Anything beyond these four requirements is just gravy. Truth is, I don’t even require a working stereo. Much to my wife’s chagrin, I once had a car without a stereo so I drove around for months using an iPod and a pair of those giant, old fashioned, airport runway crew ear protector looking, headphones. True story. This car leaked, causing the formation of two small ponds in the backseat floorboard when it rained, only one power window that worked (the other three could be pushed down by hand), and I could leave the keys in the ignition because I was the only person who knew how to start it. When I sold it for $100 I had to teach the new owner the “secret handshake” that started the car. Again, true story.

I don’t know makes and models, I can’t work on them, and I’ve never really been enamored by them the way some men are, but an early eighties GMC pickup is one of my dream cars. Not one week ago I saw a couple of trucks almost identical to this one, which were out of commission and parked under the trees out on my uncle JC and aunt Myra’s farm on Fall River Road, just past Tin Top. When I saw those decaying trucks I commented to my wife how much I loved those old trucks. There were two objects of my affection on their farm that Saturday, the trucks and a litter of lab puppies. Tragically I left with neither. But today, standing in the front yard of a stranger, I began telling these two fellas how much I loved those trucks and then something slipped out of my mouth that couldn’t have been clearer if it was a vision from God. “My daddy used to own a cream colored one like that.” 

And there it was, my breakthrough. That’s why, a guy who could care less about what kind of car he drives, will stop in his tracks when he sees such a pedestrian looking vehicle. No flash, no pizazz, no sizzle, and not even a fancy paint job. Just a humble pickup truck, but for me it was better than the presidential limo. Perhaps it’s because, for me, that truck represents my childhood and my daddy. Oddly enough we didn’t even own that truck for very long. One snowy, or more accurately for Tennessee, one icy morning my momma had to drive it to work. At the time she was the manager of the Quick Mart, about three miles from our house in Vales Mill subdivision, so she had to be there to open the store even if the rest of the town was shut down. Momma never made it to work that morning. Roughly two miles from home, and one mile from work, that old GMC pickup truck lost traction going around a curve and slid grill first into a tree. Fortunately momma was fine, but the truck was no longer with us. For a couple of decades that old tree bore the scars of its battle with a one ton pickup truck, while the truck headed for the junkyard I suppose. Soon after I forgot all about the old GMC pickup, as it was replaced with a shiny, brand new, straight from the factory, blue Monte Carlo with power windows, seats and locks. At the young age of seven I was so proud of that car I actually posed for a picture in front of it, leaning on the drivers side door with my arms crossed high across my chest, the way hip hop stars like LL Cool J and Run DMC used to do back in the day. I believe this pose came to be known as “mean muggin’” many years later, but I don’t know for sure. I know even less about hip hop culture than I do about automobiles. Regardless, the truck was gone, a new and improved vehicle took its place and I forgot all about both of them, at least until today, when it all became so obvious to me.

Breakthrough number two took place less than thirty minutes later. Wayne and I left the home of our visitor and stopped in to see another gentleman, Bill, who is a fishing partner of Wayne’s. This man wasn’t a complete stranger to me, we’d met on a couple of occasions and even had some Bible studies together, but I really didn’t know much about him. Admittedly, the one fact I did know about him was a doozy. He was the former personal assistant to Alabama Governor, and one time presidential candidate, George Wallace. Yeah, THAT George Wallace. While I do not share the opinions of the now deceased Governor, and one time integration obstructionist, it was somewhat fascinating to be one degree removed from such a historic figure and events.

Bill walked us all around his property, showing up his bamboo forrest, blue berry bushes, and countless other forms of vegetation. We picked grapefruit and cumquats, and basked in what I consider to be the greatest aroma in God’s wild world, confederate jasmine. Inside the house he showed us a personal invitation to the inauguration ball of President John F. Kennedy that was sent to his father, and his indoor garden which included a Melia-plumeria, an incredibly fragrant flower used in the making of a Hawaiian leis. While smelling the flowers a couple of pictures on the wall caught my eye. They were old movie posters, something I have an affinity for, being the owner of a few reprints myself (King Creole and New Orleans). Bill explained that these belonged to his mother and were not reprints but originals. Because I can’t resist an opportunity to tell a story, I explained that I loved all things from the forties. The movies, the music, the fashion. Sometimes I feel that I was born in the wrong era, and should have been alive in the forties. Right in the middle of my soliloquy I mentioned that my memaw was from that era and when I was a child she used to play CD’s of The Glen Miller Orchestra and other hits of the forties. Had I been in front of a mirror I’m certain I would have seen a literal light bulb come on. The nostalgia I have for the 1940’s is actually a misplaced affection for the time spent with my memaw when I was a very little boy. Hearing that music, watching those movies, returns me to her living room, playing with Lego’s, Lincoln Logs and Matchbox cars, while the melody to Moonlight Serenade filled the air, and apparently, my sub-conscience. No longer was I standing in Bill’s living room in Lake City, Florida, but in Pulaski, Tennessee, in Mrs. Payne’s kindergarten classroom when the highlight of my day was getting up off of my nap mat and walking down the hallway, out the glass doors, where memaw sat waiting like the driver of a getaway car assisting in a jail break. Inside the car was always a small cup of Sun Drop and a Little Debbie snack cake, usually a Fudge Round, occasionally a Star Crunch. To this day I prefer a Little Debbie over a fancy, elaborate, expensive, or homemade dessert, and now I know why. At the naive age of five I thought she was helping me escape the drudgery of school, when in reality she was just whisking me away to her house where we would engage in a much more loving, longer lasting, and subtle type of education that took the form of Dr. Seuss and Bernstein Bear books, building blocks, and Fischer Price toys. All of which evoke a sentiment of enthusiasm in me to this day, unlike those fat pencils and oversized tablets which still make me think BO-RING!

As if on cue, even while sitting and writing these words another breakthrough occurred. This past Sunday a sister at church mentioned that she reads my blog posts and commented that she now knew where my oldest son got his way with words (for accuracy, let the record show, he is MUCH more skilled with words than I am). Quickly I explained to her that, while this is likely true to a degree, it really goes back much further, back to his great-grandmother, whom I affectionally call memaw. As far back as I can remember she has been a writer. Her main outlet for expression is the inside of a card. Hallmark employs people to write thoughtful, funny, clever, tender, and sentimental cards, but they all pale in comparison to the things my memaw would write inside them. Sometimes it was poems she wrote, sometimes it was an amalgam of song lyrics, famous poems, jingles, quotes, and, at times, it was a brief history of the day you were born, but mostly it was just words of sentiment from her heart. Even now, sitting here reflecting upon the cards I received through the years, I am realizing that my affinity, not just for writing, but for incorporating song lyrics, pop culture phrases, commercial jingles, poems, and song titles into my writing is also derived from her influence. 

Are we the products of nature or nurture? Who knows? That’s for the scientists to figure out I suppose, but based upon my experience, I’d venture a guess that it’s a little of both. Unintentionally, but thankfully, I have been on an emotional archaeological expedition into my own heart and have discovered many treasures that were clearly buried there by my ancestors in hopes that I would one day discover them, and today I celebrate the fact that I did.