Homefires (24 page)

I passed the church, my sneakered feet mincing pearly sand, my heart keening toward our dwelling.
“Home.”
My lips formed the word and I smiled, remembering how I’d dreaded leaving Chapowee. Now, I knew – home is anywhere God puts us.

Tall pines aglow with tropical sunlight drew my gaze upward. The November climate was pleasantly warm and the air smelled of spring. My heart swelled with gratitude.

This is fulfillment.
“Thank you, Lord,” I cried aloud. “How can one heart
contain
so much happiness?”

Oh, had I only known what lay ahead, I’d have gloried even more in those moments.

Toby waxed well at Solomon Elementary while Krissie remained mum on her school activities. Heather breezed through middle school. My first semester at Coastal whizzed by, transporting me to senior status and the Dean’s list.

My phone rang one afternoon. “Mrs. Crenshaw?”

“Yes?”

“I’m Mrs. Carter, Krissie’s teacher. Are you free to talk right now?”

She went on to say that Krissie remained shy and reluctant to join in classroom discussions. I explained to her what had happened the past year and how my daughter’s little spirit had been beaten down.

“Oh-h. That explains it all. Thank you, Mrs. Crenshaw. This helps me more than you can know.” I liked Mrs. Carter instantly. Something in me relaxed about Krissie. She was now in good hands.

The heavy stage curtain opened to reveal Coastal Carolina College’s Chorale in long red skirts, white ruffled blouses, and guys in black tux. First faces I spotted in the school’s auditorium belonged to Krissie, Heather and Toby, who sat with their dad. During my
Winter Wonderland
solo, my children’s awed gazes reached out and touched me. Afterward, they all rushed backstage to throw their arms around me. Kirk kissed me soundly before the whole world and I felt Heaven descend for those short moments.

The holidays passed in a flurry. Christmas Eve began at five a.m. when Krissie and Toby dashed to the den to find their presents beneath the seven-foot live fir decorated with ornaments collected through the years, each bearing sentimental significance. Heather trailed them, and soon, unable to sleep because of the joyful ruckus, Kirk and I slid from bed to join them. We celebrated with a huge brunch then loaded our car for the four-hour upstate trip.

We sang Christmas songs on the long drive to Daddy and Anne’s, harmonizing and improvising special arrangements with even Toby participating. Once at our destination, Krissie and Dale immediately paired off to wrap gifts, then distribute them around the mill village to my brother’s friends. Only months apart in age, they enjoyed the same music, movies, foods, and shared dreams, aspirations and secrets. Heather rode with Cole to see his current girlfriend while Dad and Kirk lounged about watching ballgames or going for their male
bonding drives. Toby played outside with neighbor kids, leaving Anne and me in peace and quiet to sort out festive meal menus.

I yearned briefly for wonderful shared Yule celebrations at MawMaw and Papa’s before Mama died. I rarely saw them anymore. That grief had diminished with time spoke harshly to me. Therein lay the thorn: intimacy a casualty. A spasm of loss seized me and I fought resentment that my loved ones had sacrificed our bond in their quest for an elusive dignity.
I hope it was worth it,
I mulled, then let go, refusing to let it spoil my holiday.

The day after Christmas, Trish took the kids to see
The Sound Of Music
at a local movie theater. Krissie and Dale came home singing “
Doe, a deer
...” and other selections from the film. All too quickly, leave-taking arrived. I missed my folks, but home was now Solomon and I keened to be there. We arrived home near nightfall and the kids rushed to their Christmas loot.

Krissie and Toby sprawled on the den floor, listening to Krissie’s new Harvest King record
Dancing in the Moonlight,
creating dialogue and drama with Krissie’s Barbie doll, who entertained Toby’s GI Joe in her Country Home. I’d been careful to buy wardrobe for both dolls so Toby could join her in the dressing game without getting teased. A new Parcheesi game replaced their old one. Dixie, Heather’s pal, dropped by to munch goodies and retreat to Heather’s bedroom to exchange gifts, then rhapsodize over
what
, I was never certain.

Heather’s wardrobe of seventies’ wisp and billow burgeoned from her holiday stash, as did Krissie’s, whose flaredjeans and clog-shoes accented her thinness.

“Look, Mama,” Krissie said that night as I stood at my dresser brushing my hair, “I’m nearly as tall as you.” She stepped before me, backing against me until her head just barely reached the underside of my chin. We gazed in the mirror and in her delicate features I glimpsed a younger me. “Think Daddy would cut my hair?” she asked.

I ran my fingers through her long, thick blond thatch. “Do you really want to?” I asked, surprised. “It’s so pretty like this....”

“I want a shag cut,” she said decisively.

The next day, Kirk whipped out his barber shears and snipped away. When he finished, I nearly wept. She was so cute – a teeny bopper whose chin length hair lay softly in waves that
hugged her small oval face and framed enormous blue eyes.
She’ll be a real beauty soon,
I decided.

“Say,” Heather circled her. “I like that. I want one, too.”

We all laughed and Heather’s long locks fell next to Krissie’s on the earthtone carpet. “Wait!” Krissie dashed to get a plastic bag. “Don’t throw the hair away. I’m gonna save mine.”

“Not me,” Heather declared as her sister scooped up blonde tendrils and stuffed them in the plastic zip-lock bag. “I’m glad to get rid of mine.”

Both girls insisted I get mine ‘shagged,’ too. I complied, happy for a carefree ‘do.’

“Now, we’re triplets,” Krissie giggled and the three of us preened before my dresser mirror, admiring our matching haircuts. I hugged them close, astonished that though my two girls did not strongly resemble each other, both bore a striking likeness to me.

“I’m jealous,” Heather pouted good-naturedly, pulled her new sweater tight across her chest and scowled, “Krissie’s got boobs already and I don’t.” A half-truth since the younger sister was beginning to bud.

“Least you don’t look like a toothpick,” Krissie generously offered.

“You keep eating those deviled-egg sandwiches every day after school and you won’t brag about being skinny long,” Heather shot back, fluffing her chestnut hair for the mirror.

“Krissie’s not
skinny,”
Toby piped from the den.

“Who asked you,
Tubby
?” Heather shot back, striking a model’s pose.

“Kids,” Kirk warned on the way out the door, shoving arms into his suit coat.

“He’s not
Tubby,”
Krissie’s back stiffened and her hands rolled into tight little fists.

“Hey,” Heather grinned at her sister’s ire, “can’t blame ‘im if Aunt Josie insists on feeding him half the food in the school lunchroom.”

It was true. Toby
had
fluffed up in recent months because our church secretary Josephine Beauregard served as his school’s dietician. I knew I should say something to the loveable grandmother about instructing all the servers to overload
Toby’s plate, but I simply couldn’t face another confrontation at that precise moment.

Fact was,
no
time seemed appropriate to start another war.

Working with the college choral group stretched me to new musical expanse. My sight-reading took an overhaul when I became first-soprano section leader. Everyone depended on me to shuttle them into each new melody and cadence so I pushed myself to be ever ready. Our upcoming spring concert would feature songs from the
Sound Of Music.

“Wow, Mama!” Krissie’s eyes shimmered at my news. “
You’re
going to sing Julie Andrew’s song – ” and she commenced to sing the words in an exaggerated falsetto and vibrato, ‘
the hills are ali-i-ive – with the sound of mu-u-si-ic....’

I joined in and we ended up laughing and clowning. Heather, too, was impressed that her ol’ mom had the solo. “I’ve got lots of work to do,” I injected, buoyed by the attention.

“Aww, you’ll nail it,” Heather reassured me on her way out for a drive with Dixie, Charlie and Kaye’s daughter, who was now in her first year at Coastal.

And suddenly, I realized I really
had
found something I could do well – something that
fit.
Something that filled in during Kirk’s increasing absences.
Music.

My studies soon consumed me, but it was wonderful and exhilarating and liberating. The old fears and psyche shadows receded as though they never were. My creative itch was being scratched and with it came freedom. From the past. And most importantly, from
me,
my own worst critic. Amid swift eventfulness, with no time to reason, I began to grasp
me
for who I was.

Another phenomena occurred. My spiritual awareness heightened. Loosed from constant introspection, I looked outward and perceived brilliant horizons
.
So I carved out a devotion time with the children, immediately after dinner in the evenings, when Kirk did hospital and home visitation. I’d decided I couldn’t rely on him to lead in that area. The years were passing too swiftly so I must do it myself.

One evening was especially intimate.”Let’s start bringing prayer needs each evening,” I suggested to the children. “One can always use help in some area.” I felt it might sharpen their introspection and broaden their thoughtfulness. I was right.

The very next evening, Krissie said, “Mama, there’s a black girl in my class I want us to pray for. Her name is Joanne and she’s so sweet. I feel so-o-o sorry for her....”

Racism doesn’t exist in our home and I said, “Why, honey?”

Her sincerity and depth stirred me as she told of Joanne’s deprivation and poverty. “The kids don’t have anything to do with her.” We prayed for Joanne and I suggested she befriend the girl. “Go out of your way to make her feel good about herself.” She nodded solemnly.