Mimi Gentry

Love Brings Light.

By

Debbie Blumenthal. In 1980, she was the only Jewish kid in Carrollton High School. She had sapphire blue eyes and a super-curly head of hair, a magnificent brain and an ironic sense of humor. Remember the Izod craze that swept America at that time, leaving the breast of almost every citizen emblazoned with the iconic Izod alligator?  To protest that conformity, Debbie taped to her shirt a flat, dried out lizard that she’d found in her driveway. From that moment on, she was my hero.

That didn’t help me being envious of her because she got to take both Jewish and Christian holidays off from school. But what I didn’t envy was her isolation. Other than her little sister, who was two grades younger, she was completely alone in our school. She did ok though. As in “Current Director of Neuro-Oncology at Tel Aviv Sourasky Medical Center” ok.

When her family went to synagogue, they had to drive all the way to Atlanta. I had never been to a synagogue, myself. In fact, I had lived 55 years on this earth and never been inside one. But four years ago on a rainy Monday night, I found myself on a pilgrimage to Rodeph Sholom (built in 1875) in Rome, Georgia. The congregation is a small one- about 30 families in a town of 36,000. They certainly know how it feels to be isolated.

I had been invited to sing there at a Service of Solidarity to honor the people who had been killed earlier in the week in the mass shooting in Pittsburg. Inside the Tree of Life Synagogue, as innocents bowed their heads in worship, a 46-year old truck driver armed with an assault rifle and three handguns burst into the synagogue’s regular Saturday 9:45 a.m. service. He shouted anti-Semitic slurs and began firing. When he was finished, eleven people were dead and six wounded in what was to be called the largest anti-Semitic killing in American history.

When I was 13 years old, I went with the Georgia Youth Chorale on a tour to sing in major European cathedrals. On our single off day (it was a tightly packed two weeks) the kids all wanted to go to Munich to see the Olympic Village. Our director (Hampton Kicklighter) had different ideas and instead took us to the museum at Dachau Concentration camp. At the time, his decision elicited lots of eye-rolling as we proclaimed Mr. K. a “huge buzz-kill,” but as we walked through the buildings and viewed the ovens used to cremate the 32,000 documented people (thousands remain undocumented) we realized the importance of seeing that terrible place. I remember reading that the people who lived near the camp (close enough to smell the smoke from the ovens) did nothing to help the human beings who were starved, brutalized and killed there.

I thought about all this while I walked up the rain-slick sidewalk toward the Rodeph Sholom (it means “pursuers of peace”) synagogue. It was situated at the top of a hill, its handsome brick edifice and Ionic columns shining against the darkness of night. We all climbed a long flight of stairs and filed in past an armed police officer, posted there just in case of trouble. Inside, we found an elegant meeting place. Chandeliers hung from a high ceiling and sky blue walls made the room feel ethereal.

It was already crowded inside. Every pew was filled to capacity. The side walls were crammed with people standing; the steps and dais at the front were covered with people sitting. In the back, along the wall, people stood two and three deep, waiting for the service to begin. Leaders of 17 different congregations around the county, from Baptist and Methodist to Presbyterian and Catholic and chaplains from Berry College and Floyd Medical Center also stood in support. In total, almost 300 people had come to uplift their Jewish neighbors, to let them know that they were not alone.

Candles were lit in honor of the eleven who had perished at the hands of Hate. Finally it was time for me to sing. As I squeezed my way up to the front, people put their hands on my back and shoulders, urging me forward. I stood before that assembly of people and as I witnessed their solidarity, it made my eyes fill with tears. The pianist started to play the song and I realized I wasn’t going to be able to sing it. I reached out and asked all those present to join me. Together, our voices became strong, rising like sacred smoke towards the heavens.

“Let there be peace on earth, and let it begin with me.

With God as our Father
Brothers all are we
Let me walk with my brother
In perfect harmony

Let peace begin with me
Let this be the moment now
With every step I take
Let this be my solemn vow

To take each moment
And live each moment
With peace eternally
Let there be peace on earth
And let it begin with me”

Blossom Possum

By

There was a possum in our house. No, not under the house – in the crawlspace darkness or above the house in the box-filled attic. There was a possum in our house.

If you had ever asked me, “Mimi, would you ever let a possum in your house?”  I would have answered with a resounding, “Have you lost your mind?”  Up until then, I loathed those creatures. They were the ugliest things you can imagine, with their rows of jagged teeth bared in a hiss. They were best known for their ability to be hit by cars. If the post office had a place to display pictures of chicken thieves, the possum would have been front and center.

I was sitting on the back porch the first time I saw it. I thought it was a mouse. Then I saw its strange little face. It was a possum- just about four inches long and prowling around frantically. Now I know you old-timers are shaking your heads right now. My grandmother Miss Hattie would have recommended the flat back of a shovel to put it quickly out of its starving misery. She would have known–let it stay in the vicinity and soon enough it would be cleaning out your henhouse on a nightly basis. But when I looked at that little face peering at me from the darkness of a cleft in the garden tree, I couldn’t leave it to the weather. I couldn’t bash it for its own good. I had to save it.

First I put down a saucer of water and went inside the house to watch it out the window. A pink nose peeked from the cleft in the tree and white whiskers twitched toward the water. Then it peeked a little farther out of the cleft, showing its ghost-white face and jet black eyes. It came out carefully, ears perked and listening for danger. It approached the saucer warily. I watched to see if it would drink, but the possum was so young–not yet weaned and unschooled on the mechanics of drinking. From inside I watched as the baby scurried back and forth, exploring every nook and cranny, looking for something to fill its empty belly. Finally, too tired to look anymore, it curled up in a crevice in some big garden rocks.

That’s when Operation Possum began. First I got a shoebox with some rags in it. I wasn’t sure about those jagged teeth, even in the infant state, so I put on heavy gloves. I placed my hand over the crevice and trapped it. It played dead immediately and I gently picked it up.

As it lay in the palm of my glove, I studied it. Its fur was dark gray with silver tips and its ears were gray and pink. It had tiny paws with graceful “fingers” and on its back feet, the paws looked almost like hands with thumbs. I studied the possum for so long it became convinced that I wasn’t going to eat it after all, so it tried to bolt. I caught it before it got away and put it safely into the shoebox.

Now all I had to do is figure out how to feed it. I called the local experts. Vesta said she’d never had a baby possum and Ralph only knew what grown ones ate. So I called the forestry place. They gave me the number of a guy who does animal rescue. He said they didn’t have the staff to take care of babies and officially because it was a wild animal, I was supposed to leave it where I found it.

Then I turned to the Internet and googled “orphan possum.” I was amazed at how many people are concerned about the welfare of baby possums. One site recommended goat’s milk so I gave that a try. The possum was too weak to drink it so I forced milk down with an eyedropper and rubbed its throat to get it to swallow. This went on for a day and finally, the possum began to drink out of the eyedropper on its own. The first few days I had to feed it often and keep it warm, so I put it in an old cloth purse and slung it around my neck. I had become a marsupial mama.

I named her “Blossom” and eventually she started eating solids …scrambled eggs and baby food. I asked the wildlife guy how difficult it would be for her to transition from eating baby food off a china saucer and finding its own food in the wild. He said, “not to worry.”  Apparently, possums revert quickly back to wildness and since they’re omnivores, they can eat pretty much anything. As long as there’s an abundant water source, they can survive.

It’s hard to explain how love happens, or why it happens. It might be because Blossom was helpless and wouldn’t survive without me. Her need was greater than my prejudice against her kind. Eventually, her needs grew beyond my ability to care for her and I took her to a vet who had been known to take baby animals. He said, “You know, my daughter is home from school for the summer and she loves baby possums. She can take care of her.”  I left Blossom with the vet but have never forgotten her strange little face.

Stinky Pete

By

So, you think you have a smelly dog? I had the smelliest. His name was Peter Rabbit. Peter for short. He was a big shaggy dog that tended toward dreadlocks if he didn’t get his hair cut on a regular basis. But I was too cheap to pay a professional groomer, so I gave him one myself. Actually, there are probably better descriptions of the act I perpetrated on my poor dog . . .a shearing . . .a mowing . . . a humiliation. I wish I could blame it on someone else, and proclaim in a loud voice, “Poor Peter, who has done this terrible thing to you?” But I could not deny that it was “my hand that done it.”

Before I get too carried away, let me assure you that Peter probably didn’t mind. He was pretty low maintenance. If he got fed every day, walked on sunny days, and patted on the head occasionally, he was the happiest dog you’d ever know. So he probably didn’t notice things like a terrible haircut.

In my defense, he needed it bad. Peter was eighty pounds of stink and just about the end of winter before the first jonquils of spring had flung their yellow against the cold, Peter started to reek. It’s hard to describe . . .sort of a musky fragrance, sour milk with a heavy cow manure undertone. But he was a farm dog, and didn’t sleep in the house; so bathing him in cold weather would have been out of the question. I had to wait for spring.

Spring had been late coming to Carroll County that year. Even though the iris and honeysuckle were in full bloom, the temperature had remained strangely cool. Pop called it “Blackberry Winter” because it was still cold while the blackberries were blooming.

No bath for Peter.

But finally, the TV weatherman assured me that we were entering genuine spring weather. And when I went to let the dogs out for their morning walk, I was surprised by a down-wind whiff of L’aire du Peter” that convinced me bath time was indeed nigh.

I had to be tricky. Peter also noticed when it started getting warm, and he knew what that meant . . .that he’d be treated to his first bath and haircut of the year. That awareness made the big dog hard to catch. But Peter was a sucker for hotdogs. So after setting up my impromptu pet parlor in the back of the pick-up truck, I went to nab Peter. He fell for it like he did every time. The hotdog overcame his intellect.

I lifted him onto the tailgate and fired up the clippers. Now, you have to understand, Peter was hard on clippers. Perhaps it was the fur. Perhaps it was the stink. But if a dog clipper went up against Peter’s coat, the clippers were going to lose. With that in mind, I had special ordered a heavy-duty set online- the same kind used by professional groomers. It was with those very clippers that I began to plow through the landscape of matted fur.

I shaved Peter’s tail first, leaving a big puff of hair at the end. Just for fun-zies. I shaved one ear, leaving it as smooth as silk. I’d made about five passes across the top of Peter’s back, leaving the fur behind soft and the color of wheat. However, on my next pass, the clipper snared, and seized up, complaining in a high, buzzing whine until I turned them off.

I looked at the clipper. I muttered and scratched my head. I tried to turn it on again. And again. But the clipper wasn’t working. Peter remained unshorn.

At this point, I had a big, stinky sheepdog with a lion’s tail and a stripe down his back. I began anew, this time with a pair of scissors. I had only the best of intentions. I was just going to fade the clipped strip in with the rest of his longer hair. But once I started, I couldn’t stop. I snipped until my hand was sore and all the mats were gone. Of course, most of his hair was gone too.

Have you ever seen a hayfield, after it’s been freshly cut . . . the way it looks as smooth as water? That’s not what Peter’s fur looked like. He looked like the moths had been after him all winter. His poor coat was botched. One of his ears was shaven, one was thatched, and his tail was cropped close, with a crazy puff of fur on the end.

It’s a good thing that Peter was not the sharpest pencil in the box because when friends and family happened upon him, he became the object of much merry laughter. And head pets, and attention, which made him happier than any other dog in Carroll County.

Stinky Pete has been gone for many a year, but when the days start to warm up, and the sweet smell of manure drifts in on the evening breeze, I remember him fondly, and wonder if they do have a dog heaven, he’s probably up there right now, stinking it up for everybody else.

Goodbye, Sweetest Sister

By

When we were kids, Celia was the one who made the birthday cakes. The first photo I remember seeing of her practicing her craft dates back to about 1968. It’s a grainy color image. Celia’s hair was cute, cut in a short 60’s bob and her shirt was sleeveless because it was already hot in the Mississippi Delta in April. She was sitting at the kitchen table, deftly smoothing icing on the cake. Baby Bill (whose birthday it was) watched her raptly as she turned butter and sugar into magic.

 

When Celia grew up and built her own house, she was sure to include a baker’s pantry. Behind the louvered doors, you would find a large assortment of Wilton cake pans: square ones, round ones, pans shaped like Big Bird, Elmo, and Dora the Explorer. There were icing tips, and canvas and paper icing bags, smooth spatulas, and knives. My favorite part of the process was her icing colors. Celia could make any hue you could imagine by adding a toothpick scoop of special food coloring to a bowl of white icing.

 

I watched her many times, as skillful as a surgeon, applying the crumb coating and watched as it dried into a flawless, white shell. Then the real fun began. Celia began to decorate.  She could even make a cake look like a basket, interweaving icing instead of wicker. In that basket, she placed marzipan fruit that looked like it was fresh off a tree. Or she made icing flowers, sweet peas, and chrysanthemums that bloomed from the top like a sugared garden.

 

When Johnny Jackson and I wed, Celia made our cake. I wasn’t surprised when she offered to do it. I honestly just assumed she would because she was our family’s baker. And I have to admit I didn’t really notice it at first. Because of the stress of the wedding, I spent the day in a kind of haze.

 

Little brother Bill pulled me aside and said, “I want you to see something.” He led me inside the cabin and stood me in front of the cake table. There stood the beautiful cake. Bill said, “I want you to fully focus on how amazing this cake is. I want you to stop for just a second and look at it. Someday you’re going to want to remember this.” I stopped and paid attention to the icing, white and smooth as snow, the vines of blue sweet peas that twined all around.  Some of the flowers were so fragile I could see the light shining through them.

 

I’ve known death before – the creeping kind that robs loved ones of independence and eventually breath. I’ve sat for hours in a hospital room, holding a fading hand and saying goodbye. Much of my private grieving occurred during walks in the woods, contemplating the world without that loved one, adjusting slowly to the shift. And when death came, there was always a gathering of family to sing our loved one homeward.

 

But on Saturday morning, in the twinkling of an eye, Celia left us. There was no warning. She went peacefully in her sleep. When I was told about her being gone, I couldn’t even understand what was being said. My brain simply couldn’t process the information. Finally, after a few days of stubborn denial, I was able to understand that my sister Celia had died.

 

She had health issues like anybody else, but nothing that would give you a clue, nothing that would make you say goodbye when you left her. The evening before, I’d seen her out working in the yard with her family, enjoying the spring weather. I honked the horn as I wheeled by, never imagining that I wouldn’t see her again.

 

If you didn’t know Celia, I should tell you about her. She was a bighearted spirit, generous to everyone, most of all with her love. She poured her love into her family, selflessly and sacrificially to make sure we were all safe and happy. Celia was easy to take for granted because she was always there. She always knew what you needed without having to ask. And when you’re like that, people take you for granted. I know I did.

 

The day after she died, we drove over to her house. When a person has a long time to die, often their home is halfway packed in preparation for their final journey. But when I went to Celia’s home, I found that she was still there, in the half­-sewn mask casually laid aside to be finished later, in the strategically placed post-it notes scattered everywhere. The hardest thing to see was her shoes, right by her chair where she’d left them the night before. She was always particular about her shoes and kept them “as clean as new.” Even though she was gone, those spotless shoes stood ready for her to put them on in the morning and get about the business of helping other people.

 

I saw her the day before she died. Mama and I visited with her at home. Had I known, I would have paid attention to every detail of her precious self: her smile, her laugh, and the love shining in her eyes.  I would have stopped and memorized every detail, just as I had done with her beautiful cake on our wedding day.

 

 

Dear Nashville

By

Dear Nashville,

 

I don’t know if you remember me. I’m a huge fan and love to listen to you on our local country stations here in west Georgia. Myself (and the rest of your target demographic- middle class women from ages 35-50) just wanted to drop you a line to say hello.  During this virus time, I’ve been listening to a lot of your music and feel like we’ve been friends for a long time, so I think I can be honest with you.

 

Your middle-aged women fans know that you’re trying your best to please us – you just want to get to know us better (it shows in the money you spend on demographic studies and market surveys). And we don’t blame you one bit for wanting us to buy your music. It’s how you butter your biscuit – we understand how important that is to you.

 

So in the spirit of helpfulness, your demographic target (at least this one in particular) would like to make a few suggestions.

 

Nashville, we don’t know how to say it, but you’ve gotten a little predictable. In fact, when we hear a new song, we know we can expect to find a Gravel Road, Dirt Road, Tractor, Tail Gate, lately Back Seat (guess the girls got tired of tailgates), Sweet Tea, Whiskey and the ubiquitous Neon. We love rural-themed subject matter, just as much as anybody does, but maybe dig a little deeper into the country experience and widen your perspective. For a start, look into Crawdaddies. They are pretty popular in these parts.

 

Also, call us by our names. When you sing about us, you’ve created a shorthand (“Baby, Honey, etc.”). We do we understand that you’re using neutral language to try and make songs more broadly appealing but we really like to hear songs about real women with real names. Like Amanda, or Lucille. We promise we will still love the songs when they are about someone else. However, we understand if you feel you need to stick to the name-neutral strategy, so consider mixing it up a little bit – maybe something like “Sweet Pea” or “Sugar Foot.”

 

We know you try to keep our spirits up. After all, it’s a hard to be a middle class woman – divorces are up and incomes are down. No better way to get us out of a reality-induced funk than immerse ourselves in a fairytale fantasy. Don’t worry about health insurance, just get you some cute “daisy dukes” and take that bar by storm. Driving your kids to school on slick tires because you can’t afford new ones? Just close your eyes and imagine a handsome, shirtless farmhand, taking you on a ride on his big green tractor. Instead, Nashville, you might try writing in a little reality. I promise your listening audience can handle it and hearing the stories of other people overcoming obstacles might inspire us to do the same.

 

You know how we ladies love to hear about LOVE and you try not to disappoint us. You do write songs about love. About love stolen, love faded, and that special kind of love that happens when Jack Daniels Lemonade shots are consumed beneath the glow of a Pabst Blue Ribbon sign. In addition to those kinds of love songs, we’d like to put in a request for a different kind of song – about an abiding love that burns stronger, even after the intoxicant of first love has subsided. We’d like to hear about the love of a man for the mother of his children. About a love that survives a battle breast cancer and the shaving of a head. Love that is stronger than distance or time or hardship.

 

Nashville, we know that you’re trying to keep up with the times. You’re trying to create a new sound to maybe get some crossover action on the charts. Maybe increase your fan base. We know the older generation of music makers have always felt discomfort when the younger, shiner, less wrinkled musicians took over their stages (case in point- when Elvis the Pelvis sang his own version of Blue Moon of Kentucky and Bill Monroe almost had a stroke). But our advice to you is this. Be yourself. That’s why we love you. Be honest with your art. Tell real stories in your songs. And please, please please keep using that sweet steel guitar.

 

We understand. You hit your mid-life crisis. We know you tried to figure out a way to appeal to a younger demographic (ages 18-37) so you started putting together this little thing you called “Bro-Country.” Like a hip/hop/rap/surfer combo. It flashed for a minute (like a new gold necklace on a recently-divorced granddaddy) but it quickly started a downhill slide on the charts. We hate to tell you, Nashville, but the Bro-mance is over.

 

That brings you back to us, your faithful listeners (middle class women from ages 35-50). And you’re back on our doorstep with a bouquet of grocery store flowers and a box of Russell Stover’s assorted crèmes, hoping we’ll take you back. And we will, but you’re going to have to make some changes. And give us what we really want.