Mimi Gentry

making love wearable

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When I was in high school, I used up all my electives on choir so I never took any Home Ec. I missed out on learning to cook (which after 40 years of trying to figure it out I finally got the hang of it) I missed out on making a household budget (which I am still trying to get the hang of) and I missed out on learning to sew.

 

Mama and Hattie both tried to teach me to sew, letting me make special pillowcases (with pant-hem lace trimmings). I was pretty good with pillowcases. But my ambitions went much farther- I wanted to make my Barbie Doll some clothes. I loved looking at the patterns Mama had for Barbie – they were mostly 1950s style. But that required a pattern and I was too creatively wild to be constrained by a pattern. For that reason, my Barbie Doll clothes often looked like lace trim pillowcases.

 

I never learned to sew on a machine, but I hand-sewed my way across the world. In Osaka, using the sewing kit mama packed for me, I made pillows out of a yard-sale antique Kimono. I ripped out the seat of my pants climbing a wall in the French countryside (long story) and was able to mend them before anybody noticed. There wasn’t a clothing mishap that my needle and thread couldn’t handle.

 

I learned to sew with patterns when I moved to Phoenix Arizona. I’d been hired by the Phoenix Renaissance Fair to play Queen Elizabeth the 1st. That gig doesn’t come with a gown and wig- you have to supply your own. So, my next-door neighbor Curtis took pity on me and made me a gown. The deal was, I had to let him teach me how to sew. “Make a girl a gown and she wears it for a day. Teach a girl to sew…” something like that. We made gowns encrusted in beads and a giant lace collar that looked a little like a satellite dish covered in doilies. But by gum, I had learned to really sew.

 

When I left Phoenix and my Renaissance Faire job, I really didn’t need to sew anymore. I still hem pants and mend Johnny’s work clothes (he’s real hard on work clothes) but it had been years since I made something that required using a pattern.

 

But when news of Covid-19 broke in March and Tanner Hospital put out the call for masks, I started working with patterns again. Celia and mama and me started making masks like we were killing snakes. Mama raided her fabric stash (if you know a quilter, you know someone who has a stash of fabric stuck in a closet somewhere) and pulled out a rainbow of 100% cotton. Mama cut the masks out and the sisters stitched them up.

 

We made masks for family, for friends and even for folks as far away as Missouri. It’s pretty cheap to send a mask in the mail and goodness knows the United States Postal Service could use the business. We got back thank you notes and an occasional selfie of the recipient, posing in their mask, appreciating that we cared about them enough to sew for them. Because of the virus, our loved ones were un-huggable, but with the masks, we could still show them that we cared.

 

So fast forward to July, and we’ve been sewing masks again. Celia, me and Mama. We’re sending them to some friends, but mostly, giving them to people in our community. We feel like it’s something that we can do to show our love and appreciation to the people here who continue to be our frontline workers.

 

Some folks don’t want to wear a mask. I get it. They’re not comfortable. The paper ones are especially scratchy. So, I’d like to make an offer to you. If you can’t get a mask that you’re comfortable wearing, I’d be happy to make you one. Why?  Because I love you- all of you in our crazy little town. And this is a way that I can hug you, even in these Covid-19 days.

 

If you want a mask, please send a self addressed stamped envelope to Times Georgian, 901 Hays Mill Road, Carrollton GA 30117. I’ll make one up for you and you can try it out. It’s the least I can do to try and keep our community safe.

 

 

 

 

 

Fifth of July

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It was the Fifth of July. How did I know? Because my Facebook feed filled up with posters of lost pets. It happens every year. Dogs and cats (and horses and one year even an emu) get lost because they’ve run away from the noise and flash of Fourth of July fireworks. Not our little fat dogs, mind you. They’re relatively unflappable. Johnny says they’re too dumb to get scared.

 

But this year, with all the “bombs bursting in air” (Roman candles, M-80s, Black Cats and firecrackers, punctuated by the occasional “ratta-tat-tat” sound of our friendly neighborhood survivalists discharging their semi automatic rifles into the sky), even our dogs became frightened. By the time we turned in, Cookie and Pickle were trembling; big-eyed, hoping we would let them sleep in the bed. Ordinarily they don’t get to sleep with us but even my steely resolve melted under the warmth of a sad beagle’s eyes and Johnny lifted them up. Finally, between the comforting warmth of their humans, the dogs slept.

 

We woke the next morning to find tranquility restored so I took my tea in the garden. The dogs accompanied me – Fat Cookie snuffled around in the garlic patch, looking for a disappearing rabbit. Princess Pickle rolled languidly on a foul smelling thing she’d found in the grass. It was quiet – too early in the morning for the quarrelsome crows. Too early the shrill of the cicadas and the sawed off mufflers that announce the passing by of red neck boys. It was so quiet I could almost hear the blueberries ripening.

 

I settled into the chair and began to soak in the morning but was disturbed by the insistent barking of a dog. It wasn’t the neighborhood sheepdogs. Their deep-chested barks were easy to recognize. It wasn’t the golden retriever from across the street either. It was a stranger’s bark.

 

The little dogs and I walked down the road to investigate. We followed the barking for about half a mile and finally zeroed in on the source in a patch of Kudzu. From that thicket of leaves, a single bright eye looked back at us. It was bulldog, gray and white and stuck in the thicket.

 

I called Johnny and told him what we’d found. He gathered food & water, clippers to clear away the brush and came to help. Johnny talked to the dog first, soft and reassuring. The dog started to emerge from the leaves. His head was massive, powerful jaws, eyes fearful. His fur was sleek but his neck was bound with a too-tight chain imbedded in a hideous circle of torn flesh. Blood stained the white fur on his chest. We guessed that the fireworks from the night before had frightened the dog so badly that he had savaged his own neck to get free. Somehow that strong dog had escaped and run away, until the vines seized his dangling chain and caught him fast against the fence.

 

Johnny crossed the ditch, still sweet-talking. He held out the bowl of water for the dog to sniff. It drank greedily. While it drank Johnny disentangled the chain from the vines. Finally he got the chain free and handed it to me while he crossed the ditch. The poor creature was skittish and tried to bolt, pulling on that grisly chain. I held fast, knowing that we had to capture it to help it. I sweet-talked the dog back to the house, trying not to look at the gaping cut around its neck.

 

When we got him back to the house, we fed him. The dog ate ravenously. Then Johnny tried to cut the chain off. He asked me to help hold the dog still. I tried, but the wound smelt like raw meat and made me sick to my stomach. We struggled for a few minutes (bolt cutters aren’t the most nimble of tools), but somehow Johnny snipped through a link and the chain clattered to the ground.

 

I started to call Animal Control to come and get him but the dog took off down the road, trotting back toward what I thought must be where his people live – the same people that put that chain around his neck. As I watched him go, I said a quiet prayer for the bulldog, hoping that somehow he would be all right.

 

Today when we got home for lunch, we saw that the bulldog had returned. It stood in the driveway, wagging his tail, grinning at us. The terrible wound still gaped around his neck. We fed him and pinned him up safely in the laundry room, then called Animal Control. They sent an officer out straight away.

 

The man wasn’t afraid of the bulldog. He picked the animal up gently and put him into the cage in the back of his truck. Although I was relieved that someone else was going to take care of the dog, it still made me sad to see him go. I asked the officer, “Do you think they’ll have to put him down?”  He smiled kindly, “Oh no. They’ll patch him up. We have several rescue organizations we work with that will find this boy a good home.”

 

The officer closed the tailgate, backed out of the driveway, and headed up the road. I watched them for a minute and I realized that my prayer had been answered. Amazingly, that bulldog was going to be all right.

 

Home.

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What does home mean to you?

 

The first home I can remember was in Mississippi.  There was a back yard covered in purple flowers.  There was a big screen porch where we played, safe from mosquitoes.  There was a long flight of stairs… a front door with leaded glass…a radiator that whined when the heat was on.  I can remember all these things, but most of all, I remember how safe I felt there.

 

When we moved to Georgia, we built a house…sturdy and brick, nestled between two hills on the farm.  My people still live in that house and it still is home.  If I’m having a hard day, all I have to do is go in that back door and see the hall tree, covered in coats.  All I have to do is hear mama’s voice calling out in welcome and I feel safe and sound.  My grandmother’s house was like that- just the smell of it made me feel a world away from troubles.  I have a button box of hers that I can still open and catch a whiff of that home.

 

I have my own home now. I know how it looks when the morning sun is spilling over the back porch.  I know how it feels in the cool of the evening when chill of night has made us draw the curtains closed. I know when I drive home at the end of a hard day, I’ll be greeted by Fat Cookie and Princess Pickle and they’ll escort me to find Johnny Jackson, wherever he may be.

 

I looked up the word “home” on Wikipedia, the online dictionary.  According to them, home is “a place of residence, or refuge and comfort.  Usually a place in which an individual or family can rest…” Then the article talks about the psychological aspect of home… “Since it can be said that humans are generally creatures of habit, the state of a person’s home has been known to psychologically influence their behavior, emotions, and overall mental health.”

 

That makes me wonder.  What happens to people who don’t have a sanctuary … people living under bridges…families who don’t have a place to live or even wash their hands?

 

A decade ago I decided to do something completely different and volunteer at the West Georgia Habitat for Humanity house build.  After lots of encouraging from a friend in my church choir (you know who you are) I finally decided to put my hammer to good use.

 

Before hand, I logged onto their website…www.westgahabitat.org.  It said, “Habitat For Humanity is a nonprofit organization, working to provide decent, affordable housing to community members in need in Carroll and Haralson County.  Houses are sold at no profit, with no interest to partner families who themselves contribute hundreds of hours of sweat equity labor.  Through tax-deductible donations of money and materials and through volunteer labor, West Georgia Habitat strives to build 2-3 houses per year.”

 

Saturday rolled around and I showed up, hammer in hand.  They fed us a good breakfast.  A preacher stood up and said a prayer, asking God to bless our efforts.  Jerry Driver stood and thanked us all for showing up.  Then it was time to work.

 

It was a little hard at first to find a job, so I picked up trash.  But my choir friend nabbed me and we tucked in with one of the team leaders (who also happened to be the man that I would one day marry).  Soon we were hard at work.  We pulled nails out of boards, put in insulation and installed windows.  I even ended up on the roof “helping” the roofers.  I climbed up the ladder and the roofing crew looked at me like I was a woman boarding a sailing ship. I worked for a good hour (so as not to embarrass myself by giving up too quickly) and finally I got my fill of kneeling down at extreme altitudes to drive nails.  I descended the ladder and left the job to the pros.

 

I’m not sure how many people were there.  Maybe 30.  The Boy Scouts fed us good lunch and we worked hard all day.  It was lots of fun.  I met the woman who would own the house.  Her children were there, as well as her father.  They were all working hard toward the goal of owning that house.  I could see her eyes shining with pride as the house grew up from the ground.  A foundation.  Stud walls.  A roof.  Siding.  Sheetrock.  By the time we left for the day, a house stood where none had been before.

 

At one point, I was working alongside a man who used to own a flooring company, but the economy pretty much put him out of business.  He lost his house and was living in his sister’s basement, looking for a job.  And yet…he was here, swinging a hammer, helping another family get into their own home.

 

They say, “Home is where the heart is.”  And with thirty plus hearts working together to make a family’s dream come true, I’d have to agree.

Goodbye Annie

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Last night I went to a wake. It was pretty standard. We gathered telling stories of times past. We grazed off a table full of deviled eggs and crust-less sandwiches. We celebrated the life of the deceased. The difference between this wake and others I’ve attended? It was for a dog.

Now, before you roll your eyes, let me tell you this wasn’t just any dog. It had been the constant companion of a homebound person for 14 years, so it’s death marked a terrible loss in the life of its owner. So we gathered together to share in the grief and celebrate the joy that the little animal had shared with its owner.

As part of the ceremony, we went around the room and said, out loud, the name of a pet that we had loved and lost. That got me thinking about Annie.

Annie was fearless –she and my other two dogs kept watch over my house in Phoenix, day and night. But when a couple of gang-related murder victims were dumped less than a block from us, I decided it was going to take more than three dogs to keep me safe in that place. I headed home, back to Carrollton.

Of course, I had to bring the dogs with me. I scouted the alley for an old mattress that hadn’t been set on fire and put it in the back of the truck, with a camper shell on top. The dogs hopped in, tails wagging, eager for the journey. We took off across the wide nation.

Every now and again, as we drove, I looked back in the rearview mirror, wondering how the dogs were doing. Often, Annie had her head out the camper shell window, nose up and sniffing, searching the air for something new and wondrous.

Annie’s favorite thing in the world was to retrieve tennis balls from the depths of the lake. Annie lived the life of a queen for the better part of 13 years. Finally, her face was frosted white and she slowed down, no longer chasing the other dogs through the woods.

One day, Annie couldn’t put weight on her front foot. I took her to the vet. It was what I feared. Cancer. It had eaten up her shoulder until there wasn’t any bone left. The vet said her options were limited- amputation, which she didn’t recommend for a 13-year- old dog, or have her put down. I decided, as long as Annie was enjoying life, as long as she was still clear-eyed, that I’d nurse her along. Annie came home.

After that, our walks slowed as she tottered along behind me down to the lake, trying to keep up on three legs. One golden afternoon, my nephew Layne was practicing for baseball tryouts and he hit a home run out across the water. The out-fielders groaned, thinking the ball was lost. Annie hit the water and swam out across the lake to retrieve the ball. Everyone cheered as she brought it back. But the effort took a lot out of her.

The next morning she couldn’t walk at all, so I called the vet’s office and made the appointment to have her put to sleep.

The next morning, I didn’t cry when I went and let the dogs out. I didn’t cry when big Sophie frisked out of the pen and Annie struggled to her feet to meet me. I knew in my heart I had made the right decision. I didn’t cry when I lifted her gently into the cab of the truck, or when I gave her a tennis ball to have with her on the ride. All that time, I didn’t shed a tear.

But when I pulled out on the blacktop road and started to pick up speed, Annie lifted her head and started to sniff, finding new and wondrous things on the warm spring air. Her ears, still glossy and black, moved in the wind. She was eager for the journey. Annie was suddenly so full of life that the thought of putting her down filled my throat with bitter tears.

We pulled into the vet’s parking lot. I called the vet on my cell phone to tell her we were there. I stayed with Annie, holding her grizzled old head in my lap. She trusted me as much as she ever did, and that trust was breaking my heart.

That’s when the angel came. He didn’t have wings. He was just a man… lean and lanky, like an old cowboy. He was dressed in jeans with a silver-dollar belt buckle. He spoke to me like he knew me. “It sure is hard to lose a dog.” I looked up at him, eyes puffy. I nodded. He reached into the truck and petted Annie. He spoke again, his voice unsure. “I had the prettiest little heeler mixes. They’d run along behind me when we’d ride horses in the parade.” As he talked, his eyes lit up with the memory of those dogs.

Then he stopped talking and his eyes got red. “It was hard losing them.” We sat together for a quiet minute, both of us comforting an old dog, sharing our grief. I cried without shame. Then he took my hand in his and squeezed it. “It’s going to be all right.” He said in a clear voice.

And it was.

The Storm is Passing Over

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Do you ever cross paths with old high school friends that you haven’t seen for a long time?  Recently, I’ve had the pleasure of reconnecting with Dianne. We were in choir together, singing under the tyrannical (but beloved) baton of Mr. Kicklighter. Dianne and I sang together from 6th grade till 12th. She was teeny-weeny. Maybe five feet tall. She always had a bright smile, even on the darkest days. But what I remember most about Dianne?  She taught this white girl to dance.

In study hall, when our time was our own, my studious friends (of which I was blessed with many) crammed for tests or caught up with homework. I worked on my socialization skills, flitting around like a house wren, talking to everybody. But on rare occasions, we danced.

You see, Mr. Kicklighter not only conducted the school choir, he also taught music history classes and kept a record player handy for sharing the dulcet tones of Bach and Beethoven (Buxtehude for when he was feeling real froggy). But during study hall, Mr. Kicklighter retired to his dim office to puff his pipe and consider the vastness of the universe, leaving us unattended.

For the most part we behaved (choir kids are notorious goody two-shoes) but every now and again someone would bring in a forty-five record and fill study hall with funky bass. Then we would dance. Looking back, I understand that blasting “Play that Funky Music White Boy” didn’t really create an environment for study, but I’m sure it enhanced our ability to feel rhythm, which was a lesson that even Mr. Kicklighter would have approved of.

Dianne was my favorite dancing friend. She taught me latest steps, but most importantly, she taught me how to loosen up my stiff limbs and move without inhibition. She told me “move like the music sounds.” And I have remembered that since.

Dianne and I started singing together in fifth grade but we were schoolmates since the first grade. In 1969 when Carrollton schools became integrated, the black community and the white community, which up until that point in time had existed like separate universes, came together. It was like two rivers that had flowed side by side for centuries were suddenly diverted to flow together. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was a historic year to start school.

Since then we’ve seemed like a single community. We’ve gone to school together. We’ve played sports together. We’re friends on Facebook. So, I always thought our community was strong and unified. Until about five years ago when a black man was shot by a white police officer. I knew this kind of thing happened in places like Oakland and Chicago. I’d seen what happened when fear and frustration consumed a community, but I never dreamed I’d see it here in Carrollton. Facebook lit up like a Christmas tree. People said crazy things like “I heard they’re going to start a protest on the square” and “if they try and break in on me, they’re going to find my shotgun.” Our little town went from “Mayberry” to “Survivor” in 60 seconds flat.

The police department moved quickly (at the advice of the GBI) to post the audio from the officer’s dash cam on social media, so we could all hear that the shooting was self-defense (the other man had a gun in a holster and was trying to draw it out). Eventually, fear abated and things settled back down. But I never forgot how quickly the schism between the black and white communities widened, seizing the residents of our town with mistrust.

Fear happens when we face the unknown. So lately, I’ve been being intentional about reaching a hand across that schism and getting to know a more diverse group of people. I’ve invited folks to supper, attended people’s churches, sung in different choirs. And because of the simple act of reaching out, my world has opened up with rich diversity, strengthening both myself and my connections into the community.

I’m not the only one that’s reaching out. One of my favorite (and most powerful) examples of this is the friendship of Chief Richards and Pastor Dortch. About four years ago, Pastor Dortch approached Chief Richards about an African American congregant who felt a family member had been treated badly by a white officer. Since then, the two men have worked together to unite African American pastors with Carrollton City Police. Pastors attend the Citizen’s Academy so they can learn about the difficult job of policing. The officers invite the pastors to a monthly lunch where friendships are made and our community is strengthened.

Which brings me back to Dianne. I’m singing with her again – Sunday night at the MLK Ecumenical Service. My frozen-chosen Presbyterians are joining our stiff Bach-trained voices with Victory Tabernacle’s joyful Gospel songs. For the past three weeks, we’ve been practicing and enjoying getting to know each other. During rehearsal the other day, Brother Chip led us as we all sang together, “The storm is passing over, the storm is passing over, Hallelujah!” We combined our voices into beautiful, colorless Praise and the power of it brought me to grateful tears.