Mimi Gentry

She taught me how to grow.

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What day is it?  I have no idea. Since Social Distancing set in, the way time passes seems to have changed. It might be Thursday. Might be Friday. But there was no way I am going to forget April 27th. It is Hattie Lou’s Birthday, a day that our family still remembers, even two decades after she’s been gone.

 

I thought about her all day on Tuesday. So much about the spring reminds me of her. It was the time that she was outside the most, working the soil, coaxing out jonquils and hyacinths. Hattie’s skill in the garden seemed magic when I was a child. That’s when she taught me how to grow beans. I can remember walking in plowed soil behind her, my fist full of beans. Hattie opened the ground up with her hoe and I dropped in a bean. Then she covered it with a dusting of soil. While we went up and down the rows, she taught how important it was to be able to grow your own food.

 

Hattie taught me the difference between a black snake (which you didn’t kill) and a Copperhead (which you killed, and quick). This came in handy when you were looking for Polk Salat. We found the plant shooting up green behind old barns and pushing its way through the red rust refuse of old tractors and planters and tillers. Every year we made our pilgrimage to find it. Every year she told me the story of how it made your blood strong. If eaten raw, it was like poison and would make you sick as a dog. But if pressure-cooked, the Polk Salat turned into a pliant state – a spring tonic that tasted like iron and grass.

 

I can’t believe it’s the end of April. It’s been so cool at night, we haven’t cracked the windows, and so I’ve been missing nighttime sounds. The wind in the pines. The first timid frog song. The neighbor’s sheep dog barking the evening news across the dark hill. But as I dropped off to sleep, before the rain last night, I did hear a sound that reminded me of Hattie. It was a dove moaning in the pine thicket across the street. Mournful and low it sang. Miss Hattie used to call those birds “Raincrows” and told me they always heralded a storm. A soaking rain came the next day, bringing thick spatters on the wet ground. Hattie Lou’s prediction came true.

 

These days, as we shelter in place and wonder what it’s going to look like out there when we, as a society, finally emerge, I often think of Hattie Lou. She would have been a good one to have around in case we needed to make a Victory garden. She was a tough nut and would have known all the tricks needed to survive hard times. Hattie would have used all her smarts and grit to made sure her family was safe. That sense of the importance of family is something that she passed down to all of us and it blesses us to this very day.

 

On Hattie’s birthday, after supper when the light was slanting through the trees, I went on a ride through a nearby neighborhood, just to look at the flowers. “ Knock-out” roses shook their pink heads at the last of the azaleas. White drifts of Privet Hedges bloomed on the edge of fields. She would have loved it.

 

I remember when she and I would drive past a particularly stunning display of red buds and cherry trees, or a proud row of Buford pears shining like white torches alongside the road. She would exclaim. “Oh, Look-a-there.”  Each time she saw such a sight, she exclaimed like it was the first time she’d ever seen anything that pretty. It was a treat to watch Miss Hattie as she soaked it all in.

 

I remember the last spring she was alive. We’d been singing some old song that she loved. It was probably “I’ll fly away.”  We turned onto Stewart Street, where it runs behind the Post Office. About halfway up, we passed that grand alley of pear trees, splendid and white in the noonday sun. Hattie clapped her hands together and said, “If I’m not here next year to see this sight, I don’t mind.” And she didn’t sound mournful, or sad, like the low call of the raincrow when it warns us storms are approaching. Her voice was bright and filled with light, making my throat tight at the sound of it. “If I don’t see another spring,” she declared,” this one was enough.”

 

I didn’t know what to say, so I started in singing one of her favorite songs. She joined me, her voice strong.

 

“Some glad morning, when this life is o’er

I’ll fly away in the morning

To a home on God’s celestial shore

I’ll fly away.”

 

We sang out the rest of the drive and I deposited her safely home. I helped her into the house. She had only recently allowed me to hold her hand to steady her as we walked. I went back to the car and looked back toward her. She stood behind the shelter of her glass door, waving goodbye. Above her bloomed a redbud tree that drifted like rosy snow when the wind blew.

 

These are the things I remember on Hattie Lou’s birthday.

 

 

 

 

Invisible Foe

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Neile is a fighter. I’ve always admired her for that. She beat cancer and afterwards became a nurse so she could join the forces with the people who helped save her own life. Last week she posted a photo on Facebook of herself that was so despondent, so defeated, that I hardly recognized her. She was wearing scrubs, sitting in a hospital stairwell, and crying, ground down with exhaustion. Her battle to save patients from Corvid- 19 had overcome her. The caption read, “Check on your nurse friends-we are not ok. #covid_19.

 

Over the past six weeks, Neile’s story has been repeated across our nation, across the globe. Nurses, Doctors and other healthcare workers have been almost overcome, fighting an enemy that they weren’t ready for, dealing with a disease that they didn’t understand. And yet they kept fighting. For the lives of their families, for the life of their communities.

 

Here in west Georgia our healthcare system is also waging war against this viral invader. The virus seems to come out of nowhere, taking an enormous toll on the people who become acutely ill. It’s also significantly contagious, requiring enormous efforts to ensure the safety of health caregivers. But our healthcare workers are rising to the challenge, using innovation to overcome supply shortages and focusing on patient care in the face of an enemy that has already devastated other communities around the world.

 

On March 25th, Mayor Cason, Chairman Morgan and other city and county officials heard from Dr. Laura Larson, infectious disease control specialist with Tanner Health System. She reported, “We went from having no identifying infections last week to having eight on Thursday and now we’re up to 61,” Larson said. “We know that we’re on a trajectory of being at a point of not being able to contain what’s happening right now.” In a nutshell, our healthcare professionals are on the frontline and are all that is standing between us and this terrible epidemic.

If the virus grows beyond Tanner’s capacity to care for the sick, our hospitals won’t have the beds, supplies or staff to care for all the people who would need them. And the people who are deathly ill will face that death alone, unattended by loved ones, because visitors can’t be allowed into such a contagious environment.

Sound grim?  It could be. But we can help these healthcare heroes stem the tide.

#RedRibbonforTanner-Put a red ribbon on your mailbox. Or your door, tree or lamppost. Why red?  It represents a red cross, the universal symbol of healthcare. When these workers are going in to work a 12-hour shift, still tired from their shift the day before, they will see your red ribbon and know that you’re rooting for them. That boost can go a long way when they’re running on fumes. Here’s the challenge.  Use something you already have at home- Christmas ribbon, red napkins (that’s what I used), even a t-shirt so you can stay sheltered at home and still show support.

 

Make a mask. Over the past few weeks, west Georgia quilters and other people who sew have been making protective masks for the people who work at Tanner. Together they produced over a thousand masks that are being used to help workers stay safe. Tanner’s need for masks has been met for now, but there are other people who need them, nursing home workers, ambulance crews, even cashiers who could use an extra layer of protection as they continue to work with the public. Make a mask and give it to someone who needs it.

Pray on your Porch. Churches around west Georgia are working together to get the word out- on Wednesday nights at 7:30, step outside of your home and pray for safety and strength for our healthcare workers. You don’t need to go to a parking lot to pray. God can hear you anywhere.

And most importantly, stay at home. I’m sad to report, in Unacast’s Social Distancing Scoreboard (a national measuring service that you can access on Tanner’s daily Corvid- 19 report), Carroll County scored a D and Haralson County scored an F in our level of social distancing (it’s factored by observing reduction of distance that people are traveling and reduction in visits to non-essential venues).

In the northwest, where the virus hit early, Shelter in Place is working. The infection rates there have been reduced significantly because people are being responsible and sheltering at home. Here, many people are taking this seriously and only going to the store to get weekly groceries. But clearly (as evidenced in our county’s almost failing grade), there are people who aren’t taking it seriously. Here’s the thing – the longer we act like nothing’s wrong, the more the virus spreads and the longer this lockdown is going to last. Friends and neighbors may lose their businesses. And our healthcare system may be overcome with terribly sick people.

Our leaders are asking us to take these measures because they want to save lives. So, when you get bored and want to wander around Wal-Mart to look at Easter decorations, or drop by Lowes to pick up some perennials, think about a nurse, sitting in the stairwell, crying because her patients are dying alone and she can’t do anything about it. Think about an elderly woman who has to drop her husband off at the ER and can’t go in to sit by his bedside. Think about an at-risk child who has to spend yet another week trapped inside their own house because the virus is still spreading. And for everyone’s sake, stay at home.

 

Feeding our Babies

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If you want to know something about kids in this community, ask a bus driver. These mama and papa bears spend five days a week with their young charges, sometimes 2-3 hours a day. Drivers know where kids live, when their birthdays are, what kind of home life they have. All too often, they know which kids are hungry.

 

So, last week, when schools closed because of concern about the pandemic, bus drivers knew that some of the children wouldn’t be getting their regular breakfasts and lunches and would be hungry without it.

 

So they devised a plan. They’d take the breakfasts and lunches to the kids on their regular route. Sounds simple enough, but because they’d never done anything like this before, there was no playbook- it was a work in progress. I heard an administrator say, “We’re building the airplane as it’s taking off.”

 

Besides the bus drivers, it requires an army of people to pull off “Operation Bus-Lunch” (that’s my name for it). Administrators and managers are devising the plan, tweaking it on the fly. Teachers, Para-pros, and volunteers are helping load busses and deliver food. And the lunchroom staff is going above and beyond, taking food that they would have ordinarily served in their cafeterias and packing it into individual bags to deliver to the kids.

 

Tuesday morning was the maiden voyage. I drove through the misty gloom and showed up at 8:30 am to Central Elementary School where I found a row of busses pulling in and being loaded up by drivers and volunteers. I reported to the principal, Matthew Huckeba. I asked him if he was surprised by the passionate response of his school (and other schools in the county). He said, “I’m not surprised. Anytime we’ve ever had a need, this community has met it. That’s what we do. Kids in our county depend on these meals for nutrition and we’ve got to get it to them.”

 

I was assigned to Miss Ann’s bus. She is a veteran of the bus fleet and has driven her same route for seven years. I asked her why she was doing this. She replied firmly, “I’ve got to get food to my babies.”  As we made the rounds to some of the most underserved neighborhoods in the county, I began to understand why Operation Bus Lunch was so important.

 

When the bus pulled up in front of houses, we were announced by the HISSSS of the airbrakes. Suddenly little faces appeared in the windows, curious about the unexpected appearance of the bus. Some kids approached shyly, but as Miss Ann called them by name, they brightened and ran out- happy to see her familiar face in the middle of all this uncertainty.

 

The first day we delivered, many of the families were still unaware of the program and we only served 70 kids. This morning, kids were expecting us and stood at their regular bus stops, waving at us as we approached. Some were sleepy heads, dragging out of the house sock-footed, but still grateful to get breakfast. We followed Miss Ann’s list carefully, to make sure no one was left out. And if the child wasn’t waiting for us, we packed up lunches and knocked on doors, trying to make sure everyone had their food for the day. Like any good shepherd, Miss Ann knew which of her lambs weren’t present and we didn’t leave until all were accounted for and fed. This morning we served 112 kids with healthy food. Milk, juice, fruit, cereal, cheese, veggies and sandwiches (chips and cookies). This was good nutrition that some of them wouldn’t have access to if the school hadn’t supplied it for them.

 

Over the next few weeks, if you see a Carroll County school bus on the road, know that it’s loaded with food and headed to feed the children who live in this county. They have all the food they need, but they do need volunteers. There are 140 busses in the fleet in the Carroll County school system, so that means we need 280 helpers a day.

 

It’s easy to volunteer. If you’re between the ages of 18-60 and are currently healthy, email or call Donna Folds at donna.folds@carrollcountyschools.com or 678-854-2319. You can help for a single day, or more. They’ll put you where you’re needed.

 

I know what you’re thinking- is it safe?  It’s probably safer than going to Wal-Mart. Every day the bus drivers clean their busses- spraying them down with Virex and Lysol spray (all surfaces, windows, floor, seats) Volunteers handle food that’s been prepared in a pristinely clean kitchen by healthy lunchroom workers (no one is allowed to work if they have flu symptoms) and we wear disposable gloves on the route. Contact with the families is limited- just handing a sack of food out of the bus.

 

What is contagious? Miss Ann’s love for her kids. Over the past two days I’ve started to learn their names and their stories. (Children that are raised by their grandparents, a girl who lost her mother to cancer, kids that live with friends because of homelessness). The best part? For the past few days as I’ve bumped across the Carroll County countryside in a big yellow bus, it’s gotten my mind off of my own troubles and reawakened my awareness of the needs of my neighbors here in Carroll County.

 

 

Angel on a Plane

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Last month I traveled to the Canadian wilderness to interview the owner of a construction company about the huge equipment that he and his workers use to construct roads into the thick woodlands there.

 

I knew we were going into rough country so I was sad to leave my Kershaw knife at home. I’ve seen the movies – you end up having to lash your pocketknife to a stick to fend off grizzly bears. But there was no getting a knife through airport security so I went unarmed into the adventure.

 

We left Atlanta pre-dawn so I got to see the sun rising on the Atlantic Ocean. High, thick clouds flashed like the scales on a fish. In the distance I saw the Toronto skyline, mysterious and shrouded in pearl-like mist. The sun reflected off both the water and the plane wing, making it look like there were three suns rising instead of only one.

 

When we landed, I felt a little apprehensive I hadn’t traveled out of the country since 1983. But my passport was in order and I had been assured, because we were working for an American company, that no special papers were needed.

 

Because we were trying to catch a connecting flight north, we hustled into the line that said “International Travelers.”  I had my passport in hand and waited my turn. An officer called me forward and examined my freshly minted passport. “What brings you to Canada?”  “I’m here for work. For three days.”  He regarded me with narrowing eyes. “Where are your papers?”  I handed him my production binder that contained hotel information and questions for the interview. He glanced through it and stamped on my card “Denied.”  Then he told me, “You have to go to Immigration.”

 

I looked around for the rest of the crew. They had already been processed and were on their way to the gate. The officer directed me firmly in the opposite direction.

 

In Immigration, I wanted to text my producer and tell her where I was (the clock was ticking and I knew if I missed my connection I would miss the entire job) but cell phone use was prohibited. I sat there, sweating it out with the rest of the detainees, unsure if I were going to be allowed into the country. Finally, I got called up and the officer looked at my “Denied” card. He initialed it and said that I was good to go. Seems like there had been a mistake upstairs. I ran through the airport and made the flight by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin.

 

The next morning we were driven out to the lumber camp (an hour away on black top and two hours away on a bumpy dirt road (not a lot of rest stops out here, ladies). The owner of the company and his band of Canadian lumberjacks were characters and we got great interviews from them. It was a successful trip.

 

The next day found us back in the Toronto airport, where we made it safely through customs and settled into our seats on the plane. It was a full flight so I was happy to see there was an empty seat next to me. I was in the middle of a good book and was looking forward to making some progress on it. We were almost ready to pull out of the gate, when I saw a girl making her way down the aisle, heading straight for the empty seat beside me. I put my book down. No way I was getting any reading done.

 

She was in her mid-twenties. She was tiny (compared to my Wagnerian proportions) and had dark curly hair. She was wearing a ball cap that said “Emory University.”  Her eyes were swollen from crying. She sat next to me and shivered. I asked, “Are you ok?”

 

She told me her name and I had to ask her to repeat it. I finally understood it on the third repeat. She told me she was named after a mosque and showed me a photo of it on her cell phone. The building was beautiful, intricately designed, topped with a gold dome. I found out she was a medical student from Emory who had been visiting family in Canada. Because one of her parents was American she had dual citizenship. Her Canadian passport was valid, but her American passport had expired and they weren’t going to let her back into the country. She’d spent the whole day in immigration, scared that she wouldn’t be able to get back to school for her finals.

 

She started crying again and apologized. I said, “You’re safe now.” We talked for a long time. She told me about studying medicine and why she chose to be a doctor in America. Because there are so many uninsured people in this country, people who don’t have access to healthcare, she felt a calling to serve them. She had big dreams and a big heart.

 

The plane landed in Atlanta. The girl took off and I hung back with our crew to make sure all our bags were accounted for. Before she disappeared into the crowd, she turned back and flashed a grateful smile. Later I thought about her bright future as a doctor and was glad that she chose our country to be the place where she would serve humanity.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

New Lamb

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Most every morning, the dogs and I take a walk through the farmland behind the house. There are perils- you have to watch your step (because animals aren’t too picky about where they leave their calling cards) but for the most part it’s great fun. At any time you can run up on things like cows snuffling for acorns, goats teetering on a fallen tree or grazing sheep drifting across a green pasture like clouds across the sky.

 

For the most part the animals ignore us, unless one of them makes eye contact with the little dogs. Princess Pickle and Fat Cookie take that as a territorial affront and start barking their guts out which usually results in me yelling, “shut up” loud enough to be heard all the way in Villa Rica. But for the most part, walking in the animal kingdom is a real pleasure.

 

On Monday morning, after the rainstorm had passed and mist was rising out of the ground, we went for our walk. The dogs crisscrossed ahead, noses pressed to the ground. I kept to the trail- my clunky rain boots were slippery and not designed for off-road travel. As we started home along the ridge behind the house, I looked down at the stream. There, by the water, stood a lone ewe. I stopped for a minute to see what she was up to. Then I saw, huddled around her feet, a pair of lambs.

 

The coyotes have been bad this year (already killing a calf and several lambs and baby goats on neighboring farms) so I knew it wasn’t safe for these new babies to be isolated in the woods. Johnny was already headed for the shop and my nephew and his family were already at work. So I called sister Vesta.

 

In our family, livestock safety takes priority over all other things, so she headed right over. She arrived wearing pants tucked into good farm boots. Perched atop her head was a stretched out, hand-knit boggin, striped in black and green.

 

I know we were a sight, two little old ladies trudging through the chilly woods, she in her boggin and me in my Merry Christmas fleece pajama bottoms. We made our careful way down the incline, down toward the sheep and her lambs. We slid a couple of times, when the soaked ground gave way underfoot, but thankfully nobody broke a hip.

 

As we fumbled down the hill, the ewe bolted, taking her offspring with her. I went wide around them, to try and drive them back. Vesta went straight after the lambs and quick as a wink, caught one in each hand.

 

These lambs wrestled with Vesta for a second, but eventually she got them both tucked up under her arms. Then she started walking back up the hill, back toward home. I headed over so I could help carry a lamb and everything was going fine, until Vesta’s stretched out boggin started to migrate. With each step my sister took, the hat shifted slowly down until at last it completely covered her eyes. The lambs were starting to wriggle away.

 

By now I had reached them and reached out to grab a lamb. But the muddy ground betrayed us and both Vesta and I stumbled and rolled down the hill. Somehow, Vesta retained a grip on her lamb but mine got away, running for dear life behind it’s galloping mama.

 

Vesta and I stood up, puffing and laughing. She handed me the lamb, told me to stay there and that she was going for reinforcements. I stood there next to the stream and watched her walk out of sight. The air was cold and a fine-sifting rain had started to fall. I put my flannel coat over my heads, like a tent, and had a look at the lamb. It was a boy- the dried up umbilical cord was still attached. I tucked him into my vest and settled in to wait.

 

I was surprised how soft his wool was. He smelled clean, like warm lanolin. He didn’t weigh much more than five pounds so I balanced him with one arm, his ribcage resting in my hand. I could feel his little heart still hammering with fear. The lamb bleated plaintively and I listened for his mama, hoping to hear her answer but by now she was too far off to hear him.

 

About this time, Vesta returned with my great-niece Amelia. She’s the shepherd in the family. She took possession of the lamb and we all fanned out, searching for the missing sheep. Finally Amelia found them and quick as a wink, she grabbed up the other lamb. Now that both lambs were subdued, the ewe stopped in her tracks and docilely followed Amelia all the way to her house, back to the safe pasture.

 

After everybody got settled in (the Pyrenees sheepdogs had to inspect the proceedings) we all perched for a minute, watching the lambs. The mama was still wary about the dogs, but the lambs ate hungrily, butting the mama’s udder to make the milk let loose. We spent a peaceful five or ten minutes there, but busy days called us away and we all went our separate ways, content to know that the lambs were safe.