Mimi Gentry

A song of Gees Bend

By

The country mice had been planning this High Museum trip for a while and now we were off to see the quilts of Gees Bend- Mama and Vesta and Lyle and Celia and me.

 

We’d been hearing about Gees Bend for a while. It’s southwest of Selma, Alabama, where a long, skinny finger of land sticks into the Alabama river, making a safe place to settle for a group of former slaves. Originally, they were brought there by men of commerce- by merchants who traded in human life. Brought on ships, born into slavery, they worked the land for Mr. Pettway, who owned the plantation there. I don’t know if they grew cotton, or syrup cane, but I do know they made quilts, and this was the craft that they handed down to their daughters and granddaughters and great granddaughters. These women made their own quilts, and it was these works of art that were being exhibited at the High Museum.

 

Now, I know my way around a quilting frame, though I wouldn’t claim to be a quilter. I was born to a family of them and mama has in her careful possession quilts made by four generations of us. I don’t know a whole lot about quilting, but I do know that there’s a lot more to it than just pushing a needle in and out of fabric.

 

My favorite times I can remember were on a few cold days of winter when Mama would put a quilt in and all the girls (and some of the boys- Bill gave it a try several times and Lyle had the littlest stitches of any of us) would sit around and work the day away. Work our jaws, mostly, as we caught up with stories about aunts and cousins and babies . . .all the things you crave knowing when you’re in a family. And all that talk- all that pride and joy and sorrow went into that quilt too. Those are the secret ingredients you use when you make a quilt.

 

I had read stories about the Gees Bend ladies and their amazing quilts. Saw pictures of their work, bold geometric shapes in a gorgeous clash of colors. So, I was pretty sure what I was going to see. I’d been there before, to the High Museum. It is a breathtaking place with soaring walls of glass- a temple to the creative mind of humankind. The art there is monumental, set apart from the rest of creation, protected by scientifically designed light and purified air.

 

I expected the quilts to be like that- sterilized. But they weren’t. The filtered light and de-microbed air couldn’t hush the voices that spoke from that hand sewn work. In the calicos and corduroys, I could hear the sleeping children that they had covered. In the denims and broadcloth, I could feel the passing of the people who had died beneath them.

 

Some of the quilts rivaled any abstract art that I’d ever seen. Somehow, in this isolated spot in Alabama, these women had created masterpieces of contrast, balance, and composition. They had made work so impressive that all these art world people had come out in masse, to see and pay tribute.

 

Some of the artists sat in hard backed chairs, tiny below the large quilts that hung on the walls above them. There was one older lady, with hair white as cotton. She signed books patiently, watching all of us with a twinkle in her eye. She wore a nametag that said, “Artist,” but I wondered if she called herself that. More likely, she considered herself a quilter. I watched her for a while, waiting to have mama’s book of Gees Bend quilts signed, and wondered if that deep twinkle in her eye wasn’t private amusement at all the artsy folks who had come from all around to exclaim over her father’s overalls and some old mattress ticking. She signed mama’s book graciously, thanking me for coming, and I moved on to let some other curious people talk to her.

 

I moved from quilt to quilt, listening to my headset about why these works had turned the art world on its head. I looked around at the crowd that joined me in my study, mesmerized by the bold shapes and opulent colors. The quilts were truly works of art, like other beautiful and thought provoking pieces preserved in the High Museum.

 

But what made them exceptional was not the work by each artist, but what the entire exhibit represented- a group of people who didn’t mind living hard and who understood that even in the darkest of times, that family and community would keep you from falling apart. The quilts represented generations of women who knew that the act of creation could help you bear up the greatest of burdens.

 

I was startled out of these artistic ponderings by a sound, loud in the quiet of the gallery. It was clapping- sharp and rhythmic. Then voices started, voices deep and dark as slow running water. They sang a song I didn’t know, an old song that had grown up in fields, in furrows. It filled up the vaulted ceilings of the High Museum with the unapproved sound.

 

The women of Gees Bend had decided to sing, for the same reason that they quilt. Just for the joy of it. And we were all the richer for the hearing.

 

 

 

 

Paris Burning.

By

 

On Monday, I heard that Paris was burning. Or at least the heart of her. A fire began in the roof of Notre Dame cathedral and spread through the ancient timbers like a tinderbox. At 7:53 pm local time the spire atop Notre Dame cathedral collapsed and at 8:07 pm the entire roof collapsed. I held my breath with the rest of the world and watched it burn.

 

I remember Notre Dame. I toured it with a gaggle of silly girls, checking the cathedral off our must-see tourist checklist. I was 21 years old and didn’t understand the magnitude of what I was seeing. The outside was decked out with rows of saints and gargoyles. Inside, the place was surprisingly dark and the huge Rose windows shone like gems aflame. That’s all I really remember about how it looked.

 

But how it sounded?  That’s what stuck with me. While we were there, a choir was practicing and I heard their voices lifting upward and spreading out, filling the place with the sound. A song sung in that place was magnified to glorification by the shape of that lofty room.

 

For over 800 years, Notre Dame Cathedral has been the heart of Paris. With 12 million visitors a year, it surpasses both the Louvre and Eiffel Tower as Paris’s most visited monument. Building on the structure was begun in 1160 and took a century to complete. But on April 15th, a fire broke out in the roof of the cathedral and in less than an hour the wood-and-lead spire and roof collapsed, causing incalculable damage to the interior, upper walls, and windows, as well as to numerous works of art.

 

A friend of mine texted me this terrible news on Monday morning, and I went online to see what was going on. It had to be some kind of terrible social media hoax. I was sick when I saw the photograph. Goblin colored fire engulfed the spire, leaping skyward. It looked like hell on earth.

 

After that, I tried to sit at my desk and work, but I just kept going back to look for updates on the fire. Finally, around lunchtime, I gave up and went for a walk in the woods. The leaves shimmered like emeralds. The sky was piercing blue, like sapphires. The light streaming through the trees was divine and a crow flew overhead, his voice clear in the vaulted ceiling of the sky. I felt comforted by the beautiful place.

 

When we all woke up the next morning, somehow, miraculously, the church had been saved. The spire, weighing 175 tons wooden- made from trees that grew almost a millennium ago had burned like a torch but the rock walls, and even most of the stained glass windows survived. The precious cathedral was saved and President Macron vowed to restore her to her former glory.

 

Many relics and artworks survived. At one point, firefighters, policemen and municipal workers formed a human chain to remove the treasures, including a centuries-old crown of thorns made from reeds and gold, and the tunic believed to have been worn by Saint Louis, a 13th century king of France.

Reading these accounts, I felt immediately thankful – to the fire fighters and other first responders who fought for 15 hours to save her. I felt thankful to the architects and stonemasons who built her almost a thousand years ago, thankful for their foresight to build the stone vaulted ceiling beneath the roof, because that stone withstood even the ravages of fire. And I felt thankful that I would have another chance to go to that beautiful place. To look at it with cherishing eyes and once again hear the sound of the human voice amplified to Glory.

 

In 1902, a 28-year-old American poet named Willa Cather journeyed to Paris and wrote this powerful poem about that ancient city. To celebrate the saving of Our Lady, I would like to share it here.

 

Paris

Behind the arch of glory sets the day;

The river lies in curves of silver light,

The Fields Elysian glitter in a spray

Of golden dust; the gilded dome is bright,

The towers of Notre Dame cut clean and gray

The evening sky, and pale from left to right

A hundred bridges leap from either quay.

Pillared with pride, the city of delight

Sits like an empress by her silver Seine,

Heavy with jewels, all her splendid dower

Flashing upon her, won from shore and main

By shock of combat, sacked from town and tower.

Wherever men have builded hall or fane

Red war hath gleaned for her and men have slain

To deck her loveliness. I feel again

That joy which brings her art to faultless flower,

That passion of her kings, who, reign on reign,

Arrayed her star by star with pride and power.

 

Immortal Me

By

I started posing for the camera early in life. Look for evidence in any family scrapbook – whenever there was a camera in the vicinity, I immediately sprang into my photo-pose. Left shoulder forward, head tilted, chin tucked. I like to call it, “The Sweetie Pie” pose. It’s become a family joke over the years and my siblings can perfectly reproduce it and have done so for occasional family photos. I’m not sure where I learned to “turn it on” for the camera, but I am guilty as charged.

 

I’ve always been pretty comfortable in front of a camera, but about six months ago, I got a phone call that made me a little nervous. It was from my friend Marilyn Van Pelt. She wanted to know if I would be interested in having her husband paint me. I was familiar with his work- abstract realism that when viewed from a distance has an almost photographic quality. It’s a complicated blending technique invented centuries ago by some old Dutch masters and is still used today, even here in Carrollton, Georgia, by Ralph Van Pelt.

 

I was puzzled at first. Although at one time (thanks to the genetic stew that gave me long legs and a thick mane of hair) I had been the subject of artist depictions, it has been a minute (decades of them) since an artist wanted to paint me. But Marilyn told me that Ralph was painting all sorts of people from all walks of life who lived in this area (in his words, “people in our community who have influenced and enhanced our lives”), so I said, “I’m not sure how I got into that distinguished company, but sign me up.”

 

It didn’t take much arm-twisting to get me to agree. If you’ve seen Ralph’s work, you know that he paints portraits so lifelike that you can almost see them breathe so I was thrilled to be included in the project. But then I started thinking about it. It’s kind of strange to be immortalized in oil on canvas, to join the company of George Washington, Queen Elizabeth and others whose images have stood the test of time. You start to ask yourself questions, like, how do you want to be remembered? Dignified?  Distinguished? I decided to go Bohemian. I chose a simple peasant blouse and my granny Dora’s elaborate Navajo turquoise necklaces. For props I chose a stack of my daddy’s books from his preacher library.

 

The day of the photo shoot came. I was nervous. I was wishing for an extra six months to lose a little weight- I didn’t know if I wanted every current ounce of me immortalized, but I finally got over myself. I curled my hair and painted my face and drove to Van Pelt’s studio, ready for my close up.

 

First I got a tour of the place and was honestly overwhelmed by the quality of the paintings. I’d seen photos of them, but in person they were remarkable. Also, I wasn’t expecting life-size. Like “hang it in a memorial library” size. There were portraits of many people that I knew. Dr. Fred Richard’s eyes sparkled right off the canvas, just like in real life. Michelle Lewis’s smile lit up the room, just like it had in real life. I was amazed by Ralph’s ability to capture the essence of a person.

 

Ralph and Marilyn got a kick out of my brightly colored curlers and clips and Ralph asked if he could take some photos of those too- I was happy to comply and felt my jitters fade as I “Sweetie Pie-ed” my way through the photo shoot. Eventually he had shots he felt good about and we reviewed all the images (a thing that I had dreaded). He made me help him chose the final image that he would paint. At first I demurred, saying, “Oh, really, just which ever one you think is best.” But that didn’t last long. I soon discovered that I had strong opinions about which photo to use and was glad Ralph included me in the decision.

 

After choosing the photo, I headed home. Now I just had to wait for the magic to happen. Over the next couple weeks he texted me photos of his progress, first the rough sketch. Then the dark background. As the days passed, my eyes appeared, my nose, my face. Arms, hands, books. As each piece filled in, I became more and more excited to see the end result. He and Marilyn had me to their house for the unveiling and I was (for a rare moment) speechless.

 

Right now, this amazing portrait hangs in our humble home but on Sunday, it will be rejoining it’s brothers and sisters (portraits of Karen Vance, Bernie Wong, Laura Richards, Behruz Sethna, Don Rice, Marilyn Van Pelt and other community personalities). All the paintings are going to hang at the Neva Lomason Library. The opening of the exhibit is from 2-4.

 

If you’re in the neighborhood, come and see my dignified bohemian, and all the other people remarkably captured by Ralph’s brush. I’ll be there, nibbling on catered hors devours and trying to look immortal.

Smelling the Smoke

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 last week, 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 who were killed at the camp (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”

 

 

HOT FLASH SEASON

By

 

We are the sisterhood of the Hot Flash. In 1979, when we all drove around in our mama’s Ford Granadas, singing “Cause I’m hot blooded. Check it and see” we had no idea of what was to come.

 

You’ll recognize us by the contents of our purses. A bottle of cold water, a fan, in extreme cases, a polar pack fresh out of the freezer to press against our flushed cheeks. We’re the ones begging for the air conditioner to be turned down. We’re the ones who are sometimes flooded with tooth-grinding frustration at seemingly small infractions (like tailgating cars or a toilet seat left up in the dark of night). Night sweats? We got em. It makes us whip covers on and off with the speed of a downhill skier. We are going through The Change.

 

When I was a young girl and still bounced like a filly across the long, luxurious hours of my youth, I didn’t pay much attention to ladies who were going through The Change. When hormones started to shift for some of my close family members, it became a source of amusement. They would let out a heavy sigh and exclaim “Whoooooo, Hot Flash!” Oh, it was funny then. But let me tell you, nobody’s laughing now.

 

Hot Flashes (also called “My own personal summer” by many ladies that I know) are no joke. I’ve heard different accounts from different people. Some of them say the heat starts at the base of their necks. Some people say it runs down their legs or sweats their palms. Scalps grow wet with perspiration. Faces flush and breathing quickens. It’s not pretty.

 

There is only one thing be done when a Hot Flash hits. Cool down immediately. This involves removing outer layers, even shoes and socks when a particularly bad one hits. Next comes the fanning – with anything at hand. A magazine, a power bill, a crinkled Chick Filet napkin will do, so long as it stirs the air.

 

We have, in our yard, a hard pear tree. It’s grown there for at least two generations and this time of year, its boughs are drooped with the weight of the fruit on it. The tree produces pears that are knotty and blotchy and the skin is hard to peel, but inside is a treasure – a white, crisp fruit, bursting with pear-y goodness. This year we’ve been blessed with a bumper crop and they need picking frequently, so after our morning walk I tackled the tree.

 

It was a cool morning so I put on a sweatshirt and took a sturdy basket for the harvest. The dogs followed me. They love pears almost as much as they love bacon, but oddly won’t eat them unless I pull the fruit fresh off the tree. But once they realized I wasn’t picking for them, they found a sunny patch and went down for a nap.

 

The pears filled the basket up quickly as I cleared off the easy low-hanging fruit. Then I looked up and saw the big pears that dangled just out of reach. I clamored up on top of a log (don’t worry, I did my tai chi stretches so if I fell I wouldn’t break a hip) and commenced to picking. But I discovered that I was going to have to drop the fruit to the ground (possibly bruising it). I wished for a pick sack. Instead, I turned my sweatshirt around backwards, leaving the hood on the front to fill with fruit (like a kangaroo pouch, if you need a visual).

 

Well, halfway up the pear tree, in the midst of this picking frenzy, I was overcome by a strange feeling – heat trickling up the back of my neck. I recognized immediately the beginnings of a Hot Flash.

 

At top speed, I clamored down off the log. The heat was starting to come out of my ears, like smoke out of a dragon. I sat down and tried to cool down. The sweatshirt was the first to go. The pears in the hood flew everywhere. I fanned myself with my hands, hoping it would pass quickly. I exclaimed, “Whoooooo! Hot Flash!”

 

Eventually, but not before my scalp prickled up with a fine sheen of sweat, I started to cool down. I closed my eyes and the coolness of the morning calmed me so I sat and I stretched and I sighed, watching the world slowly turn around me.

 

It was too early for the hornets to be out, but clouds of fruit flies buzzed around the windfall fruit like pepper-grain fairies. The wrens had discovered us so they were hopping and fussing from limb to limb. I could hear the hum of the air conditioner chugging it’s way through pre-Florence humidity. The wind coming in from the east was stirring the wind chime, heralding the slow approach of the distant storm.

 

Eventually, I cooled off enough, so I picked up the last of the pears and hauled the heavy basket back up to the house. As I walked, I felt that familiar heat start to gather again at the back of my neck, making me sing the anthem of our youth. “Cause I’m Hot Blooded. Check it and see. I’ve got a fever of 103. Cause I’m Hot Blooded. I’m Hot Blooded.”

 

And how.