Despite her dread of Houston traffic and a menagerie of unkempt McDonald’s restrooms, my mother continued the arduous six-hour drive to visit my great aunt Georgia Lee each summer. She packed her Doral Full Flavored 100s, put in extra-hold Vidal Sassoon, and left frozen dinners for my father. The trip, although well intended, was quite the challenge for my mother, as she was constantly consumed with a fear of change and uncleanliness.
Upon our arrival to Georgia Lee’s, my mother quickly regained her equilibrium as she was welcomed with Avon powders and organized greeting cards, by occasion, respectively. Georgia Lee’s lace curtains were never dusty, and my mother praised this success upon her greeting.
Georgia Lee collected postage stamps and old bibles. Her smile was petite and light. Her voice was as soft as the doilies beneath her milk glass lamps. She moved gently throughout the house; and always retrieved a new package from Fingerhut – her favorite of all services. They had monogrammed my name at least 150 times and knew the proper spelling of C-I-M-M-O-N-E just as well as they knew her Waxahachie address. The shipping and handling fees made my mother’s hands shake. She would offer to reimburse Georgia Lee multiple times during our visit.
“Georgia Lee, I really do wish you would let me pay for some of this,” my mother pressed. “Cimmone really does not need all of this.”
My mother shook her head in disbelief as my great aunt revealed box after box. She offered my mother a pair of scissors to cut through the packing tape, spun round like shiny Christmas paper, as I sat cross legged and wide eyed. My mother reluctantly cut away the at the cardboard collection as Georgia Lee headed to the kitchen to begin lunch. My mother passed me the scissors as she escaped behind Georgia Lee and I winked at Susan, Georgia Lee’s white poodle.
Susan’s crinkled tail swayed back and forth as she watched me unwrap Fingerhut’s finest. With the slightest of gestures, I invited Susan to review the monogrammed ceramics and plastics with me.
“I don’t know if I really need any of this, Susan, but it sure is beautiful,” I whispered.
Susan and I sat atop the red berry carpet, like two daisies, captivated with each other’s gentleness. Framed photos of the scruffy poodle populated the top of the television; the coffee table; the bookshelves; and the top, third, and bottom shelves of the curio cabinet. Susan was known to remit birthday cards each year to my mother, my father, and myself. Susan was thoughtful and the center to all of Georgia Lee’s comforts.
My mother, however, was not fond of Susan. She stood firm in her belief that “Animals in the home produce unsanitary conditions.”
Georgia Lee never failed to remind my mother that Susan did not shed as other breeds do, but my mother insisted that she “Would have to be dead and gone,” before she let a dog share quarters with us. Georgia Lee took my mother’s opinions well – simply offering her extra carrot cake or a walk along the rose bed to allow my mother “The pleasure of another cigarette.”
My mother, a starved cat, pounced at these offers and moved on to new topics, such as my father’s love of naps, my messy hair, and adequate fertilizer mixes for Bourbon roses. Georgia Lee was calm and soothing for my mother. Perhaps that is why we visited regularly. My mother was never scolded or corrected in Georgia Lee’s home, which she took to indicate she was proper.
Georgia Lee was not concerned with 'proper' and had my mother discussed how horribly her tooth removal had gone for her dentures, Georgia Lee would have perhaps engaged humility inside my mother. I had also hoped she would tell her about the day she fell from the top of our ladder, by my mother simply expressed her displeasure with the quality of paint she had used.
My mother was not boastful or ill-willed; she simply enjoyed her vanity, as most women born in the early forties did. She loved her stockings and her perms. She enjoyed cigarettes with her coffee, and she complimented all my aunts on their weight loss. She was quite the host, but even more so, quite the guest, as she accompanied Georgia Lee all around the dining table in preparation for lunch.
My mother made no mention of the extra table setting my great aunt had placed. She assumed, much like I had, that Georgia Lee’s late husband, Andy, would be joining us in spirit for lunch and we would make no mention of this even until our evening drive home. It would make quite the story for my mother at family gatherings and she held back her cheeky grin as she passed the head of the table.
“Thank you, Linda,” Georgia Lee smiled. She patted her hands together as if subconsciously praying for my mother’s soul.
I pulled back the shiny oak chair, elegant with curves and carvings, and scooted to the silver laced china dish monogrammed with 'G.L.' It was with the best of taste that Georgia Lee decorated; only one monogrammed item per room occupied her spaces.
“These dishes are some of the most beautiful I have seen in the Fingerhut catalog,” my mother added.
Pimento cheese slept in a dish in the center of the table; a bowl of fruit salad rested cheerfully on a mauve doily. My mother took her seat and Georgia Lee called Susan’s name in regard to the event. My mother and I gave no attention to the conduct until a commotion began at the head of the table.
The armed dining chair wobbled and banged into the table and the monogrammed dinner plate crashed into the salad fork. My mother’s arms fell onto the table as if anesthetized.
There, at the head of the grand oak dining table, sat Susan. She ordained the congregation like none other my mother had ever witnessed. I smiled at Susan under my concerned brow. My mother gritted and swallowed purposefully. Her cigarettes—offering their deepest condolences—waited next to her coffee cup, still steaming from production.
“Now, then, let’s enjoy this beautiful lunch,” Georgia Lee announced.
My mother stared at her silver laced dining plate searching for a lost bit of poodle.
Georgia Lee unfolded her napkin, revealing a monogrammed 'S' and nodded at me with just a hint of a wink and a smile.
Upon our arrival to Georgia Lee’s, my mother quickly regained her equilibrium as she was welcomed with Avon powders and organized greeting cards, by occasion, respectively. Georgia Lee’s lace curtains were never dusty, and my mother praised this success upon her greeting.
Georgia Lee collected postage stamps and old bibles. Her smile was petite and light. Her voice was as soft as the doilies beneath her milk glass lamps. She moved gently throughout the house; and always retrieved a new package from Fingerhut – her favorite of all services. They had monogrammed my name at least 150 times and knew the proper spelling of C-I-M-M-O-N-E just as well as they knew her Waxahachie address. The shipping and handling fees made my mother’s hands shake. She would offer to reimburse Georgia Lee multiple times during our visit.
“Georgia Lee, I really do wish you would let me pay for some of this,” my mother pressed. “Cimmone really does not need all of this.”
My mother shook her head in disbelief as my great aunt revealed box after box. She offered my mother a pair of scissors to cut through the packing tape, spun round like shiny Christmas paper, as I sat cross legged and wide eyed. My mother reluctantly cut away the at the cardboard collection as Georgia Lee headed to the kitchen to begin lunch. My mother passed me the scissors as she escaped behind Georgia Lee and I winked at Susan, Georgia Lee’s white poodle.
Susan’s crinkled tail swayed back and forth as she watched me unwrap Fingerhut’s finest. With the slightest of gestures, I invited Susan to review the monogrammed ceramics and plastics with me.
“I don’t know if I really need any of this, Susan, but it sure is beautiful,” I whispered.
Susan and I sat atop the red berry carpet, like two daisies, captivated with each other’s gentleness. Framed photos of the scruffy poodle populated the top of the television; the coffee table; the bookshelves; and the top, third, and bottom shelves of the curio cabinet. Susan was known to remit birthday cards each year to my mother, my father, and myself. Susan was thoughtful and the center to all of Georgia Lee’s comforts.
My mother, however, was not fond of Susan. She stood firm in her belief that “Animals in the home produce unsanitary conditions.”
Georgia Lee never failed to remind my mother that Susan did not shed as other breeds do, but my mother insisted that she “Would have to be dead and gone,” before she let a dog share quarters with us. Georgia Lee took my mother’s opinions well – simply offering her extra carrot cake or a walk along the rose bed to allow my mother “The pleasure of another cigarette.”
My mother, a starved cat, pounced at these offers and moved on to new topics, such as my father’s love of naps, my messy hair, and adequate fertilizer mixes for Bourbon roses. Georgia Lee was calm and soothing for my mother. Perhaps that is why we visited regularly. My mother was never scolded or corrected in Georgia Lee’s home, which she took to indicate she was proper.
Georgia Lee was not concerned with 'proper' and had my mother discussed how horribly her tooth removal had gone for her dentures, Georgia Lee would have perhaps engaged humility inside my mother. I had also hoped she would tell her about the day she fell from the top of our ladder, by my mother simply expressed her displeasure with the quality of paint she had used.
My mother was not boastful or ill-willed; she simply enjoyed her vanity, as most women born in the early forties did. She loved her stockings and her perms. She enjoyed cigarettes with her coffee, and she complimented all my aunts on their weight loss. She was quite the host, but even more so, quite the guest, as she accompanied Georgia Lee all around the dining table in preparation for lunch.
My mother made no mention of the extra table setting my great aunt had placed. She assumed, much like I had, that Georgia Lee’s late husband, Andy, would be joining us in spirit for lunch and we would make no mention of this even until our evening drive home. It would make quite the story for my mother at family gatherings and she held back her cheeky grin as she passed the head of the table.
“Thank you, Linda,” Georgia Lee smiled. She patted her hands together as if subconsciously praying for my mother’s soul.
I pulled back the shiny oak chair, elegant with curves and carvings, and scooted to the silver laced china dish monogrammed with 'G.L.' It was with the best of taste that Georgia Lee decorated; only one monogrammed item per room occupied her spaces.
“These dishes are some of the most beautiful I have seen in the Fingerhut catalog,” my mother added.
Pimento cheese slept in a dish in the center of the table; a bowl of fruit salad rested cheerfully on a mauve doily. My mother took her seat and Georgia Lee called Susan’s name in regard to the event. My mother and I gave no attention to the conduct until a commotion began at the head of the table.
The armed dining chair wobbled and banged into the table and the monogrammed dinner plate crashed into the salad fork. My mother’s arms fell onto the table as if anesthetized.
There, at the head of the grand oak dining table, sat Susan. She ordained the congregation like none other my mother had ever witnessed. I smiled at Susan under my concerned brow. My mother gritted and swallowed purposefully. Her cigarettes—offering their deepest condolences—waited next to her coffee cup, still steaming from production.
“Now, then, let’s enjoy this beautiful lunch,” Georgia Lee announced.
My mother stared at her silver laced dining plate searching for a lost bit of poodle.
Georgia Lee unfolded her napkin, revealing a monogrammed 'S' and nodded at me with just a hint of a wink and a smile.
C. Cimmone is an author and comic. She has a menagerie of publications and is alive and well on Twitter @diefunnier.