Today is not merely Father's Day; it's coincidentally my maternal grandmother's birthday. Were Mamaw still with us, she would be ninety-seven today. She was one of three non-Tennesseans in the family; although her parents were Tennessee natives, she was born in Cook County, Illinois, but they moved home when Mamaw was quite young.

She was married and gave birth to her first son in 1933. Her next two pregnancies ended with two dead children; her first daughter lived six weeks and is buried beside Mamaw and Papaw in a cemetery not a mile from where I sit; her second son lived six days and is buried in California, where my mom was born a year later. They moved home when Mom was about two, and my aunt and uncle were born here.

Mamaw never quite recovered from the loss of her two babies, though. Among hillbillies it was a custom in the old days to preserve the "crown" which was a whorl of feathers said to form beneath the head of a person who died on a feather pillow. She kept that from my older aunt; Mom has it yet, tucked into a big matchbox, just as Mamaw kept it. After Papaw died, her younger children took her to California for a visit and while they were there took her to her other baby's grave--a visit that my usually voluble mamaw never discussed.

I am the third oldest of her ten grandchildren, the oldest child of her fourth child and second daughter. And as many first babies are, I was two weeks overdue. The doctor calculated that I would arrive, most likely, on Mamaw's fiftieth birthday, June 15th.

Except, of course, I was born ornery. I was gonna be born on MY schedule, thank you very much, and arrived at something like 5:30 the next morning in a pouring rain--reminiscent of Tennessee Ernie Ford's "Sixteen Tons": "I was born one mornin' when the sun didn't shine--"

When I was older, Mamaw formed the habit of calling me, every year on her birthday to remind me I was late. It used to piss me off no end; I learned to cope by observing drily, as she decried in my young womanhood my choice of jobs and failure to get married, that I was a disappointment to her from the day I was born.

It's only now, as I near the age she was when I was born, that I see what that phone call was all about: it was our private joke, the one thing she and I shared that nobody else in the family could.

It took years after she passed (eighteen years ago this coming October) for me to stop listening for the phone to ring on my birthday.

That's tomorrow. And strange though it may sound, I think I'll be listening for that call. It won't come, but I'll wait with a laugh anyway.

Happy birthday, Mamaw. Love ya.

Auntie could tell you the exact name of the old highway that runs along the Ocoee River between Cleveland, Tennessee and Murphy, North Carolina. It's a frighteningly serpentine ribbon with a dizzying drop into a rocky, frothing river on one side and great bluffs looming like threats over your head on the other. Either way, there's nowhere to go when trouble starts.

There have been many fatal accidents on the River Road over the years. At least one of them produced a ghost story. I first read part of the story of the redhaired woman in SPECTERS AND SPIRITS OF THE APPALACHIAN FOOTHILLS by James V. Burchill and Linda J. Crider (Rutledge Hill Press, 2002); the rest I learned in bits and pieces.

I'm inclined to think the legend of the redhaired woman began in the 1950s, when a Cleveland woman vanished into thin air, one morning as she was traveling the river road on her way to a new job. After her disappearance, stories began to trickle out of a redhaired woman who would appear in the back seat of vehicles traveling too fast on the dangerous road, warning them to slow down, and then disappear as abruptly as she appeared.

One of the most notable stories is told in Burchill and Crider's book, of a young Air Force recruit's experience. He was stationed in Arkansas when he received word that his mother was dying, and that she wanted to see him before she passed.

He obtained compassionate leave and began the long drive back home. He arrived in Cleveland some fourteen hours after he left Arkansas, stopping only long enough to gas up his car and call home. His mother was still living, but if he wanted to see her he needed to hurry, he was told.

His home was in Murphy, and he took the old River Road. On that night it was more dangerous than usual; a light rain slicked the pavement, and fog was beginning to rise off the river. Still, he drove with desperate haste.

It was about three-thirty AM, and he was just passing an abandoned power station (a wellknown landmark on the river) when he spotted a woman in the rearview mirror, sitting quietly in the back seat. Startled, he looked over his shoulder. He noticed the red hair, held in a knot at the base of her neck, and her oldfashioned clothes.

Before he could speak, she said, "You need to slow down. Your mother is already gone."

And then she was gone.

He did slow down, disturbed by the encounter. He arrived at home around five AM to learn that his mother had passed away at three thirty AM--the very time the redhaired woman had appeared in his back seat.

She is no longer missing; her car, with her still in it, was finally located, in the deep water near the old power station. I wonder if she still slows reckless drivers on the River Road though, helping them avoid her fate.

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Thoughts and prayers for the family and colleagues of the redoubtable Tim Russert of NBC News, who died unexpectedly this afternoon. He was fifty-eight.


And on that note, fair thee well.

The past several days have been oppressively hot and humid, with temps in the nineties and the air so thick you could practically see what you were breathing should you have to go outside. It was good this morning to wake up to find the temperature some ten degrees cooler, the humidity somewhat less heavy and a lovely breeze blowing with just a faint hint of rain chill in it. Lord knows where it comes from--unless it's carried from the worrisome flooding rains in the Midwest; we've had only scattered thunderstorms bearing scant rain the past couple of weeks in the knobs.

The wind though makes it a good day to hang out laundry. My clothesline is on the east side of the house, a few feet from a gigantic weeping willow. This morning as I hung out shorts and tank tops and tee shirts the willow and the wind sang a soft duet; good balm for the soul.

As the day wears on tall clouds are starting to pile up in a ring around us; the meteorologists around are calling for a sixty percent chance of rain tomorrow. We can certainly use the rain, but I'm gonna leave my clothes on the line as long as I can, letting the sun bleach the whites and all of them absorb the soft scents of hay and flowers. I've always loved the smell of line dried wash. I could call it a link back to the old days of my ancestors, but it's more than that; it's a simple sensuous pleasure.



Later, dears. Fair thee well.

Also presently in bloom is the humble cow parsnip, also known as Queen Anne's Lace. Purists will argue that this royal name should only be applied to flowers with a spot of red in the very center. In legend, Queen Anne of England (1665-1714; reigned 1702-1714) was said to have been tatting lace one day when she pricked her finger with the sharp little instrument she was using, drawing blood and leaving a single red drop on the lace. Loyal and romantic subjects in America, seeing this lovely lacy flower, some with red spots at the blossom's very heart, named it in the queen's honor.

When I was a little girl attending Bible schools (a summer church activity, usually held on weeknights), one of my teachers taught us a way to cause Queen Anne's Lace to change color. She would cut off the stems at a good length, and we would set them overnight in cups of water mixed with food coloring. I seem to remember my favorites were blue, but by judicious mixing of the food coloring you could make any number of exotic colors. Miss Annabelle--that was her name; an elderly lady, long widowed, her children grown and moved away--was a memorable character for many reasons, but when I see Queen Anne's Lace I always remember her--and smile.

And until next time fair thee well.

Today these are in bloom. In our area they run through a whole range of pinks, from a soft champagne to Day-Glo. The most interesting shade is a sort of orangy-pink, like salmon. Native to Central and South America, these probably came here to our humid subtropical zone as an exotic and sort of went wild; they're more common on roadsides and in hedgerows than in yards.

Later! Fair thee well.