Family
Velma Tenpenny Sneed
By beauty standards of the time period my mother was considered very attractive, shaped well from head to toe, high cheek bones, shoulder length wavy hair, posed in photos as if she was mimicking aspiring Hollywood stars. Dotting high cheek bones with cheap red lipstick, rounding mouth and elongating her face, smoothed red dots into beautiful olive skin – a daily ritual along with her distinct habit of slow flutter blinking. She cared deeply about her image and how others perceived her – I hate that trait in myself.
Ossie and Vestel Tenpenny
William and Lucy Morris
Fortunately, two sets of grandparents provided much-needed calm and security I longed to embrace, although neither was perfect. My father’s parents lived in the same community as we did a few miles away – my mother’s parents lived in Murfreesboro, Tennessee. Both prepared delicious southern food, homemade desserts, and my father’s parents bought my winter coat each year. There was a stark contrast in behavior between both sets of grandparents. My local grandmother cursed a lot, but in a funny type manner – a habit of her everyday life and she was hilarious in many ways too.
Uncle Bill Spann and my mother
My aunt Lora, called Pat by my family, uncle Bill, and two cousins, Janice, and little Bill lived in an area named Spanntown. I continually looked forward to visiting these two cousins. Janice was a few years older and Little Bill one year younger than me. Throughout the years of our growth, we developed a closeness that has lasted to this day – separated now by an eleven-hour drive, flying my preference. For two boys the Spanntown farm served us a perfect landscape to romp and play until late evening. My cousin Bill knew every square yard of the massive spread dotted by cow patties. From one cow pond to the next, to the barn loft, then across several fields, we explored, pretended, created to our heart’s content – his faithful bird dog on our heels. We circumnavigated acres and acres of rich soil far from watchful eyes. There was no better place for two boys to grow and discover life. At the house we did the same – endless hours of imaginary fun and discovery.
So, how much of my intent is seeking acceptance as a father? A pink transistor, meager at best, yet profoundly important because it branded my heart. I’ve now created the same for my daughter but with different elements – result the same – heart branding can last a lifetime. One of my favorite photos is a casual pose of my daughter and me decked out in gameday garb, she’s about five years old, both of us holding up a number one finger smiling proudly for our winning team. That’s precisely what I desired as a child and the most important reason I was intentional – even though my motivation was tainted by a desire to be accepted. I created prized moments so that when I’m no longer she will reflect on the cherished photo and revive a warm memory that began many years ago.
Saturday football game day
Wedding and burial clothes…
“I feel like the last rose of summer.” Where did that poetic phrase come from? I had never heard my mother use that phrase nor did she ever wax poetic. She didn’t read books and especially not poetry. Did she somehow know Thomas Moore’s 1805 poem from somewhere in her past? Perhaps her mother used the phrase. She loved growing flowers until she was no longer able, but I remain baffled by the elegant last exclamation of fading rose consciousness. Tim used the elegant phrase as a theme for her eulogy. Everything he spoke about the last rose touched my heart in the brief moments as he stood next to her white coffin with soft touches of pink on every angle – most importantly, his words avowed her last moment in the spotlight. I’m constantly amazed and mystified by an intricate weaving of lives and how at just the precise moment certain people enter your world and provide exactly what you need – my experience for numerous junctures of life. The very reason he was able to deliver as I knew he would, Tim perfectly understood and without condition accepted me.
Standing between two rectangle grave markers bearing names of my parents, a letter written to my father in hand – I read aloud. Used proper inflection for certain phrases and words, and when I mentioned my mother, I glanced to the left at her grave marker as if she was listening. My voice lowered when on the other side of a new chain link fence that replaced the stone wall, an elderly lady walked her black English bulldog for a potty break. I glanced at her, she glanced at me, I wanted to yell, go back in the house, stop spoiling my private moment. Looked back at my letter without pause and thought how the ordinariness of life has a way of balancing solemn moments. I finished reading with little emotion – paused briefly to inhale and exhale fresh morning air – peered across the peaceful setting, manicured grass wintered brown by cold.
Chapter: Sudden Death
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