Roanoke

Many many ...oh many years ago, we used to travel to Roanoke Virginia on a fairly regular basis. See, that is where our family lived. Meemaw and Papaw lived there, Uncle Jack and Aunt Judy lived there, along with a smattering of other family members who always showed up to check out the next generation of "Atkins' Kids" It wasn't the best place in the world to vacation, nor was it always the easiest family visit of the year, but it WAS family, and I have many fond memories that I would like to share with the younger set of my family who missed out on knowing these folks as well as i did.
The apartment I remember was small, dark, near a fire station, and had a LONG narrow staircase. The bathroom I remember had a very old, deep clawfoot tub. It was HOT, box windows fans will take me back to that place every time. :)
We were always greeted with Hugs, and the smell of something wonderfully southern cooking for dinner. There was a certain scent, a mixture of cigarette smoke, grease, and sausage gravy. It was wonderful to me, it meant i was with Meemaw, and Papaw, and Uncah Zak! I was one of his favorite kids, he loved to swing me around by arms and give me airplane rides, which I am pretty sure Mom scolded him for, since he DID do it in the hall pretty close to the steps.:)
I remember fishing, Dad and Jack went fishing, and sometimes we got to go. I remember walking to the corner market with Meemaw, and being in awe of "city life".
I remember two pictures on the wall, of my twin Aunts, not that much older than me really, I would try to remember meeting them, imagining where they were, what they were doing, amazed by tenia who was in the Navy. I didn't know girls did that! :)
I remember playing yahtzee, lots of coffee, and Papaw "bein' crazy" as meemaw would say. He just wanted to show Eric how to target shoot. Guess she didn't like him doing it into trash cans in the alleyway two stories down. :)
Lots of my memories of them there are fragments of moments, little things, smells and words. Whenever we play yhatzee, or sit around drinking coffee and tellin' stories, when i make a perfect batch of buscuits or fabulous sausage gravy, i think of them. Meemaw would be proud, papaw woudn't tolerate that, Uncah Zak would be laffin' When we played Yhatzee, Meemaw, when she got a good roll, she'd say "thank ya" Dad and papaw would get "all fired up" over how "some people" grouped cards in Gin Rummy. Unle Jack would just laugh.
We lost Uncah Zak last week. SO sad, and sudden. I kept seeing his laughing face, hearing his raspy voice on the phone ... "Hey Sara! This is yer Uncah Zak! How's mah Princess doin?" Roanoke feels a little empty now, we were there, and nothing is the same to me, except ... the star, on the hill. A big white star sits on the hill illuminated every night. SOme things don't change.
As we went our ways one night this weekend, My cousin Patrick and I had the same thought. Meemaw and Papaw and Jack, they were in heaven, with endless coffee, and probably just breaking out the yhatzee dice.

Flowers by the wayside .....

My son calls me impatiently from his car seat ..
"Mommy! What are you doing?"

That's a good question, WHAT am i doing?? I'm wading through waist high weeds, I'll probably go home with ticks, or worse, poison ivy! UGH. Then, i see it, the reason I am here ..... and I laugh, as a memory comes spilling over me.

Many many years ago, how many exactly need not be said, however, it was the year I graduated from High school, I also sat in a car, calling to my mother,
"MOM! Are you for real? Will you get in the car? This is nuts! People will see you!"

See, I was home schooled, and that makes my "graduation" something unique. I was the only member of the class of 1995. I also didn't really finish till sometime in June. So, my party was July, with a lovely 4th of July theme. My parents still had two kids in school, and two more upcoming, and the oldest ready to go into the Army. Dad was a full time National Guardsman, Mom was obviously a full time stay at home mom, and schoolteacher. Money wasn't something that flowed in our house, we were creative, we made every penny stretch.

So, when it came to decor, and flowers, My mother had a brainstorm. Somewhere, in the fields below My dad's Armory, were huge patches of Black eyed Susans. Wouldn't they be lovely with the red white and blue? Oh yes, they will, lets go get some!

This is how I found myself sitting in the van, with the patience of an 18yr old who thinks she is the smartest most important person alive, totally embarassed by my mom, wading out into the knee deep weeds, and coming out with armfulls of flowers. Stalks nearly as tall as her, with the roots and all still attatched. SHe dragged them over, and put them in her nice new van, dirt and all.

As we drove home, she with a VERY smug smile on her face, and me shaking my head and giggling, she told me a story, about HER mother, my Nana. My Nana was a lover of flora, she could grow anything, she loved beautiful flowers, and she rarely denied herself. She had a habit of driving along, seeing flowers she liked and hoping out of the car to pick them. Wild or not, they were beautiful, and she wanted them in her house. LOL The ones I remember were Cattails and Pussy willows, she showed me the places to go to find them, and how to pick them.

My Graduation Party was perfect, and the table was lovely, all red white and blue, and splashed with the bright yellow flowers. I will never look at them without thinking of that day, and My mom. I guess it's where I got the "bug" for flowers, for wild ones, I guess it's why I find myself out in this feild in late July,picking these black and yellow flowers, as my children sit and wonder why their Mommy is nuts.

Even for my wedding, the church was decorated with flowers grown in a friends garden, specifically for the event. Recently i heard a rumor that my mother stopped on the way to the annual church campout, with my cousins little girl in the car, welcome to our family heather! See, you can't pick the flowers in the state park, you get in trouble for it, My sister found THAT out. So, my mom stopped on the way, by the side of the highway and picked a little bouquet for her Campsite picnic table. The funny thing was, this story was forming in my mind the week before, and when I got to camp and heard the story, I was convinced this had to be documented. It doesn't seem this trend is ending anytime soon.

Florida ....part one.....

Huh, i looked up this car model, and now it looks REALLY old LOL. AT the time however, it was fabulous, shiny and brand stinkin new. :)
So, anyway, we went on a trip once, a long time ago, the summer after Amy was born actually. Mom, Eric, Matt, Baby Amy, Aunt C, Kate, Chris and myself, all piled into a wagon much like this one, with leather seats and NO air conditioning, and headed down to Florida to visit out Grandpa Varnadore. (oh and it was August, with no AIr conditioning, but not that we knew we were missing it..... more on that later....)
So, a day or so or a few before we leave, one of the Dads is driving around with the car top carrier on, and a sudden gust of wind whipped up rte 12, along the river, and the top of the carrier flew off the car! Thankfully it didn't hit any other cars, however, it went for a swim, in the river, down the bank, it landed and floated away. FANtastic! Oh well, good thing Uncle CP is the Tarp king, we had to tarp and bungee the thing shut, and every stop, at every hotel, we undid it, took everything inside, and prayed it didn't rain. :)
It took us 3 days of driving down the eastern cost. We went through every state i think, we collected coloring books from each rest stop, i think we took pictures of us at every welcome sign or something like that. I don't remember alot about the driving itself, except that it was HOT, LOUD and leather seats were icky. I'm sure we did a fair shae of complaining, but someone commented that
"At least WE can open the windows! Look at that big car, they have to drive with the windows shut, imagine how hot they must be!"
It was then explained to us the wonder of Air conditioning.
The third row of seats sat backwards, so we all took turns sitting back there. That was the best place to sit! No baby, or annoying little Matt to bug you, it was harder for the Moms to see what we were doing, heeheheee, and you could throw paper airplanes out the window, and watch where they landed. Apeparently that's a little dangerous.
i remember at one stop Mom was changing the wee one's diaper on the front seat and mom turned away for a split second, and the little twerp rolled over, right out onto the pavement! Yeah, pretty sure she fell on her head ... explains alot huh? heeheehehee
I remember the Georgia welcome center, the big brick sign that had Cacti all around it. Mom Trying to take a picture of us all sitting on it, and then Mat falling backwards off of it, into the Native Shrubbery. OUCH!! That wasn't comfy with leather seats either :P I remember the Florida welcome center, and how they gave out OJ in little paper cups. I remember driving through Naples and stopping somewhere in toam, and seeing coconuts in palm trees towering over the cars parked along the street. Wondering if their car insurance covered falling coconuts.
I remember the feel of Grandpa's house. It was small, dark, a tad stuffy, low ceilings, and in the back yard, fruit trees. Limes, lemons, ornages, grapefruit, i think, lol all growing outside, pretty cool! it rained once every day, and after the rain, the newts and geckos came out to warm up and sun on the steps.
..... we had survived the three day trip, we were in Florida, and had many adventures ahead ....

to be continued........

Of Military Packing Habits

There is something intrinsically comforting about the smell of black shoe-polish, I have decided. When I was younger, dad was still in the National Guard, and while he never went overseas when I was around, there were still many long journeys to distant states for prolonged periods of time, for training, schooling, training others, and other things regarding the care, keeping and proper usage of large metal tanks. Dad became quite the expert on packing for these ventures, slight OCD and meticulous care serving him well in a military environment. He knew every trick for saving space, packing exactly what he needed, and had the whole process down to a flawless routine.

When I was quite small, I found this routine absolutely fascinating. I would watch as well-worn grey and white t-shirts got rolled up into neat rolls, everything that was in green camo flat and folded and packed neatly away. When dad brought out his shoe-shining kit, I’d be sure to have my little black mary-janes ready for him too, waiting alongside his big black combat boots. We’d usually had something on tv…Jeopardy, or Austin City Limits, depending on what night it was. And while country music played, I’d watch dad carefully shine his boots. When I was really little, I would pick out one of the rolled up t-shirts, and pretend it was a baby doll. When I was a little older, we’d try to see who could answer the most questions on Jeopardy. And the next day he’d be gone for a long time, and we’d all be a bit glum. But I always looked forward to the night before he left, and I always knew that no matter how long he was gone, he would still come home again.

A week ago, I found myself at the commissary again, buying those ever-familiar grey PT t-shirts, only now they said NAVY across the chest instead of ARMY (“I can’t fold over the R to make my name anymore!” “…What?” “Long story…”) . Whites and new running sneakers and many socks followed. A can of Kiwi black shoe polish was tossed into our cart. Ah, old friend, how I’ve missed you. That evening, I sat cross-legged on the floor of our apartment, helping Rick pack up his sea-bag. A.F.I was playing on the laptop and we were quizzing each other on obscure movie knowledge, as he polished his work boots, and I rolled up t-shirts. At one point, his friend James came by to pick something up, and saw me folding. “Wow, you’re good at that.” To which I responded, “I learned from the Master.”

That night the Husbot set out everything he would need for the next day, work uniform, watch, freshly polished shoes, socks, all in order where he would remember them. The next day he would be gone for a long time, and I’d be more than a bit glum. But I am comforted in a manner most familiar. I know that no matter how long he is gone, there will always be a meticulous shoe-polisher coming home to me.


~ Amy

Grandpa George

I wish you all had known my Grandfather Atkins. Actually, I wish I had known my Grandfather Atkins. He died when my father was still a young boy in 1938. I was named after my grandfather, George Clyde Atkins. George, I can handle, but the middle name of Clyde never did give me a “warm fuzzy.” I always thought of myself as a camel, from a popular song back in the sixties. I guess I resented being the kid that had to carry on the name for family’s sake. However, as I grew older, my opinion started to change.

The family, uncles & aunts, would visit and tell stories about my grandfather that would interest me. Such as examples of his honesty, or perhaps his work ethic which was certainly worthy of admiration. The stories that would interest me most were about the way he provided entertainment for the small community in which he lived and worked. He worked as a foreman on a modest but successful farm in rural Virginia. In the evenings families visited their neighbors more frequently than they do now. There were no TVs, or Stereos. Most families in the area were too poor to afford movies or dinning out. Even if they could afford it, such places weren’t available around Porter’s Crossroads, VA.

When families would visit my grandparents they would always ask my Grandfather George to tell them about the latest novel he was reading. From what I understand he had an appetite for reading the frontier novels of Zane Grey that was never satisfied. So he would tell the story. “Riders of the Purple Sage,” “The Last Trail,” and many others were always told with an intensity that kept listeners on the edge of their seats, even if they had heard his telling of the story before. Folks would listen for hours I’m told. One night he provided a special treat, according to my Uncle Jack,as he had just finished the novel “Tarzan.”

I came across some information about my Grandfather from an unexpected source one day. I’m sure it is the most precious bit of knowledge I will remember. I was seventeen years old at the time and very much into myself. The year was 1968. Integration in the Public Schools in Virginia was still something new that both Black and White kids were trying to get used to. I do think the kids were doing better at it than their parents, but that still remains to be seen even today. Anyway.

I was hitchhiking to football practice one day in the summer prior to the school year starting, when an elderly African-American couple stopped to give me a ride. I got into the back seat beside a young lad my same age who just happened to be member of the school basketball team, as well as a friend of mine. It turns out that the couple was his grandparents, so introductions were made.

The elderly gentlemen then asked me, “You must be the grandson of Mister George Atkins, correct?” I told him that I was, but that I never knew my Grandfather. He said, “I knew your grandpa, you should have known him, he was a good man.” He told me how his father and family would buy livestock in Wytheville. It was about a sixteen mile trip over a mountain trail. They would herd their horses and mules and drive them over the trail. He said, “We would always make sure to see that Mister George could go with us. Mister George would tell us all the stories that he could remember and we all laughed and had lots of fun. The trip always seemed too short. But the real reason that my daddy wanted Mister George with us was because he knew them White Traders weren’t going to try and cheat us with Mister George there.”

Nowadays I sit around and read Louis L’Amour or, perhaps, study my drama script. I think of how nice it would have been to have known and shared my Grandfather with my own family. But then sometimes I wonder; maybe my name isn’t all that I got from my Grandfather. I no longer despise my middle name, I’m thankful for it. I pray that God will let me live up to it.

Written by George Atkins 1-17-2008

Christmas Eve Luminaries

We lived on River Road South in Walpole N.H. Our cousins lived on Stagecoach Road in Westminster Vt. The two locations, as the crow flies, were a straight shot to each other. We could have walked to each other's houses almost, except for the half a dozen corn fields, woods, one small highway, a smaller road, oh yeah, and a River. :P
But, in the winter you could almost see their house through the leafless trees up on the mountain across the river. We had a tradition, Christmas Eve was Mom's night, she made a big dinner, with all the trimmings of Christmas, and the Plumleys came to our place and we played, exchanged gifts, giggled about secrets and made predictions about the next morning. Then the next morning, after the gift madness, and after Mom and Dad recovered with coffee, and after we were stuffed with Spice round cookies, we packed up our favorite new toys, and went to their house for Christmas Breakfast made by Uncle CP. Twas a fabulous tradition, and even with Grandpa visiting, or nasty weather, it never changed, every year the same, every year more and more fun.
One other thing never changed, the luminaries. Every year, at sunset on Christmas Eve, we would run to the windows and look out towards the Westminster side of the River, and you could see one by one, the little dits of light would start to light up making a long line through all the trees. Some years we were even able to pack up, and take a drive over there. Right down main street, (now main street Westminster was actually Rte5, it ran right through, with old town buildings on either side, with a couple churches, the post office, the Bates motel, ERM, the roadside inn, or whatever, and a smattering of giant, century old houses, untouched by time it seemed) So, all down the street, they had Luminaries, little paper bags with candles inside, starting at the first house, ending at the last house before the cornfields. Proper etiquette was to turn off your headlights, and drive slowly, to drink in all the atmosphere. The old houses decked to the max in classy greens and white lights.
I wish you all could remember Mom's candlelight Christmas Eve dinners, and Uncle CP's breakfast, and how Christmas felt back then, and of course, the Luminaries!

Cornfields

Where we grew up in New Hampshire, cornfields surrounded us nearly everywhere you looked. Our 200 year old house was smack-dab in the middle of a farming community, and though we weren’t exactly farm kids, we all got really familiar with the many moods and dispositions of cows, horses, sheep, dump trucks, tractors, and cornfields. We were polite trespassers in this gorgeously untouched area, our adventures tolerated by those who owned the dandelion fields, violet patches, perfect sledding hills, skating ponds, and cornfields around us.

To the west of our house lay a cornucopia of adventure. First there was a cow pasture, which was usually empty, but every so often housed a few cows or horses. Beyond that was a cornfield, which stretched out to what seemed like forever to a little girl. After the cornfield, there was a small field of alfalfa. And after that, the ground sloped down to the most forbidden shores of the Connecticut River. It was a test of bravery (and how much you wanted to push the parental boundaries) how far you would go. I only made it to the river once, and spent most of my playtime in the pasture. But oh, there were some great times in the cornfield.

I was usually the shortest of course, my three elder siblings towering over me in both age and wisdom (or so it seemed to me, from about age 5 to 10). It was easy to lose the annoying tag-along little sister amongst the cornstalks, but they put up with me nonetheless. We had epic adventures playing Marco Polo, nibbling on the forbidden veggies, and getting paper cut-esque wounds from flapping corn leaves. Once, when it was just my brother Matt and I, we trekked bravely through the maze together, he telling me we’d have a great surprise beyond it. I was about 7 or 8, and trusted him implicitly, following close behind him in the path he walked through the corn. We came out on the other side, to find the alfalfa thick, green, and smelling wonderful under the hot summer sunshine. It was about shoulder-high for me, the perfect height for us to stomp out our respective playhouses. And there we sat, on a bed of warm green leaves, watching clouds and corn leaves waving lazily over us, and probably getting bad sunburns.

The best time I ever had in that cornfield though was in the dead of winter, I think I was 8 years old. Every now and then, winter will thaw just enough to allow a rainfall or an icefall, and then freeze right back again, leaving a crust on the snow and roads that gives adults heartburn, and children glee. Of course, it’s never strong enough for you to actually walk on top of the snow...only this time, it was. On top of 16 inches of snow was a crust two inches thick of pure smooth frothy ICE. You almost could have strapped on your skates and skated on it. The huge hills left by the snowplow, which we’d dug snow forts into, were frozen solid and looked like Luke Skywalker’s house on Tattooine. And the cornfield, which had been nothing more than a wasteland of chopped stalks at that time of year, was now a vast smooth slippery glacier.

Sliding out on our boots, my sister Sara, Matt and I all slid into the field. There was one point where the gentle sloping of the field made a sort of slight valley, which wasn’t very obvious in the summertime, but on this frozen week it was perfect. Instead of a snowball fight, we sat on opposite hills and slid ice chunks across this giant smooth bowl at each other, dodging and laughing and falling over on our bums. At one point, I’m fairly certain my brother Matt used ME as a weapon, and slid me full force across the ice at my sister. Of course, this whole situation made our sledding hills in the field into veritable smooth death traps, from which there was no escape...but we’ll save that emotional trauma for another day.

I had an interesting experience, being in the middle. I have treasured memories of that house and those times with my older siblings, but my little brothers and I made new memories and new adventures here in the woods of Bomoseen, and I got to be the big sister using her littlest brother as a projectile for a few years. Still, I wish you could have known about the magic of those cornfields...