This Chick’s Story

Many vehicles ago, I drove a gray BMW wagon. It was my rite of passage gift to myself when I moved out of the mini-van. The wagon’s name was Peppi. She was low to the ground, a challenge to handle, a nice round rear end with lots of trunk space, a bit of a rough ride. We were perfect for each other. I LOVED her.

Once when driving 220 southbound, my children and I came into a storm and wham, hail started pounding us about the hood and fenders. Big hail. Armageddon hail. Peppi’s glasses fogged like a smoke stack inside and out. I could see nothing. I had to roll down my window and stick my head out into the storm as vehicles scattered for parking across median and shoulder.

I revisit this incident sometimes when I’m churning through life. Often the weather is clear and then suddenly out of nowhere, I’m flying like a bat out of hell into the smokestack fog. Much of what happens is going to happen. The only thing I truly own at times is my perspective. I may even have to stick my head out into the hail storm. Most of life, brothers and sisters, is in the view.

At my core, I’m a chick, too old to be a girl and too wild to be a lady. Women wears Maxi-pads, drink Maxwell House, and shop at JC Penney’s. Females go to Urgent Care because the antibiotic isn’t working on that rash “down there.” Of course, I’ve played all of these roles and done all of these things, but lately I’m happy to land squarely in the chick category.

Here’s my writing –  it’s not meant to be advisory or instructional or an exercise in slinging around wisdom. It’s just me and my ideas put into the form of words. I’m glad we’re here together.

R aised by chicks, I had eleven aunts. That crop of southern women brought almost fifty children into the space called our family. We were interchangeable, my cousins, siblings, and me. I’m not sure that my mom or aunts always knew exactly which among our herd they were hugging or whipping. And they were interchangeable too. You could run to any of them to kiss scraped knee skin or tattle transgressions. They were all in some way, those daughters of my grandparents, Calt and Myrtle and Daniel and NoraBelle, those daughters, they were all my mamas.

My mom and aunts raised husbands, raised hell, raised children, raised tobacco, raised glasses for toasts, raised swords to dragons, raised flags for freedom, raised hands with questions, raised voices with prayer. They made apple pies, made casseroles, made biscuits, made promises, made music, made love, made mistakes. They rolled hair, rolled cigarettes, rolled in laughter, rolled the dice, rolled their eyes, rolled through life. I learned from watching these mamas of mine that it’s possible to do it all alone, but why would you want to? Alone is lonesome. It’s at their feet that I learned to do what I do best … be a chick.

I  have chick friends. They are the people in my life who come running when shit goes down. Equipped with Bactine, Band-Aids, bail money, and Tito’s. They laugh and cry with me. They got me. I got them. We got each other.

So here’s to thoughts, lessons, musings, regrets, inspirations, and the comedic irony of this journey called life. Remember that this is one of many views. You are welcome here. I humbly and openly share my words and most anything I have, except maybe cake.