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Posts Tagged ‘essay’

A Conversation Among the Generations – Kelly Corrigan

Monday, February 23rd, 2015

9780345532855 (1)Kelly Corrigan’s “Glitter and Glue” – now in paperback – is about who you admire and why, and how that changes over time. Read the conversation between her mom and children and see if you can recognize any of these generational differences in your own family!
 
 
 

 
 

 
 

A Conversation Among the Generations

July 26, 2014

Last summer, the girls and I visited my parents at Wooded Lane. On our last night (of possibly a few too many), we were told to meet in the TV room at 4:55 p.m. to watch a horse race, one of my mom’s favorite things to do, though after fifty-two years as my father’s wife, she has acclimated to all spectator sports (not to mention all sports commentary, e.g., ESPN’s Pardon the Interruption). “Our horse is number seven, Sierra Alpha,” Jammy explained, because Sierra Alpha was trained by her best friend’s grandson. Turns out, our horse ran a strong race to finish second. Things were looking up.

We moved to the kitchen table for drinks (the girls had the sugar-free cranberry juice my mother bought to placate me) and to play a few rounds of Rummikub. Claire, eleven, won repeatedly, while Georgia, nearly thirteen, pretended not to care. We switched then to King and Scum, a card game Tracy Tuttle and I learned from some Sigma Chi’s in college. Hanging over my head was an assignment from Jen Smith, my editor, God love her, who had asked me more than once if I might be able to capture a conversation with my mom to include in the back of the paperback. I explained to her that this sort of thing—introspecting about interpersonal relationships—ran a high risk of making my mom’s skin visibly slither, but alas, I love Jen Smith, not to mention my readers, so I tried. Here’s what happened:

Me [opening my laptop]: So, Ma, I gotta ask you a few questions before we leave tomorrow.

Jammy [ignoring me, talking only to the girls, referring to her black T-shirt that says grandmas gone wild in small rhinestones affixed by a professional grade BeDazzler]: I wore my diamonds tonight. Don’t you like my diamonds?

Claire: I love them. Jammy’s gone wild.

Me: Nice, Ma.

Georgia [looking up from her cell; frowning at my fingers as they skip around the keyboard]: Mom, you aren’t putting this all in your thing, are you?

Me: Yes, all of it. Okay, so Mom, what are some of the differences between my mothering style and yours?

Jammy [eyeballing my laptop]: I don’t use my computer 7/24.

Georgia [laughing]: Jammy, it’s 24/7!

Claire: 7/24! Jammy said 7/24—

Jammy: 24/7! Whatever. Just wait till you get old.

Me: So, yes, okay, well, other than computers and technology—

Jammy: And iPhones . . .

Me: And iPhones, yes. But all that’s my whole generation. What are some of the more specific differences between the way you and I parent?

Jammy [shuffling the deck, ready to be done with this nonsense]: I think you have more highs and lows than I had. I was more even-keeled. More down the middle. I think you’re very easy sometimes, and then at other times you get very worked up, more stressed, more agitated.

Me [deciding whether to push back or quietly take offense]: Okay, interesting. Duly noted. Moving on: Who do you think was more strict—you or me?

Georgia: Jammy is definitely more strict.

Jammy: Don’t say more strict, Georgia. It’s stricter.

Claire: Me too. I think Jammy is more strict.

Jammy: Stricter, Claire. For heaven’s sake, Kelly, do these girls learn grammar in school?

Georgia: We’re on vacation.

Jammy: Grammar never takes a vacation.

Me [ignoring the grammar talk, except to recall with a smile my backup idea for a title, Poetry and Prose]: Really girls? You don’t think I’m stricter?

Georgia [looking at me]: I’ve had Jammy as a grandmother and she’s way more stricter than you.

[My mother and I share a long, surprised look. Absurd, our expressions say in unison. Jammy is a fool for my girls, an absolute bleeding heart.]

Me: Compare me as a kid and the girls now. How was I different?

Jammy: They’re full of it, I’ll say that, but you were very opinionated. You let me know exactly what you thought about everything. Every. Little. Thing.

Greenie [having wandered over, now laughing in agreement]: You were very verbal, Lovey.

[We are all smiling now. I’m still “verbal.” An easy joke among my friends is that where any crowd gathers—a line at Target, say—I’m liable to flip over the nearest shopping basket and speak out on some issue that I’ve been working through, and I’m always working through some issue.]

Claire: I have a question. What’s the hardest part about being a mom?

Me: I hate not knowing what to do. There’s a lot of times that I don’t know what to do. I thought I was going to be more sure—

Jammy: More sure? Good grief. Surer.

Georgia: Oh my God, Jammy.

Jammy: God? Are we going to church? Are we praying now?

Me [addressing Claire]: I thought I would be surer. But then, and this happens all the time, some situation will bubble up and I’ll be totally lost, or torn. Like you’ll ask to go to some concert, or for some expensive flat iron, and I don’t know whether to give it to you or not. I can’t even decide how late to let you stay up on a school night. And I don’t know how to teach you about money, like whether or not you should have an allowance, how many chores, how many bathing suits.

Georgia: More than one!

Me [suddenly really needing to get this out]: And I often don’t know what’s fair to expect of you, like whether I should punish you for losing your Stanford sweatshirt or forgetting to feed the dog . . . I mean, I lose things. I forget things.

[Georgia nods as if she’s been waiting for me to notice this for years.]

Me: I know I have to pick my battles—I get that—but I find it hard to figure out which ones to pick. [To my mom] You knew, Ma. You always knew. You were dead sure.

Jammy: No, I wasn’t. Never. [I am wide-eyed.] I pretended.

Greenie [looking at me]: She pretended. She pretended beautifully.

Me: Wow. I’m stunned.

Georgia: You don’t pretend, Mom. I can totally tell when you don’t know what to do.

Me [still staring at my mother]: You were bluffing?

[Claire burps.]

Jammy: Very ladylike.

Georgia: Jammy, Claire burps 7/24.

Jammy: Very funny.

Georgia: One thing about you as a mom, Mom, you’re very open with us. You’re, like, emotionally open. I can read you. Like, I know when you say Dad and I are going to talk about it, that means you don’t know what to do.

Claire: And you’re very open to our ideas.

Georgia: Oh, I totally disagree.

Claire [to Georgia]: No, she negotiates. Like if we want a new lacrosse stick or an app, we can try to cut a deal.

Georgia: She’s a compromiser, I guess, sometimes. Except when the wall comes down—like when we wanted to watch Step Brothers, and then, no way, you are not open for business.

Claire: Yeah, you have two sides to you. Your right side and your left side. [Cracking up.]

Georgia: Oh my God, Claire.

Jammy: We certainly are praying a lot tonight, aren’t we?

Me [giving the hush-up wave to the girls]: Okay, Ma, did you ever think I would be a writer?

Jammy: Definitely. You loved to write. Even when you worked at United Way, I still thought you would be a writer. You were very expressive. You are very expressive. [Handing Georgia a few plates] Take this over, Sugar.

Georgia: One sec.

Jammy [feigning shock]: Excuse me? You know what I used to tell your mother: Obey instantly, without comment.

Georgia [taking the plates over to the sink]: More strict.

Claire [to Jammy]: Who is more difficult to take care of: us or your kids?

Jammy: Well, I can spoil you girls. With your mother and your uncles, I had to constantly say No. That’s the job. I was the glue.
[I’m nodding. Glitter and Glue was definitely the right title]

Jammy: Being a grandmother is wonderful. [Looking at me, bemused] Shame there’s only one way to get here. [To the girls] You are the glitter of our golden years.

Greenie: That’s what we say, Lovey: Our grandchildren are the glitter of our golden years.

Me: Is there anything I do that makes you think, Oh, she got that from me?

Jammy [flatly]: No. I can’t think of anything.

Me: Really?

Jammy: Not my religion, you barely know who Barry Goldwater was, and you don’t play bridge.

Me: Don’t you think I got the whole girlfriend thing from you? The Pigeons . . .

Jammy [brightening]: Yes! There’s something. Definitely. When I see you with Betsy or Tracy or Michelle Constable, I think, She’s a Pigeon-in-Training.

Me: Anything else?

Jammy: No.

Me: Okay, so how were you different with me than with Booker and GT?

Jammy: I don’t know. I didn’t raise the three of you the same.

Me: Right. So how?

Jammy: I don’t know. You needed different things.

Me: Like . . . ?

Jammy: Oh I don’t know. [Waving me off] I don’t like these conversations. It’s like you watching Bill O’Reilly. I don’t make you watch Bill O’Reilly, do I?

Me: You’re not going to answer these questions, are you?

Jammy: Let’s just play cards. Can’t we just play cards?

Me: Sure.

I asked her the next morning if she was glad I turned out to be a writer. She said, “Sure, I guess.” Suddenly anxious, I asked her if she ever wished that I didn’t write Glitter and Glue. “Absolutely not. I love that book. I think it’s your best one.” I said, “Well, I would think so. I mean, it’s all about you.” But she assured me that her assessment had nothing whatsoever to do with her portrayal as a tireless maternal genius. She just thought my writing “had gotten a lot tighter.”

After a pause, her hands back in the sink, where there were dishes to be done, she said, “Now can this be over?”

Now this can be over, Ma. Except to include this final photo of a vivacious knockout in her prime, a frank and complicated woman I would have loved to have been seated next to that evening, to have known as a peer, so that maybe it wouldn’t have taken me forty years to appreciate her properly.

An Essay from Fannie Flagg

Friday, July 25th, 2014

Flagg_AllGirlsWriting The All-Girl Filling Station’s Last Reunion

(An essay as originally published on SouthernLiving.com)

Even after writing eight novels, I am still mystified at the process of writing. Where do the ideas for books really come from? Do writers come up with the ideas on their own? Or are they sent to us from somewhere, or someone, else?

I do know that the idea for Fried Green Tomatoes was literally handed to me in a shoebox. My grandmother’s youngest sister, Bess, ran a little railroad cafe in Irondale, Alabama, a small town on the outskirts of Birmingham. I was raised in the city, and when I was a child I used to love to go out and visit the cafe. At the time, the cafe seemed to be one of the happiest places in the world. Not only was Aunt Bess hilariously funny, but the fried green tomatoes were delicious!

When I was eleven, we moved away from Birmingham, and I only saw Aunt Bess a few more times, but I had grown up hearing stories about her that I would never forget—stories of how her humor and generous spirit had helped everyone in the town get through the Great Depression.

After high school and one year of acting school, I headed to New York and got caught up in my own life, as we do. Years later, somewhere along the way, I remember hearing from my mother that Aunt Bess had sold the cafe. Then one day came the sad news that she had passed away.

Over a decade later, on a nostalgic trip back home to Alabama, I decided to drive out and see the old cafe and say hello to the McMichael family, who had bought the little cafe from Aunt Bess. After I visited the cafe, I thought I might drive by the old family home across the railroad tracks, where Bess had lived.

When I knocked on the door, a lady answered. I introduced myself as Bess’s niece. She knew who I was and said, “Oh, Fannie, I’m so glad you stopped by. Before she died, your Aunt Bess left you something and she asked me to make sure it got into your hands. I’ve been keeping it for you for all these years.” I was dumbfounded. I couldn’t imagine what it could be.

As it turned out, what Aunt Bess had left me was a shoebox full of memorabilia from her life—old photos, her birth certificate, recipes, a child lock of hair, and programs from the funerals of her cooks who had worked for her for over forty years. At the time, I was struck that a small box of papers was all that was left of a life that had been so full and had meant so much to so many people. I thanked the lady and left, but I was still baffled why Aunt Bess wanted me to have these things. She had so many other nieces and nephews that she was much closer to. Why had she left those things to me? I can’t say for sure, but from that shoebox came the book Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe.

Cut to 1999. I was living in California, and one day quite out of the blue, I called Mrs. McMichael in Alabama, the new owner of the cafe, to ask her a question. By then, because of the success of the movie, the cafe had become somewhat of a tourist attraction. When we were talking, Mrs. McMichael said, “Oh, by the way, we have quite an interesting group coming in for lunch today. They are the last living members of the WASPs, who are in town for a reunion.”

Intrigued, I asked, “Who are the WASPs?”

It’s a bunch of gals that used to fly military planes during the Second World War.”

I had never heard of the WASPs before, but being a white-knuckle flyer, I was very impressed and decided to buy the gals lunch. They earned it!

I had completely forgotten all about it until a year later when I was sent a book about the WASPs written by Nancy Batson Crews. Nancy had been at the reunion lunch at the cafe that previous year. At this time, I was in the middle of writing a book and didn’t have time to sit down and read it, but I did look at the photographs and was fascinated about the idea of maybe writing about the WASPs one day.

Almost twelve years later, I had finished I Still Dream About You and, as usual, I was wandering around the house, trying to come up with an idea for a new book. I suddenly found myself staring at my bookcase, and I spotted the book about the women service pilots. I opened it and saw a handwritten message to me that was written by Nancy Batson Crews’s co-writer.

Fannie,

Nancy Batson Crews’s final instructions to me when I left her for the last time were to put an autographed copy of The Originals in your hands. She so appreciated the reunion luncheon at the cafe! I will sign both our names on the title page, as she would have done had she lived long enough.

Thank you from the surviving WASPs.
Sarah Byrn Rickman and Nancy Batson Crews

Needless to say, when I read that note, my hair stood up. Why had I not seen this before? Was it a coincidence that I happened to call the cafe on that particular day in 1999? Was it a coincidence that years later, I happened to pick up that particular book? And if Aunt Bess had not left me that shoebox, would the WASPs have been at that cafe for lunch? Would I ever have known about these brave women if they hadn’t been there the day I called? What is fate and what is simply luck?

Of course, I can’t know anything for sure, but sometimes I wonder if some stories just want to be written and they go out looking for someone to write them. I believe this one did, and I hope you think so too.

Send Fannie a note on her Facebook page!

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