Southern Gothic

Yesterday my mother hosted brunch to celebrate Easter. There were about ten of us, including her priest, Father McDreamy they call him, two couples and another woman. It was a cast of characters that could only be assembled in a place like Savannah.

Early in the morning my husband told me he understood what was going on with me and my mother. He said I was like the herding dog tasked with looking after stray cattle. My mother and son are co-conspirators, the stray cattle. They make fun of my worrying and general anxiety associated with leaving the two of them alone together. The thing is I have good reason to be anxious. There are several examples on record of my leaving them alone and something bad happening. In all fairness, the same is true for all the grandparents. I love a metaphor with me as the dog.

We assembled at two in the afternoon. My mother wanted me to barbecue lamb. I have never cooked lamb, I never eat it and I don't own a charcoal grill. She assured me another guest was an expert and I needn't worry. The other guest was not an expert and I did worry. I asked the Father to bless the grill, he did and things worked out all right.

One of the couples lived in Paris for many years. I lived in Paris for one year as a student. The wife was not happy to be back in the US particularly back in Statesville, Georgia where they own a 6,000 square foot home in the middle of nowhere. They also own a home in nearby Thunderbolt which is apparently more to her liking. They were both very stylish if not over the top for a brunch in my opinion, but my taste runs to the very casual. I rarely get out of jeans. This couple bickered much of the afternoon, she having very clear disdain for living in the boonies of Georgia after spending 25 years on the Boulevard Saint Germain. The husband is from Statesville and quite ill. He decided to come home to ride out the rest of his life and his wife wanted no part. I sat next to him and she was across from me.

At one point, the husband realized he'd lost his wedding band. I began a frantic search only to find out later his wedding ring was not from his current wife but from his first wife which would explain why she, the second wife, showed so little interest in finding it. Who keeps his wedding ring from the first marriage and carries it forward to the second? I didn't ask.

The other couple was equally interesting. The wife was from South Dakota. She brought these delicious dumplings she said were the equivalent of Russian ravioli. Her mother in South Dakota made them and shipped them to her for the occasion. Delicious. Her husband was a pistol, making fun of my mother's manic behavior so of course I was a big fan. Then Father McDreamy and one other woman rounded out the crew. This other woman was from Fairfield, Connecticut where I now live. When she walked in, I thought wow, another over the top 60-something with her huge sunglasses and big jewelry. But the more we talked, the more I liked her.

And so it unfolded, from the Parisian couple and their little dog, to my mother, her friend from Fairfield and the couple from the Great Plains. Did I mention the little dog walked in the house and immediately wee'ed on the carpet? Orleans, the little dog from Chartres, did that several times and also took a poo that my mother's dog graciously ate to cover up her tracks.

All and all it went fairly well in spite of the lost wedding ring, the pee and poo, the mysterious reference to the 60 something's husband's death by accident and my feeble attempts at lamb grilling. My son was the only child as is often the case. He did dump his entire ginger ale all over the dining table. But he held his own until the end of the night when he started having asthma again.

My mother gets very agitated because my son has asthma. My entire family has asthma. My mother outgrew hers. My father's family moved from Ohio to Texas for the dry climate. He outgrew it. My brother outgrew it. I still have it and so does my son. Everyone else in my family wants to push my son to outgrow it. I wish he would too. I really do, but so far it's not happening. So my mom was pissed at me for giving my son a breathing treatment with the nebulizer. I don't really get it but because of this behavior (wishing to ignore the asthma) and the other grandparents' behavior, my son has wound up in some type of emergency care on more than one occasion.

My son was so upset he started crying. I thought my mom and I were going to get into it again. We often get into it to the point where we typically go for some period during every year not speaking. I have three more days here in Savannah so I was hoping to stave off a major argument until I was leaving. But that may not happen. I may have to kill her before we leave.

In the meantime, it's all very Southern here with the wedding ring feud bubbling just below the surface, my mother and her agitation about my son's asthma, all of this being pushed below the surface because by all means we have to be well-mannered. There are many times when I miss the South, particularly the weather, and today was a spectacular example of the weather. But the stifling and the bullshit I can do without.

I can see why so many great writers come from the South. There's so much material. There are so many characters. The place writes itself. But this place is not for me. I've kept secrets my entire life. I've stifled and been well-mannered. But it's not for me.

A close friend once said to me I have no filter. I was offended because I obviously don't think that is a good thing. Still at this point, I'm starting to think I don't give a shit. I don't want to keep the secrets. I want to know why the man still has his wedding ring from his first marriage. I want my son to be able to say he's got asthma and not have to hide the fact we're doing something about it. I want to say what's on my mind, write about it and have a good laugh later.