Bloodlines & brine

It’s Christmas Eve, and I’m standing in my kitchen taking inventory of everything I haven’t done.

The tree is up, but it’s naked. No lights. No ornaments. No ribbon. I haven’t begun cooking any dishes for tomorrow, baked a single dessert, or even pretended I have my act together this year. It’s the first Christmas I can remember where I’m not prepared, not decorated, not ahead of anything. It’s been a hard stretch with deaths, losses, mountains that didn’t move quickly or quietly — and if I’m honest, the last twenty-plus years have taken more out of me than I care to admit.

I should be thinking about all that. Instead, all I can think about is the fact that when I walk across my kitchen, my thighs don’t threaten to start a brush fire anymore.

Eighty-nine pounds gone.

In a year full of hard things, that’s one thing that’s gone right. I finally kicked part of my own problem in the rear end. And as I’m standing there noticing space where there used to be friction, noticing mobility I haven’t felt in years, I take a step, then another, and suddenly, for no apparent reason other than I can, I kick my leg up really high — high enough to surprise me — then stretch and walk it off. And right there, in my kitchen, it hits me that this is very familiar and I’ve seen it before.

I’m thinking of Molly Shannon from Saturday Night Live… specifically, that character who announces she’s fifty and likes to stretch and kick, Sally O’Malley. And it makes perfect sense, because I’m fifty-three, which is basically fifty with more opinions and better shoes. Of course I’m kicking. Of course I’m stretching. Apparently, this is what freedom looks like at this age. And I already own the animal-print purse and the red tight britches.

Which makes me think of another Molly Shannon character — Mary Katherine Gallagher — because I don’t know anyone who can imitate her like my cousin “Kate” — and yes, her name is changed to protect the innocent and the professionally employed. But if you know, you know.

Kate could become Mary Katherine on command, especially on a late Friday evening after a few cocktails. The voice, the movements, the volume — she had it down perfectly. And Kate isn’t just my cousin. She’s been my best friend longer than anyone else. Ride-or-die before I even knew we were kin.

We met in college. I had a car and no job. She had a job and no car. It was a perfect arrangement. We spent all our time together until one weekend I told her I couldn’t hang out because I had a family reunion. She said she was about to tell me the same — and was going to ask if gas money might get her a ride to hers.

Long story short, what are the chances two best friends, one from Florida and one from Georgia, both had family reunions in the small community of Cotton, Georgia? Not great. But that’s exactly how we found out we were cousins. Her grandmother was my grandmother’s daddy’s sister. Family all along, just separated by a state line. We were best friends before we ever knew we shared blood, which somehow made the friendship and bond make more sense.

Back then, Kate was super sweet and sort of quiet when not partaking in a toddy. But that partaking could flip a switch in her that turned the volume all the way up. I was the opposite — more vocal by nature, but could be a wee bit calmer once you add libations. Together, we evened each other out in the worst possible ways. And we had a blast!

And she was loyal. No questions asked. If I had a problem with someone in town, Kate had the same problem. If I reacted, she reacted right along with me. If you’re from a small town in the South, then you know exactly what I mean. There were conflicts — the kind young girls get into when maturity hasn’t arrived yet. And yes, there was a moment involving flipped birds and public foolishness that later came back around in the most humbling way imaginable.

Nothing will mature you faster than realizing you once acted like an idiot toward someone you now have to face with manners and humility — like meeting your child’s kindergarten teacher and realizing it’s one of those girls on the receiving end of our shenanigans. I’ve apologized before. I’ll probably do it again.

But it’s all part of growing up.

After long Friday and Saturday nights, we’d sometimes end up at Denny’s. I wanted some coffee and pancakes with a side of bacon — survival food. Kate wanted a burger with extra pickles. She’d put the pickles on my plate and demand I throw them at her so she could catch them in her mouth. If I refused, she got louder. And louder. And louder.

Eventually, I’d throw the dang pickle just to restore peace.

Her alter ego, SUPERSTAR, would follow. Public embarrassment achieved. Order restored.

Then there was Voodoo Village.

Every small Southern town has a place like that — dirt roads, an open fence, cow skulls on either side, just for decoration, of course. People made up scary stories because they were bored. Folks rode out there acting the fool and got run off by residents who were tired of nonsense. Nothing truly scary. Just country people protecting their land.

I had heard all the lore through high school, and had even been brave enough to ride down the dirt road once as a senior in high school. But I turned back as soon as I saw the skulls. Mama didn’t raise no fool.

But then fast forward a couple of years, and I realize that’s the very place Kate lived. Following suit, there were still shenanigans, but now, as a resident.

For Kate’s birthday one year, we decided to have a party out there at her place. People piled into that little country trailer, alcohol flowed, and at some point we decided everyone should get in the garden tub — clothes on — and fill it with water, which became beer, and probably a little bit of bourbon. We played hide-and-go-seek outside afterward, running around soaked in the cold wind, but seemingly invincible.

When everyone finally left the party, Kate and I were still wired. Her roommate was a saint of a girl who worked at Captain D’s and regularly brought us leftover fish and shrimp at closing time so we wouldn’t starve — and she owned one thing she loved immensely — a giant beanbag. You know the kind, the really nice ones everyone had in the 80s with the vinyl covering and those little white styrofoam balls inside. Want to know HOW I know what’s inside?

We decided to run across the room and belly-flop onto it to see who could slide the farthest down the hallway. We did it so many times the beanbag busted. Those little white styrofoam balls covered the trailer from one end to the other. Years later, they said they were still finding those tiny balls.

When Kate’s roommate came home from work carrying her bag of fish and shrimp, she just stood there staring at what looked like snowfall indoors. I thought she might cry. Forty years later, we still say we’re going to buy her a beanbag for Christmas. We really should do that.

Some debts never fully get paid.

Time has passed. Kate grew up. I grew up. She’s polished now. Very respected. In charge of big things in a big place. Super responsible. The people who know her now would never believe a word of this. And honestly, that’s probably for the best.

But I was there.

And if you ever doubt it, just toss her a pickle.

Some things don’t leave the bloodline.