Rotunda

Today while editing, THE AVE MARIA DIARIES, I reread this entry to the blessed Mother and found it especially moving with the recent passing of Senator Kennedy. I was reminded, we didn't hear the word Rotunda once.

DADDY
Entry 6
Dear Mary, I hope you are not getting tired of me, but this is helping me remember that I am a good person. I am a good person. My Father, God Bless Him, was an enthusiast of learning as much as one could in a span of an hour. I realized, he had probably only had a few hours to learn anything, because he was always working. And before working, there was of course the war.
My Daddy was a hero to me even through our most brutal years, my early to late teens. Which is yet to come at this point so I will not divulge that yet. He was rock solid and looked at times like Charles Lindbergh or a young Marlon Brando. I couldn’t tell him those kinds of things because he didn’t like Charles Lindbergh, Marlon Brando or anyone remotely inclined to be famous. He hated the Kennedy’s, “ a brood of liberal Catholics out to ruin the world for the rest of the hardworking men and women of the world.” Therefore, it was to me a shock at President Kennedy’s assassination why our family stayed glued to the television, even eating all our meals on metal TV. Trays, watching for any hint of what might come next.
When I questioned my Daddy, “Daddy, why is Momma crying, I thought we didn’t like the Kennedy’s.”. He turned to me and said, “Kitty, not liking someone has nothing to do with respect. We don’t like the Kennedy’s but we will respect them by watching the proceedings from the rotunda and the actual funeral tomorrow.”
Rotunda.
That first magical word I learned of architecture and grace. Everyone had it on his or her lips that week.
Rotunda. Just saying the word gave one the feeling that they were special and somehow a part of the whole ceremony.
My Mother must have said the word a hundred times a day.
“Yes, the body is still in the Rotunda”. “No, they haven’t moved the body from the Rotunda.” “Did you see, Jackie as she walked in the Rotunda.”? For a nation obsessed with one single word it wasn’t long before the images of that great man lying in the Rotunda would bring to my mind the single most important thing my Daddy ever taught me. I may not like someone and may not like their politics, I may even despise the kind of person they are, but I will respect every man for exactly that reason alone-I am everyman.

To my Daddy, most people were pretentious and most people were on a path to hell. My Daddy had a hard time growing up. His Mother was a saint. Saint Maude. And his Father was an invisible devil. Not “The” Devil, but a devil just the same. Invisible, because he left my Daddy and his family while Daddy was a young boy. There were days when my aunts kept dust covers over the holes in the roof of their house so the “good” furniture wouldn’t be ruined in rainstorms. Days hadn’t always been bad. Before my Grandfather left, he had made a fortune in timber and actually owned the first automobile dealership in Tusckaloosa.

Although it was primarily a forbidden topic, my Aunt LeeLou confided in me one afternoon that there were apparently many “other” women involved and my Grandmother was a Saint so it took me years to fully understand the tragedy and the shame of it all for my Daddy.

My Daddy lived in the high school gymnasium his senior year in high school because his Mother and sisters moved to Birmingham and he was considered the most promising athlete to ever come along in Tuskaloosa County. Moving to Birmingham would have hindered his opportunity to receive a football scholarship to play at The University of Alabama in Tuskaloosa. So rather, than move with his family, he stayed behind living in the high school gymnasium. His “rent” was offset by the fact that he kept the furnaces churning on the cold winter nights. He did janitorial jobs and helped out where needed. I am sure that his only compensation for this sacrifice was the fact that the following year he would become a star running back at the University of Alabama. Fate had other ideas.
He graduated in May 1940 and he was admitted to the United States Army in June 1940. He never had the opportunity to play for The University of Alabama, but he had another dream by this time. He wanted to become a doctor and help people. He had recently gone through about of tonsillitis and had his tonsils removed. The surgery took quite a while to get over and it was during this convalescence that his body and mind helped him dream a new dream.
Again, fate intervened to make the outcome somewhat dismal in his mind. He returned from the war, penniless, like most young surviving WWII soldiers. He was a fast talker and had never met anyone who didn’t immediately love him or want to help him. He and his brother, Buddy, opened up a small little service station on the outskirts of the university outcroppings and name it Snappy Gulf. Known for the speed of service one received there it quickly became one of the most prosperous service stations in the whole state of Alabama. It became a bit of a service station and philosopher’s palace all rolled into one. My Daddy helped anyone he could, anytime he could. He believed in the common good of mankind, yet he had been around the block enough to realize that there were hustlers out there as well.
He served up gasoline with a moderate dose of philosophy. It didn’t matter if you wanted his advice or not, you got it. Life was, for him, a walking moral message.
He had seen the gore and violence of the war. He had lived in a high school gymnasium. He had lost his Father to the wiles and villains of the “other” women. In his heart, he wanted everyone to find what he had found.

Jesus.

How could you fault a man who had been on the other side and had miraculously found his way to the good side? It is just that along the way he misinterpreted the whole thing in the way the whore in church often does and did a 360 and anything that remotely resembled fun or a good time was the way of Satan.

My Daddy insisted no matter how poor or deprived our family was to become that we must always have a subscription to National Geographic. And so it was this very magazine that allowed my mind to expand and explore where most of my friends were totally obsessed with the Beatles and the frenetic crazy pace of 1965. I wanted more than romance and the fleeting fantasy of a group of English mop heads deciding my future. I wanted and desired more. I wanted to follow in the footsteps of Madame Curie or Lindberg. I wanted to discover new worlds like Columbus or plan and execute grand palaces like the Taj Mahal. National Geographic transported me to other worlds and I was determined to live in this life as someone. Not just an average run of the mill someone.
I totally desired, hoped for, and felt that I was entitled to something marvelous from life.

I was the Don Quixote of my peers, and though most of them had no idea who in the hell Don Quixote was, it did my heart good to know that I knew. For in this secret knowing, I had accomplished my hopes.
So, it was that church became to me that cool oasis of civility and creativity. Church, the building was the embodiment of what it was. A building, people and ideas. It should not be misunderstood that I ever got anything out of church because on the contrary I did.
I found God in Church and Jesus and all the saints, sinners, disciples and thieves that everyone else did. It was just that right away I knew that everyone had it all wrong. I just knew. It was like an innate gift that lived deep within me. A present from God Himself.
I told my Sunday School teacher one day that I knew I was special to God and she called it blasphemous and hypocritical. She said it was a shame that I couldn’t see the face of Satan himself in my very face. I left the room in tears and ran down the long, green linoleum hallway as if I were ascending the golden stairs of Heaven itself. I had to get to the bathroom and check. Could you really see Satan in my very face? Was I a spawn of Satan and not the anointed angel that I felt myself to be? My eyes were swollen from the tears, yet it was clear to me that the teacher had it all wrong. All wrong. In my face was just one other person. My Father.

Ted Kennedy, Jr.

I predict Ted Kennedy, Jr. will take his father's position in the Senate of MA. I really do. He evoked passion, leadership and most of all his eulogy
(speech) made Obama seem spineless.

Maybe we finally have our answer as the new Lion In The Senate.

The Passing of Camelot

When I listen to Camelot, I hear more than haunting music.

I hear whispers and history and love that has guided me over the years to strive to be a better person. I am a liberal, a democrat and today watching the funeral of Edward Moore Kennedy I am reminded why being a liberal democrat is an honor, a system of values that I can pass on to my grandchildren. So long as there is one liberal left, we still have hope.

Keep the torch strong as we go into this night. The funeral was so beautiful. And as a Scot/Irish lass, I am honored to have grown up in the time of Camelot.

Ignorance in the South, An Apology

As a young girl in Alabama, my first encounter with the Kennedy name was when JFK ran against Nixon. My father was a staunch supporter of Nixon and a die hard yellow dog democrat, (he had a heart), but he saw the Kennedy's as evil, why? They were Catholics and we were Southern Baptist.

The two do not mix well.

We had a round robin in elementary school, Alberta Elementary, it went like this, "Nixon, Nixon he's our man, lets throw Kennedy in the garbage can". I can not conceive I ever uttered those words, but remember I was a product of the deep South and a product of a Father who was so against the Catholics because they were anti-Baptist and he saw the power of the Catholics in the world as something akin to Satanic powers.

I was not having apart of this, yet I participated in this, not even knowing what I was saying. I liberated myself some 40 years later when I taught my granddaughter, Joanna Bretlea Southall, the importance of justice and the message JFK, Bobby, Teddy, and Martin taught us, until justice rolls like a mighty stream.

I do not blame my Father, for he had been taught this from generations of prejudice and ignorance born of ignorance.

Today, I mourn Ted Kennedy's death, I mourn the loss of his influence in the Senate and I mourn what is to become of our nation and the prejudice that still exists in our nation. We must remember. We must all remember the words of MLK, I have a dream. I have a dream that I will pass on to my grandchildren, I taught my granddaughter on important lesson, when someone asks you what you are, what you do, tell them one thing...you are a political activist, you are here to promote peace and goodwill and you are a liberal democrat, and you are not afraid to stand up to anyone who challenges you to do otherwise.

I pray that Ted Kennedy's soul is at peace with his brothers and his Mother. I do not believe his Father was a good man, but his sons were important in making America what is was intended by our founding Fathers.
Peace.

My name

Yes, it is me, Patti Jane McGee, then Patti Christian and then Patti Brown, but now I am Alabama Brown. My pen name. To I pray bring me fame to publish my novels and poetry inside my brain and head and heart.
That's all.

Where did the fireflys go?

Summer is almost over and it seems as if we had no nights to gather under porch lamps and watch the fireflys make their way through the stand of trees before the lake. I miss my childhood. I miss playing outside until dark and hearing my Mother's voice strain against the rise and fall of traffic and compete with the other Mother's own calls for bedtime.

I loved hiding out, and pretending I was in Africa or a jungle. I loved watching the fireflys and wanted to understand their magic. We would catch them and somehow press them into our skin on our 'ring' finger and pretend we had a diamond ring, for a second if we were lucky. I can not believe I ever killed a firefly. Now I watch for them and it seems as in all good things they are becoming harder and harder to see. I would collect them for my children and put them into Bell Jars and light up the porch on summer nights and then before bed we would release them into the heavens for a second night.

Let us all remember something magical tonight. Let us all remember good things. Put our troubles behind us and bravely march into tomorrow with hope of things to come. Maybe fireflys will light the way tonight as we sleep. Maybe.

I am sad Dominick Donne has died and Teddy Kennedy all in one day like Farrah and Michael. We are all getting there sooner than later.
God Bless their souls.

Life and beyond on a Wednesday

I have depression and anxiety and melancholic tendencies that are with me always. I do not know my brain. I wish it were a map nailed to a wall inside my house so I could study it and look at it daily and figure out ways to get there from here to back again to happiness. I know happiness is there, like a small beautiful village with window boxes spilling out with geraniums in some perfect red with a tint of pink and violet. I have been to that place inside my brain on different days and I can still smell it and know it exists, however, the sadness and depression of being in this moment always seems to push that place farther and farther away from me until I fear one day I won't be able to go there at all.

My daughter's "husband" left her this week alone with three small children, they are door steps, 6.4.2, angels the three of them. I want to rescue her and the children and make a perfect village of hope for her, but somehow I know she must pass through this time and this challenge to grow and learn lessons life throws at us. Life is like that.

I have dreamt of walking on the backs of sea turtles among turquoise water holding the hands of my children, walking farther and farther into the blue, clear water of hope. I pray we will reach the other side and be happy again.

Be safe.
Love the ones you are blessed to have.
Peace.

New House

Well, I have moved yet again.

Let me count now.
Red House, new country house, College (do different dorms and dorm room moves count? There were 6), Apartment with Gale, Back to country house, Nashville apartment, Franklin farmhouse, Barn, Yorktown house, Birnam Wood Farm, Log house, Big White house in Northport, Shirley Place, Condo in Reston Place, Our new house, Marriage House, Tuscaloosa, Atlanta house, Back to Franklin! Wren Circle, House on Peytonsville Road, Jenkins Spider Farmhouse-Sweet Springs, Condo on Boxwood, Dreamhouse on hill--Harpeth Ridge Road, Fernvale house, Apartment (1 month) , House on Hill-Crazy woman's house (2 months) , Michele's Farmhouse in Leiper's Fork, MOVE TO GERMANY--2003 Altensteig hotel Sonnebuhl, apartment in Herrenberg, Come home to house on Pine Circle, House on Postwood, Move back to Tuscaloosa, Reston Place (nightmare), Northwood Lake house, Move to Birmingham Old Looney Mill End-The Garden House, Move back to Tuscaloosa-The Brown Byrd House, Take an apt in Birmingham as experiment to get out of depression from isolation didn't work because of dogs needing more space than we had, move out, go home to Brown Byrd House, deep dark depression sets in for a long time, another experiment, move to house in Mt. Laurel in Birmingham to see if it will help with depression and get me in a routine and away from sadness of Tuscaloosa and all it represents to me. i.e. Sadness, loss of being, sadness, Mother, Daddy is gone forever to me.

I like the New house, it isn't home.
Home has been two places, the Red House on Mitt Lary and Birnam Wood Farm. Home is a place of safety and becoming familiar with nature, children (childhood) and hope. The Red house is still standing but they painted it beige (I hate beige), Birnam Wood was moved because of interstate 840 going right through the middle of it. It is now in Leiper's Fork. I went there one day to see if I could conjure up the ghost of Miss Marie Falls Molay and I couldn't although apparently all the families who have lived there have moved because of the ghost. She liked us. She left us alone, or perhaps that is why I miss that house so much, I was never lonely or alone there, and I had a purpose, my children, the cows, chickens, a garden, even swimming laps in the pool.

I hope to be finished editing my novel, The Ave Maria Diaries soon.
The Ghost Dancer's Shirt is going well.

It is Spring in Birmingham, but very cold outside, at least the heat works in this new house. We are the first to live in it. What stories will we leave engrained in the beams, the walls, the floors? I hope I will be happy here. If not, we will move, again, but keep the Brown Byrd House to ground me so I don't ever get too lost.

My father died on January 12, 2009, a few days shy of my 55th birthday. I wish I could say how I felt about his passing. I don't have any feelings left. I know there is a God who watches over me and Jesus and I know the Holy Spirit is around me, I simply feel like the Holy Spirit has deserted me now. Now when I need the comfort. I think it has to do with control and asking God for things and making promises to Him. Like, "If you do this, then I will do that..." Comes from my Baptist upbringing.

I am still at work on my novel, THE AVE MARIA DIARIES, watch for it soon for I know it will help change the world in a positive way.

The rain is endless.