Because she is awesome. Even if she doesn’t know how to subscribe to my blog with her new-fangled iPad. . . .
Click here, mom. (Shameless self-promotion: You don’t have to be my mom to use the link. Duh.)
Let me know if that works, mama.
Love,
annie
Do you believe in ghosts? I didn’t used to. . . but I didn’t not believe in them either. Who was I to say they didn’t exist, just because I had never seen one? Then, one night a couple of years after my grandmother died, i was in Warner Robins, rocking Rollie to sleep in the room my grandmother died in.
And I. . . I smelled her. I sensed her there with me. It was one of the most peaceful, amazing experiences I have ever had. There is no doubt in my mind that she was there with me, and with Rollie, and that she wanted to see him.
I know, crazy, right?
But sometimes I feel close to my grandparents, even when I know they are not really there. I feel closest to my grandfather at the lake, when I am working in the yard, especially up by the pump house, where he pointed out the spirea and Althea to me, and near the burn pile. His chair is still there, rake sitting by it, waiting to rake up stray embers when the pile is burning. I can almost feel him when i look at the majestic camellia he planted, or the muscadine vines on their trellis. I can stand in the pine island by the driveway, amidst the azaleas and hydrangeas he dug up at Aunt Lessie’s in Savannah, and transplanted there at the lake. I remember going to the woods with him to find dogwood and redbud saplings and bring them home and plant them.
He is there still, if anywhere.
I think of him, sitting on the ground, his knee bad from the fall in Vietnam, using a pocket knife to dig up weeds while I worked. In winter, he would wear a pair of pants. And a plaid shirt. If he was doing masonry, he might wear an old flight suit from the base. (He called them, and overalls, dungarees. Boots were Brogans.) But usually it was the plaid shirt. Pop was grunge long before grunge. The shirts are still there. My dad and i wear them when we work in the yard.
And I always think, when I put them on, The Goat Man Rides Again!
Tiller and I went to the lake on Friday, while Todd stayed home with Rollie for Sat. soccer. We got there late, so we went to Bojo’s for a late dinner. On the way home, driving back across the lake’s twin bridges, I heard her whispering,
“You stars are so small. You must be very, very far away.”
I love the little things that I hear her say when we remove big brother from the situation. He is so . . .older child (i can say that; I am one.) He talks over her, directs her, tells her what to do. She listens, apes, mimics, follows directions, does as she is told. Only when she is on her own, does her true and very own thought process become evident.
I am always amazed at her and the things she says and comes up with when I get a chance to listen to just her. Tiller sees the world in a very funny and colorful way. The filter that Tiller sees the world through is like no one else’s. It gives her a unique view on things. Take this exchange from Saturday morning . . . .
Tiller and I decided to hit up Waffle House, so that we didn’t have to do dishes and could get out and do our yardwork faster when we got back to the lakehouse. We walked into the Waffle House. It was full for a winter day at the lake. Full of hunters. In fact, the only people not dressed in camo or a Waffle House uniform were Tiller and I. I noticed that she pulled up for a second when we came in the door. I saw her take in the scene as we were walking to our table. When we got there, we took off our coats. I helped her with hers first, and then started to take mine off. As I did, arms trapped in my coatsleeves, I was alarmed as Tiller raised her finger to point at the two hunters closest to us, a man and woman.
As all parents know, it is never good when their kid raises a finger to point at a stranger in a restaurant. Not only is it, in the immortal words of Southern mamas everywhere, “not nice to point, dear,” but you never know what is going to come out of a kid’s mouth when they point something out. The only thing you can bank on is that there will be a lull in conversation and that it’s going to be said loud as hell.
It is usually something completely embarrassing, such as these gems i have experienced firsthand:
“Why doesn’t he have a leg?”
“Why are her eyes like that?”
“That person is really, really big, Mama.”
“That is the oldest person I have ever seen!”
Saturday morning, as I struggled to get my arms out of my coat, and at the same time hiss at Tiller, quietly enough where no one else in the room would hear, but firmly enough that she would know I meant business, “It’s not polite to point, baby,” she dropped her finger, and then gave me the dismayed look that she is famous for. She accompanies this look with two hands out to the side like the Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil statue. Her hands bounce up and down slightly as she says at full volume,
“What are those people? Cavemen??”
That’s my Tiller for ya. That’s my Tills.
Well, since discussing it with my brother-in-law, Lyle, I looked into the Dunstan Hall and Arthur’s time at Auburn a bit more. . .
Here is an Auburn Engineering magazine article with a mention and photo of Professor Dunstan:
Professor Dunstan and his class
and another:
I believe this is him in the doorway, back row, with the cute mustache, too.
And here:
So, there you go. . .
Found this interesting photo of my grandmother Smith’s Uncle, Arthur St. Charles Dunstan, in the Auburn archives.
He was a student at Auburn, when it was Alabama Polytechnic Institute (API), later became a professor of Engineering there, and then head of the Engineering department. There was a building there named after him, Dunstan Hall, for many years, but I believe they may have renamed it.
His brother, my great-grandfather, was John Harris Rowe Dunstan. He also attended Auburn. Arthur, and their mother, Medora Louis Hall Dunstan, are buried in Pine Hill Cemetery in Auburn. It still blows my mind that the after party for my wedding was walking distance from the cemetery where my dear Grandma’s own Grandmother, whose Civil War stories of Fredericksburg were handed down in the family, is buried, and I never knew it until years later. From Fredericksburg my line went, through Lee and Chatham county NC, to St. Tammany Parish, LA, and Chattanooga, TN to my parents having me in Atlanta, and me meeting a boy from Auburn, and ending up in that cemetery where my Grandmother’s grandmother is buried.
Think I might go visit old Medora in a couple weeks. See how she’s doing.
Give it a listen. . . let me know what you think in the comments.
No time to give the details. Fun was had by all, despite Rollie and me feeling a little under the weather.
Hope everyone had a fun and safe Halloween!
