Leaving the warmth of Waxahachie.

My last night in Waxahachie at sunset:

The Bent Tree in their "front yard"

My Aunt and Uncle asked me about NY  - my reasons for going, how long would I be there, was this permanent? And, my answer has been: Who knows? We'll see. I may hate it and turn around in a weeks time and say it's not for me.  I just don't know. 

The next morning, seeing the beauty of living a life like this made me question myself. Maybe I could just stay and be a farmer's assistant? Do they have jobs like that? 

The lead Farm Cat at Sunrise

Zor, the lead Farm Dog

The Farm Cats eating leftovers of last nights cantaloupe.

The farming I could deal with, the ranching not so much.

Btw, did you know there are Feral Hogs? Who knew?? The hogs are rooters, and dig up the crops, so there are people who capture them, take them to auction and get about $150.00 per hog. Apparently Feral Hogs are leaner and better to make sausage with. I asked my Uncle isn't that like the people that rifle through recycling bins to turn them in for cash?  I mean, is this a job? 

My Uncle, I swear without a hint of "whaddya you an idiot?" said: 

"Yes, they're called trappers." 

Oh.

My Uncle on his cell - Modern Day Rancher.

Talking to and watching my Uncle farm his land is interesting in the sense that he has such compassion and respect for Mother Earth, and yet the Ranching aspect of it, well, hmmm. I was briefly conflicted. I am not the big meat and dairy eater. 

 But really when you look at it, it's a hell of a lot more honest - as opposed to purchasing your meat prepacked at the market, isn't it?

A Bull and his babe.

Listening to my Uncle talk about the corporations and computers taking over the farming and ranching, is sad.  Just another area where  "big business" has pretty much taken over . 

My Uncle is a third generation Texan Rancher and Farmer.

Small farmers rarely stand a chance these days. 

My Uncle told me he'll never vote for another Ivy League President. 

No Clinton, No George W, No Obama. 

None of that Skull and Bones crap. 

Though, he does have 2 photos of Bush Sr and the wife in the house.

(a friend of mine in DC  told me that's because Bush Senior was considered a "real" politician)

My Uncle is a dyed in the wool Texas Aggie.

After my Uncle checked my car, and my Aunt packed a shopping tote bag with food for me, it was time to leave. 

Watching my Aunt walk away is hard.  In her, I see myself, I see my Mother, I see history. She tells me over the years how she sees herself in me. She shares secrets with me that make me smile, and some that make me sad.

She does the exact same thing I do, or rather I do what she does.  We scurry away if we know the tears are going to come.

The tears were absolutely going to come. No chance that they would not.

Happy (2nd in command), and Zor see me off.

Waxahachie:Wal Mart, Ant Murdering & Mom's Gravesite.

My Mother with her brother and sister in France, a long time ago.

A photo that my Aunt dug up of my Mother. 1950's.

My Mother and Father in Spain

Me and my Mother in Rio

I felt great angst driving down to Waxahachie, not only because I was to see my Aunt and Uncle for the first time in many years, but also with the intent of seeing my Mother's gravesite for the first time.

Why had I not visited in all these years? I don't know. When my Mother passed away, I scrambled to throw together a memorial service in the city. Considering she really didn't "belong" to a church, I made a "donation" and voila, memorial service.

Maybe seeing the grave site makes it real. Maybe that is what  kept me away all these years. The Memorial is more fluid, less concrete, you can make of it what you will.

I had always promised myself that I would come down to Texas and dig her up - she was cremated in NY and my Aunt put her  urn in the ground on the plot of land in the cemetery that my Uncle's family had purchased many years ago.  I had never felt right with my mother in Texas. This wasn't her home. I understand that she was being "watched" over by her sister, but still.  Where WAS my Mother's final resting spot? France? NY? Beirut, which she loved so much? 

I had notions of what my visit to my Mother's gravesite would be like. I imagined that I would get her a beautiful bouquet of flowers, maybe bring her favorite food, and sit down and have a picnic with her and just talk. A friend suggested I bring a silly little gift to leave on the site. For some reason, I brought her diamond wedding band instead. I put it on my right ring finger before I left Los Angeles.

Since my mother's passing all those years ago, I've  never really dreamt about her – maybe 5, 6 times that I can remember. This past year during one of the darker periods when clarity and the harsh brutality of a situation is revealed to you, I had an epiphany about my Mother: Her life; her relationship with my father; her dreams; her disappointments.  Everything clicked. It all made sense. SHE made sense.

This went on a few days on and off. It was like I was getting pinged with information. Epiphany; Clarity; Epiphany; Clarity. And then one day, as I was sitting in my car waiting in the left hand turn lane on Franklin near Cahuenga, I felt her.

She was sitting next to me.

I’ve never experienced anything like that before -and at one  point  I reached over and put my hand in the passenger seat and said I am so sorry, I am so sorry for all that you went through, I am so so sorry. I get it. I understand now. And I am so sorry I wasn't there at the very end. I love you. And then just like that “it/she” was gone.

And, oh did I weep, wept like nothing I had never wept before. I remember when my dog passed away in 2002, I cried and cried and I had told people at the time that I wept more for my dog that I ever had when my Mother passed away.

Well, this certainly cancelled that out.

I respected my mother more than ever before.

Now, going to the cemetery seems like more of a formality. Perhaps this was the end to the grieving that that I had finally allowed myself to do all these years later.

Being here in Waxahachie, I know for sure she is not here. I think we know this, and I understand the reasoning of having a place to go to honor, to show respect or just talk to a loved one who has passed on.  I get it, but I also feel like: they're not there. I mean, really. Would you be? If you had a choice? Didn't think so.

My Aunt insisted on going with me - I think she felt it was her duty to do so - I really didn't want her to come for a couple of reasons - I didn't want to stress her out, and like I said I had this idea of what it would be like.  I also think my Aunt carries around that awful Catholic guilt and that she wouldn't feel right if she didn't go with me. And for that, I love that she treated me like a daughter.

So, off we went.

My idea of getting her beautiful elegant flowers went out the window the minute we pulled up to WAL MART. Fucking Wal Mart. OMG, and my first thought was: Mom would KILL me!!!! NOOOOOOOOOOOO!

But we were near-ish to the cemetery, I know this was taxing on my Aunt, sooo.... Walmart it was.

We picked some pink flowers and a planter to hold them.

My Aunt said it didn't really matter as the flowers always get stolen. People take them and "re-gift" them to other gravesites. I actually laughed, but then realized I guess leaving the wedding band was a no go. (Small town and all, I thought it would be fine! You know, quaint lil' town and all...)

As we drove in, I thought DO NOT fall apart, do not  do this to your Aunt.  You have cried enough. This will be fine. Do not, do no do not turn into a blubbering mess.

And there it was.

In stone. Written in stone.

Her birth date and place.

And her death date and place.

And, btw just a side bar - my Aunt had a hell of a time trying to get the folks in Waxahachie to put the Nee part in. (And no, I don't know how to put that damn accent thing in)

I leaned closer, and I saw  ants. GRRRR. So, I took my hand and started to sweep them away- wrong move.
The ants came out in full force, and called for back up - they had a precision like Military Force to fight any unwanted interlopers like myself.

I started to think, I can't kill them! I mean, this is their home! Where the hell have I been for all these years?  Obviously I didn't care, otherwise I would have been here maintaing the site.  I was like a Donald Trump real estate developer coming in and they were the squatters who had been there for years and lived through the leaky roofs, the no plumbing and no heat, and here I come ready to kill them all in a blink of an eye.

And, then I thought, But this is my Mom! You cannot crawl over my Mother! And I went back and forth. Until...

My Aunt suggested I get the groundskeeper to take care of the situation- I was planning on using Diet Coke - I figured if it eats our insides, it's gotta be able to kill them.

The groundskeeper returned gasoline in hand- this was serious business.

Here is my Aunt overseeing the pre- murdering spree:

Now with the killing spree at an end, it was time to plant the flowers

The grave site is jacked up unfortunately - it has dinks, dents, scratches.  My Aunt said it's from the lawn mowers and had a word with the grounds keeper. I gave him some money and asked him to look after Mom and the flowers.

Here is a closer shot of the pink flowers.

(which in my original fantasy are French Tulips  or Roses - no red and no long stem just a tight bunch of gorgeous fragrant roses. A lot of them)

But before all was said and done, I had to write a note to the "re-gifters" out there:

I know, elegant.

Before I left, I washed the gravesite to the best of my ability. I didn't say much, as the ants had given me a great distraction - thankfully.  I knew that if I looked at my Aunt for longer than 2 seconds, it was going to be all over and I would be blubbering. I didn't want to, I didn't want my Aunt to "go there" This was all a lot for her with no notice. 

Instead, I said hello, and I said goodbye. And as I turned to walk away, I said  I love you Mom with a wave. 

And don't think for a second that the grounds keeper's shovel wasn't in my sight line the whole time. I still thought about digging her up and running off with her.

Maybe next time. 

Waxahachie: Cousin's Wedding be Damned.

When I first arrived in Waxahachie, my Aunt showed me to the same room I slept in as a child and a teenager when Mom and I would visit.  I haven’t been in this room since I was 19; The last time I was in this house was with my Mother, and it was a disaster.

We were here for my cousins wedding, and I was an absolute brat.  I insisted on going back to NY  the day before my cousins wedding– for 2 reasons: I had a boyfriend there, and one of my friends who I had known since I was 16 was getting married the same weekend. My friend was 36 and in the music business. I thought his wedding would be far more fun.

My mother acquiesced and sent me back.

This shroud of shame has hung over my head for all these years. Being back in this room brings it all back. And as I sit here, for a brief bratty moment, I think well, my cousin did end up getting a divorce... (so okay, it was only two years ago, and I know I'm stretching, but I'm grabbing at anything here to alleviate this leftover moldy guilt.)

To know the dynamics of what was happening would explain far more. My mother had been at that point diagnosed with cancer.  She was drinking more.  And with each day, dying more.

Her sister, my aunt was the more together one - she, along with my Uncle and cousins were the united front.

And then there was me and Mom.

One trying to stretch her wings and one ailing.

I was angry, and I wanted to run away. I didn’t want to deal with watching how my mother was physically and mentally failing. AND having to go to a wedding! A BIG formal event that would require watching my Mother's deteriorating condition being silently compared to all the bright shiny people in their wedding fare, and let us not forget the sad looks in their  eyes when meeting her  - because, they knew. Throw in a couple of drinks to the mix, and it's just not pretty.

I think when you're 19 and your world is imploding in all different directions, you  don't have the kind of life experience that would enable you to  navigate a situation this layered and complex with dignity and grace.

So instead,  you demand to go home - cousin's wedding be damned.

Waxahachie: My Uncle the cowboy.

This is how a typical day starts out in their household: The table is set for breakfast- which was done the night before by my Uncle the cowboy.

My Aunt trained him VERY well.

And because we're in Waxahachie, Texas, the French morning news show is on the TV

Hearing French makes me feel like I am home. Something so familiar and comforting but at the same time, sad.

But first, it's time to feed the animals; Waiting at the front door every morning are the 3 dogs and 8 cats that were unceremoniously dumped on his land at different times by ignorant people.

People dump all sorts of garbage on their land. Furniture, bags of garbage, you name it. 

My Uncle takes the animals into the vet - gets them vaccinated, spayed and neutered and nurses them back to health if needed. Sometimes they are far too ill, and he has to put them down. 

The cats - well, what can I say? They're cats. They hang.

Just one of the sights when you walk out the front door:

It's a tractor! A tractor! How often do you see a tractor??! With hay in the background?!

(btw, side note: Do NOT wear Belgian loafers to traipse around a ranch. Seriously.)

For some reason I love this license plate. Maybe because it is what it is. It's a farm truck, and that's that.  I'll take this plate over any of those damn personalized plates in Los Angeles - I can still see some of them:  4NANCI or BLNBABE or PRGURU1. 

Ugh. 

SOSTPD.

The cats having a early morning wrestle:

My Uncle tending to one of the elders.

Anyway, time to go to work: to get to Ranching.

My Uncle took me into the pen with a BIG Bull.

Listen, normally I wouldn't be frightened, but my Uncle said he was a mean Bull. I hid behind my Uncle like a silly 5 year old girl. I was NOT pulling the camera out as we were walking in. 

Lemme tell you something, Mr Bull can give stink eye like no one's business.

As we walked in my Uncle did a Cesar Millan type sound and a wave of the hand and the bull turned away. Regardless, I was still sort of freaking out internally.

Then it was feeding time. This was the special needs area. One of the cows was injured, a calf had just gotten weaned off the bottle and wasn't too keen on eating this "special" food.

Behold:

And then, the calf comes around. My Uncle was surprised, as this calf has had no interest in non-bottle meals.  

I, of course, like to think it was my presence. 

Or the dulcet tones of my morning voice. 

Take your pick.

Below is my Uncle telling me about the cotton seed that he feeds to the cows. But this isn't about that. This is about his HANDS. LOOK AT THEM. 

those friends, are WORKING hands. Don't see too much of that anymore.

Now it was time for my Uncle to really get to work and stop letting me play "Reporter Girl"



And time for me to go to the cemetery.

Waxahachie: My Aunt.

The house to me is exactly the same which brings a smile to my face. And at the same time conjures up mixed feelings. The last time I was in this house I was 19 and with my Mother, my Aunt's sister.

I used to describe my Aunt as this "crazy French woman who married a cowboy and lives on a ranch in Texas"

But, she's far more than that. First off, she's not crazy. Does she have sass? Oh, yes. Is she direct? Ohhhhh yesssss. As only a French Woman can be. Their words can slice. Throw in that accent, and you are decimated.

My Uncle, a 3rd generation Texas rancher and farmer pursued my Aunt who was in Bordeaux for SIX years. Six years, people.

And this past Wednesday the 10th, they celebrated 50 years of marriage.

My Aunt told me this photo is from a visit to a Texas beach (?!) No wonder she has that look on her face.

When my Aunt finally agreed to marry and move in the late 1950's to this hickety pickety town in Texas, she insisted on a few of her home comforts:

A bidet. Yes, a bidet. Unheard in the 1950's for a home in the States to have one, much less Waxahachie, Texas.


She decorated the home with furniture and decorative pieces, china and crystal from France. Armoires, Limoges, Christofle, etc. She stocked the bar, much to the shock and horror of this formerly bible thumping dry town. My Aunt is VERY French. With a quick wit and a mouth to match. I can only imagine how she turned the town on its ear.


These days she doesn't like for her picture to be taken, but I made her stand still when we went shopping in downtown Waxahachie. At 81, I think she's still got it.

Here are some snippets so you can hear her accent ALL these years later. Can you IMAGINE what her accent was like when she first arrived in Texas? OY.

And this one

Probably not funny at the time, but I can only imagine what my Aunt and Uncle's first big blowout sounded like back then. I think probably pretty genius with their accents and their angered words flying through the air.

An operetta of sorts.