Chicken Tenders and Post-It Notes

October 22, 2004

I stay confused. For three years now I have been waking up in a different bed every few days. If I was on some sort of exotic vacation around the world, I might not mind so much. However, that is not the case. I just shuffle from home to someone else’s home and try to remember how to get to the bathroom in the middle of the night.

I really should not complain. When I am in Huntsville, Ted and Shelley, my brother and sister-in-law, willingly take me into their home. I usually repay them with wine and dog food. They thank me by letting me work at the store.

I used to slip over to Decatur to stay with Rachel and BJ, who have decided to move to Charlotte. I am trying not to take the move personally. Rachel and I enjoyed talking until late, around 10:30 or 11:00, then I headed for bed. I scraped the cat hair off the pillow and climbed under the comforter. Rachel knew which comforter I liked, and it wasn’t the one heavy enough to use as protection from x-rays. I had to bring my own towels though. Their towels, the size of beach towels, made me list to one side when I wrapped them around my wet hair. I even bought my own lamp and alarm clock. I will miss them now that they have moved out of my crosshairs.

After a few days of putting out fires, Lucy and I would return to Bold Springs, GA. Life here is so quiet that I can hear the new sod grow. We sleep late and read the Atlanta Journal Constitution on the back porch. Lucy sniffs out squirrels and checks for deer that lurk in the woods.

That was five weeks ago. The Great Malvini, as he is known to assorted family and friends, turned his life, and ours, upside down. The day began much as every day had for the past six months. Daddy ate lunch at Tenders, a chicken establishment in Huntsville’s Five Points’ area. The girl knew his order—the snack pack, slaw, no fries, and the seven piece to go. After eating his snack pack, he collected his to-go order and delivered it to Kay, a lifelong friend and relative of sorts. He always handed her the chicken while standing on the porch. She handed him love notes, and he left, telling her that he had to get back to the store.

This scenario ran like clockwork until the unfortunate incident. On that fateful day, Daddy really delivered that chicken—stopping only when his Lincoln Town Car hit the house.

I had just pulled into the bank’s parking lot when Ted called and ominously asked “Where are you?” I knew immediately that Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride had commenced.
Daddy was standing in the front yard, a paper towel on his bloody hand, staring at his car when I arrived at the scene. Both air bags had deployed, so he obviously drove full throttle into that wall. He had a few bumps and bruises but was fine—physically.

I hastily grabbed a garbage bag out of my trunk and emptied the car of aluminum cans (he collects them for a customer who has been banned from the store by Shelley), old Shrine newspapers, a hat, and old bread that he drags home for the birds but attracts roaches. Ted found a piece of cornbread stuck in the air bag. I explained the situation as best I could to the stunned tow truck driver while Kay rummaged around until she “found a bandage and some tape” for the bleeding hand. I doubt that she knows to this day that a Post-It note and Scotch tape aren’t recognized by the Red Cross as adequate first aid.

I learned many valuable things that day. According to Malvin L. Miller, American, he was driving a 1950 Pontiac Grand Prix. He does 50 push ups every day. And he told the guy in Star Market that he married in 1957. (Ted and I were devastated to learn that we were illegitimate.)

A couple of days after the wreck, his doctor told him that he could no longer live alone or drive. I threw in the “no vodka” rule for good measure. As we left the doctor’s office, he remarked, “I won’t be worth a damn until I get some transportation.”

Since that auspicious day, Daddy has been “visiting” Tim and me. Here at Bold Springs, our pine trees are the tallest that he has ever seen. The fountain makes him either go to sleep or go to the bathroom. Lucy shares his every meal. The man who totaled his car on the side of a house offers driving directions because “nothing looks familiar.” He rides the scooter at Wal-Mart. He ate at a food court for the first time at the Mall of Georgia. At Moe’s Southwest Grill, he loved the quesadilla and the black and red chips. His new tennis shoes have Velcro straps.

He attended Jeremy’s wedding at Seaside where he danced with Rachel and filled his pockets with the souvenir chocolates. Late in the evening, Evan drove his Gran back to the cottage; he had not missed a minute of the fun. He went to Washington to see the World War II Memorial and was amazed by the beauty of the Library of Congress. The airport security guard mistook him for an al-Qaida terrorist and threatened to have me arrested.

Every now and then, the restlessness that is born in my confusion must be addressed. I need to make sense of my life, to understand why some things have to be so difficult. I have discovered that life is so full of complexities that it defies pigeonholing. I distrust people who have all the answers; the ones for whom life is simply a matter of black and white, right and wrong.

More than anything, I want the peace that passes all understanding. Because I am unlikely to gain the understanding, I believe the peace would satisfy my soul. Chicken tenders brought about the demise of life as we knew it and a Post-It note could not restore it.