Sunday, October 18, 1998

Family thinks she's crazy but loves her still

By Sharon Randall

They know I'm here for a few weeks not just to visit but to spend time alone at the lake, taking in the season.

They tell me I'm wasting money on a cabin when I could sleep on their hide-a-beds.

They haven't forgotten I left them 30 years ago to cast my lot in California and have managed somehow without them.

They know I earn my living writing columns, whatever that means, and that to do so, I need a semi-quiet place and more time than they'd imagine such a job could take.

They say they understand, but they don't. They think I'm nuts. And they could be right. But I'm long past expecting that they'll understand me. They're my family. We're genetically predisposed to misunderstand each other.

"Fine," they say. "Go stay at the lake with all the other loons. Be a hermit. See if we care. But first, you want to eat, don't you?"

So before settling in at the lake alone, I spend a few days eating with my family. Not that I'm complaining.

My sister takes me out for boiled shrimp and grits.

My nephew and his wife and their 2-year-old treat me to pizza with jalapeno peppers.

My stepfather cooks up a pot of pinto beans with ham and corn bread on the side.

I eat it all. It's good.

Finally, I drive 30 miles down the interstate to have supper with my brother, Joe, and his wife, Tommie Jean.

"Who is it?" Joe yells, when I knock at their door.

"The devil," I yell back. He laughs and unbolts a lock.

"Sister," he says, bear hugging me, "you look nice."

Better than usual

I do look somewhat better than usual, but how does he know? Joe is totally blind. Has been all his life, 45 years. So's Tommie Jean. In place of eyes, they have a scary kind of radar/sonar/ESP.

"What makes you think I look nice?" I ask my brother.

"I hear your high heels," he says grinning, pleased with himself. "Besides, you always look nice to me."

Tommie Jean is a good cook, but did not cook the chicken, macaroni and cheese and green beans she heaps on my plate.

"Our bus driver cooked all this for us," she says, "but I made a banana pudding."

Nancy Thompson drives the bus they ride to classes at the school for the blind, but she's also a friend, Joe says. "She's always offering to help us out. She's a real nice lady and boy, can she cook."

I don't know Nancy Thompson but I owe her. "Be sure to thank her for me," I say.

After supper, I watch my brother wash dishes (scrub, feel, scrub again, rinse) while Tommie Jean and I talk.

Then I say good night and head back to the lake to bed down with the other loons.

I'll build a fire to warm the cabin and watch the moon glide over the water. If I get scared, I'll call my nephew and he'll come to my rescue with that big gun I told him he shouldn't keep.

Before bed I'll give thanks for my grown kids and my cat; for friends and readers near and far; for a family that thinks I'm crazy but loves me anyhow; and for a bus driver named Nancy Thompson.

Meanwhile, if you want to write me here (until Nov. 1) I'd love some company: Randall, 1237 E. Lakeshore Dr., Landrum, S.C. 29356.

Sharon Randall is a winner of the American Association of Sunday and Feature Editors and the Best of the West commentary awards.

Scripps Howard News Service