The Sunday School Tree

About 18 miles outside of Eufaula is the tiny community of Comer, Alabama. There's not much to it: a few old, overgrown buildings, a couple of little churches and a smattering of country houses. Dave had been out there a few times on visitations and had shared with me about the little town that time forgot. So, today I packed the kids in the car, put Peter Pan on the DVR and headed north on Highway 82. I really just wanted to look around, maybe take a few pictures and be back within an hour.

As I pulled off the highway and into the little hamlet of Comer, I noticed a pick-up truck heading towards me, then pulling over to let me pass. When I drove by, I noticed that the lady in the truck was Martha Grant, a sweet member of our church. She rolled down her window and jokingly asked if I was lost, because really, if you don't live there, there is no good reason to be all the way out in Comer. Embarrassed, I told her that I had always wanted to see what it was like. She laughed at me, but then she asked if I wanted to come out to the family property and bring her husband Frank his morning coffee. I agreed. So, she hopped in alongside me in the mini-van and away we went. The Grant's cow pasture

On the way, Miss Martha told me what Mr. Frank was doing in the cow pasture; he was erecting a monument on the site of The Sunday School Tree. The Sunday School Tree, Miss Martha explained, was an enormous Red Oak tree that sat on the property of the old Russell plantation before "The War Between the States." When the weather was nice, Mrs. Russell, Mr. Frank's great-grandmother, would teach Sunday school under the old Oak tree to all the little boys and girls, both black and white together, that lived on the plantation. After the "War Between the Sates," the Russell plantation house burned, a forest grew up over the cotton fields, the old "Sunday School Tree" died and the stump was eventually removed. Miss Martha laughed about how ridiculous it must sound to be erecting a monument to a tree that no longer exists, in the middle of a pasture, surrounded by cow patties. But, really, I thought it was beautiful.

The site of the old Russell family plantation

Working on the monument for "The Sunday School Tree"

The old vault in the Bank of Comer

One of the little churches in Comer

Amelia, Sadie and Miss Martha on the Grant property

Duh...

For as long as I can remember, I have suffered from a serious (and apparently incurable) case of what I like to call "Duh Syndrome." I mean, I consider myself to be a relatively intelligent person, but I have moments (more than I would like to admit) that my brain completely shuts down and I do something so stupid that my husband is often left wondering how he wound up with such a "special" wife. As I write this, my poor, long-suffering spouse is driving up and down highway 431, in search of my wallet that I most likely left on top of the car at the grocery store this morning. Yes, I had bags of groceries and a sick child to worry about. And yes, I was also engaged in a conversation with Callie Peak about their three cases of RSV and two bouts of pneumonia this winter. But really, that's no excuse. Duh.

And then there's a month ago when I was checking my cell phone messages in the driveway at Sadie's babysitter's house and backed right over their mailbox, knocking it completely out of the ground and denting the back of our brand new mini-van. Yep, say it with me...Duh.

Our poor Camry, which has been my car for the past three years, has a dent in the front fender from an unknown source (my fault, most likely), a dent and some chipped paint on the rear fender from when I backed into a tree last year, and a missing hubcap from when I pulled up a little too close to the curb. Duh...to the third power.

Essentially, I'm a scatterbrain. I leave things places (luckily, I've never left my children anywhere), I forget stuff that is important, I run into and break things that aren't mine. Though this post is written with tongue in cheek, I don't think it's funny. I spend a fair amount of time beating myself up over this glaring shortcoming in my life. I know we all have them, shortcomings, that is. I just wish this shortcoming was less destructive. What I hate the most is that my "duh" moments create a hassle for others. I hate that my husband had to take time away from work to look for my wallet and though we payed for it, I hate that Sadie's babysitter had to spend time on a Saturday afternoon to replace their broken mailbox. I really hate all the money we have to spend fixing my mistakes. So, if you're reading this and you've been a victim of my "Duh Syndrome," I'm sorry and I'm working on it. In the meantime, i wouldn't recommend loaning me your car.

Love Your Neighbors

Amelia and Bailey

Growing up on Barkley Ave., I lived in the same house for nineteen years and honestly, I would not be able to tell you the name of the man that lived next door. I played with the neighborhood kids from time to time, but they were mostly boys and I often found myself cleaning their room before I would allow myself to play in it. Boys are messy, you know. We were friendly with everyone, but we weren't about to close off the street for any 4th of July block party or anything, either. We did our own thing. We didn't exchange Christmas gifts. Or bring over a plate of cookies for new neighbors. Or watch out for one another. There was just a general lack of community. And it always made me a little bit sad.

I knew plenty of people in California who had block parties and great neighbors, so this is not a slam on any particular region. I, personally, just had to move to a small town in Alabama to find the kind of neighborhood I always dreamed about. The kind of neighborhood where the kids across the street spend hours at our house on a Saturday and then invite us for dinner that night. The kind of neighborhood where Meemaw and Granddaddy Ang take Amelia for rides in the wheelbarrow and bring us handmade deer sausage every Christmas. The kind of neighborhood where we take vacations to Disneyworld together in the summer and pick up eachother's kids from school because the baby is still napping. The kind of neighborhood where we take care of eachother's pets when we're away and can stop by to say "hello" without calling first.

Our neighborhood, in so many ways, has been a salve to that broken piece of me. Here, I have found the community I always longed for. I think that is why, despite the laundry list of Southern idiosynchrasies we could do without, for now, we love living in Eufaula. It is home.