Blog A Go-Go

In which you probably won't understand this

and that's alright. The girl I'm writing it for will.

I'm listening to the Bellamy Brothers right now, "Redneck Girl". I just dowloaded it onto my ipod and I've got tears running down my face and smearing my mascara all to hell. (See earlier references to Amy Winehouse.) I listened to this song possibly a thousand times over one summer, always in my cousin Lisa's bright blue pickup truck and she is the one person this song always brings to mind.

When I was growing up Lisa was the closest thing I had to a sister. We were only children, but you would never know it to see us together. We fought like sisters, and she learned early on I was a biter. But she was the one who made me pom-poms from scratch when I wanted to learn how to cheer. Her roller skates were handed down to me, and so were the first cowboy boots I ever wore. We put on gypsy skirts and danced to "Dark Lady"; we chased fireflies, and burned our feet on the concrete in the South Texas summers. We draped sheets for tents to sleep under in the backyard of our grandmother's house, and spent her quarters on icees at the drugstore. We chased each other with lit sparklers every New Year's Eve, and wore matching purple Kool-Aid moustaches.

We could not have been more different. While I went off to college and pretended to study, Lisa married young and embarked on her career. She is a survivor, and she has weathered more storms than Noah. And though we haven't seen each other in a long time, she is always my favorite Redneck Girl.

So, Lisa, I'm posting the lyrics for you. Sing it to yourself and raise your face to the sun and know that I love you and I am with you every step of the way on this long and scary road, holding your hand and cheering you on with my homemade pom-poms. Because Redneck Girls never give up.

Redneck girl likes to cruise in Daddy's pickup truck
And a redneck girl plays her hard when she's down on her luck
Living for a friday afternoon
She's gonna show one ole boy that we can move

And I pray that someday I will find me a redneck girl

Redneck girl likes to stay out all night long
She makes sweet rock n' roll while she listens to the country songs
She's waitin' for that moment of surrender
Her hands are calloused but her heart is tender

And I pray that someday I will find me a redneck girl
Oh give me a give me a give me a redneck girl
Give me a give me a give me a redneck girl

Oh give me a give me a give me a redneck girl
Give me a give me a give me a redneck girl

A redneck girl got a name on the back of her belt
She's got a kiss on her lips for her man and no one else
A coyote's howling out on the prairie
First comes love then comes marriage

And I pray that someday I will find me a redneck girl
Yeah give me a give me a give me a redneck girl

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In which I want to do this so bad it hurts

This is probably the coolest thing I have EVER seen and I am longing to participate. DNAancestry For a couple of hundred dollars, you can get your DNA mapped and see exactly how you fit into the whole family of humanity. It is the perfect Christmas gift for the person who has everything. I don't actually HAVE everything, so I don't foresee getting this anytime soon, but I think it is amazing.

In which I miss a man I never met

November makes me nostalgic. (Didn't I once say that was a habit I don't indulge? It is in November.) Most of my relatives have died in November. Nothing sinister, no family curse. Frankly, I suspect the older ones just look at the oncoming winter, give a little sigh of surrender, and slip away. Those I don't think about very often. But one man comes to mind during these dark gusty days--my maternal great-grandfather.

He was larger than life, by all accounts. He was a prominent contractor in San Antonio, making money even during the Depression. A tall man with piercing blue eyes, he was a hedonist of modest proportions. He kept a pair of black Great Danes and wore handmade shoes and all of his grandchildren called him Papa George. He traveled often to Mexico for the tequila and the senoritas, and when my mother made a thorough search of the courthouse records she lost count of the number of wives he had taken. Ultimately, his heart was not as great as his zest for life. He was only 52 when his doctor told him he must give up all of his pleasures. No more drinking, no more smoking, and no more senoritas. Ever.

His weakened heart meant that he was not anesthetized during a dental procedure. Ignoring his doctor's orders, he took a fifth of whisky with him, draining it as he sat in the chair. Afterwards, he went home and ate lunch with his last wife and son, George Jr. Sometime during the meal, a fight broke out--over what, no one said, but I know from reading Tennessee Williams that there doesn't have to be a cause for quarreling when Southern families and liquor are involved. In any event, Papa George rose from the table and went to his room and shot himself in the heart.

Or so they said. When the police arrived, George Jr. handed them the gun, covered in his own fingerprints, and claimed his father had tied a string to the trigger of a rifle and shot himself from across the room. Papa George did not die at once. They rushed him to the hospital, and just before he was wheeled into the operating room, he called for my grandmother, Patricia. He said her name, but nothing else, then lapsed into unconsciousness. He died on the operating table, and to the day she died, my grandmother said her biggest regret was never knowing what her father wanted to tell her.

I have often wondered, if he could have spoken, what he would have said. Would he have asked for forgiveness? Or would he have told her what the family long suspected, that George Jr. murdered him? (In case you think I am maligning George Jr., it must be noted that he did eventually serve prison time for fatally stabbing a man in a bar. The man's crime? He insulted the Chihuahua belonging to George Jr.'s mother.)

My mother remembers Papa George, and her face always glows when she talks about him. It's the same expression I have seen on the face of every female relative who knew him. His charisma, they say, was palpable, and he was generous to a fault. The money has long since gone, and the Great Danes are long since buried. But he did leave a modest legacy. Like him, I have a fondness for tequila, although I take mine responsibly and only in margaritas (on the rocks, salt on the rim). And like him, I have a cleft in my chin. His was deep and mine is a mere suggestion, but when I turn just right and catch sight of it in the mirror, I think about him, and smile, just like every other woman who crossed his path.

Revision update: 300 pages done. I have hit the halfway mark. I have eyestrain, I'm down to 119 pounds, and if I listen to ONE MORE Paganini concerto, I will set fire to my own head. And have never been more in love with what I do than right now.