overflows into the next generation. We were a communal tribe, a little primitive matriarchal village. Especially during those summer days atSpring Creek, when the men stayed in town and worked all week, coming out only to visit on the weekends.
Necie was the Ya-Ya who looked most like a mom. But she, too, had her peculiarities. For one thing, she was the only mother from my childhood who had long hair. Her hair was the principal thing about Necie’s looks that let you know she was a Ya-Ya. Wives and mothers in the fifties and early sixties just did not have long beautiful hair like that. Not in Thornton.
Necie’s hair was thick and brown and luxurious, and when she let it down, it was her crowning glory. On summer mornings at Spring Creek, when she had just awakened, Necie’s hair tumbled down onto her shoulders and caught the early sun as she sat on the porch and drank coffee with the others. She would let me play with her hair for hours, taking no notice at all. I would sit, with the sound of the ladies’ voices rolling over me, and simply play with Necie’s hair, heavy and clean and smelling of Breck. I loved lifting her hair and burying my nose in it, just to smell it. I took a soft pleasure from this simple, innocent, sensual act with a woman. Pleasure I wish had not passed out of my life as I grew older.
I loved seeing the Ya-Yas when they climbed out of the creek, with their hair all wet. They looked sleek and elegant and beautiful, like some kind of exotic water animals, some wild water women with secret lives somewhere at the bottom of a lagoon.
In those creek days, Mama never worried about her hair. It was cut very short in a “pixie,” which she called her “Four-Kid Coif.” Her hair was naturally blonde, and without makeup her eyebrows and eyelashes were the same shade. Years later, when Mia Farrow cut all her hair off, the Ya-Yas claimed she was imitating my mother.
Mama’s eyes were a dark reddish brown, and they gave her face a power, a counterbalance it would not have otherwise had. Her fair skin and hair made people at first think she was fragile. Her eyes told them she meant business.
When Mama stepped out of the creek water, she would towel dry her hair for a moment, put on fresh lipstick, and reach for her large white sun hat, because—as Mama instructed us—true blondes can lie in the sun but only with a very wide brim. My mother loved very wide brims.
In those days I knew Mama’s body down to the shape of her toes, her toenails covered in her trademark “Rich Girl Red” polish. Her blonde complexion with tiny cinnamon freckles on her upper arms, on her cheeks. A kind of milky whiteness lay underneath the freckles like a layer of thin cream. Sometimes, in certain light, you could see through my mother’s skin to the lavender and blue veins underneath. When I saw this, it terrified me.
Mama’s legs moved like the tennis player she was. They looked fine in shorts, which she wore places that most ladies wouldn’t dare. She wore shorts, a camp shirt of crisp cotton or old linen, tucked neatly in, white crew socks, and white round-toed Keds. She called it her summer uniform. All white, like a tennis player.
My mother was a big woman in a little woman’s body. She stood about five feet four inches tall in her bare feet and never weighed more than 115 pounds—except when she was pregnant. She prided herself on her weight, and took great pains to maintain it. She had the limbs of a taller person. Not that they were actually too long for her body, but they seemed to have a willowiness about them—a willowiness that encased a tightness. It seemed like the life inside my mother’s body was too hot and fierce for her fair skin. “I am going to jump out of my skin,” she always used to say. And as a girl, I feared she would.
She was not like the kind of mother I saw in books andmovies. Except for her breasts, which were surprisingly full for her frame, she was not plump or round in any
Necie was the Ya-Ya who looked most like a mom. But she, too, had her peculiarities. For one thing, she was the only mother from my childhood who had long hair. Her hair was the principal thing about Necie’s looks that let you know she was a Ya-Ya. Wives and mothers in the fifties and early sixties just did not have long beautiful hair like that. Not in Thornton.
Necie’s hair was thick and brown and luxurious, and when she let it down, it was her crowning glory. On summer mornings at Spring Creek, when she had just awakened, Necie’s hair tumbled down onto her shoulders and caught the early sun as she sat on the porch and drank coffee with the others. She would let me play with her hair for hours, taking no notice at all. I would sit, with the sound of the ladies’ voices rolling over me, and simply play with Necie’s hair, heavy and clean and smelling of Breck. I loved lifting her hair and burying my nose in it, just to smell it. I took a soft pleasure from this simple, innocent, sensual act with a woman. Pleasure I wish had not passed out of my life as I grew older.
I loved seeing the Ya-Yas when they climbed out of the creek, with their hair all wet. They looked sleek and elegant and beautiful, like some kind of exotic water animals, some wild water women with secret lives somewhere at the bottom of a lagoon.
In those creek days, Mama never worried about her hair. It was cut very short in a “pixie,” which she called her “Four-Kid Coif.” Her hair was naturally blonde, and without makeup her eyebrows and eyelashes were the same shade. Years later, when Mia Farrow cut all her hair off, the Ya-Yas claimed she was imitating my mother.
Mama’s eyes were a dark reddish brown, and they gave her face a power, a counterbalance it would not have otherwise had. Her fair skin and hair made people at first think she was fragile. Her eyes told them she meant business.
When Mama stepped out of the creek water, she would towel dry her hair for a moment, put on fresh lipstick, and reach for her large white sun hat, because—as Mama instructed us—true blondes can lie in the sun but only with a very wide brim. My mother loved very wide brims.
In those days I knew Mama’s body down to the shape of her toes, her toenails covered in her trademark “Rich Girl Red” polish. Her blonde complexion with tiny cinnamon freckles on her upper arms, on her cheeks. A kind of milky whiteness lay underneath the freckles like a layer of thin cream. Sometimes, in certain light, you could see through my mother’s skin to the lavender and blue veins underneath. When I saw this, it terrified me.
Mama’s legs moved like the tennis player she was. They looked fine in shorts, which she wore places that most ladies wouldn’t dare. She wore shorts, a camp shirt of crisp cotton or old linen, tucked neatly in, white crew socks, and white round-toed Keds. She called it her summer uniform. All white, like a tennis player.
My mother was a big woman in a little woman’s body. She stood about five feet four inches tall in her bare feet and never weighed more than 115 pounds—except when she was pregnant. She prided herself on her weight, and took great pains to maintain it. She had the limbs of a taller person. Not that they were actually too long for her body, but they seemed to have a willowiness about them—a willowiness that encased a tightness. It seemed like the life inside my mother’s body was too hot and fierce for her fair skin. “I am going to jump out of my skin,” she always used to say. And as a girl, I feared she would.
She was not like the kind of mother I saw in books andmovies. Except for her breasts, which were surprisingly full for her frame, she was not plump or round in any
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