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Thank you to my legs

carriesuepepper • Jul 24, 2020

Sitting on the hot tub step this morning with coffee, I looked down at my legs and smiled. Thank you, legs, I said, thank you for carrying me all these many years–from my first wobbly steps to riding my tricycle through our big house there on Jefferson Davis Highway–oh, how I’d ride through those expansive rooms, round and round, peddling as fast as I could, playing a game that the boogie man was after me and I had to ride fast to get away. Then, my legs carried me on a 2-wheeler as I rode the trails through the woods, and down the hill to the tennis courts, trailing my feet in warm rain water puddles in summer. On ice skates they carried me round and round Byrd Park Lake in Richmond, near Monument Avenue where now historical monuments I grew up with are being questioned or taken down. They walked with me down the fairways with my father–while we played a round, or just walking the course in winter on our way to High’s Ice Cream for butterscotch sundaes. They held me up on water skis as I bumped across choppy wakes at Lake Gaston, on cross-country skis or show shoes, along leaf covered paths of the Appalachian Trail. They stretched wide and held me in the saddle as we trotted along through sage and gullies in Wyoming, were patient with me as I learned to stand at the Barre and tendu side or back, remembering the feeling after the first few classes as I hobbled down the three flights of stairs, wondering if I’d always feel so uncoordinated. Then my 30’s arrived and I ran flat out across the tennis court, side to side and back, my legs toned and tanned under my cute short skirts. I say thank you to these legs that have taken me far and wide–up steep mountain trails, down sandy beaches, gliding on sharp silver blades, through the hot sweaty aerobic classes of the 80’s–especially ones with Bill, that young handsome hunk who choreographed his classes to the music, dancing in shimmering royal blue tights with a smile that lit up the world.

Lately, I’ve given my legs a hard time. I’ve looked at them with eyes that didn’t see all they’ve done for me. I’ve seen muscles that aren’t quite as toned as they were, felt knees that ache when I step it up to a slow jog–but today, I say thank you to my beautiful legs. And I thank them again for the journeys ahead–where shall we go next?

The post Thank you to my legs first appeared on Carrie Pepper.

Carrie Pepper

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Street Signs Can Be Memory Joggers

By Carrie Pepper • 30 Nov, 2023
Out on my morning walk, street signs acted as memory joggers. Perhaps they were nudges so that I could remember, and be grateful for, these two women who were there for me as a kid. BRADFORD was the first sign. Grammy Bradford. I never called her anything else and I have no idea what her first name was, but I do remember she was there to tend to me when I was little while my mother went off to work at her government job "in procurement," which she hated. I know nothing, really, of what she did there, but I do remember the room. It seemed there were hundreds of desks in this huge room, no partitions. Dark grey desks and heavy black telephones. I visited her there a few times and she'd give me tablets and pens to keep me busy. I was ALWAYS thrilled to have a tablet and a pen! What she did there is a mystery to me, but when she and my father would argue, which was often, she'd always say, "I want my own money," and so off she went to work every morning at the Defense General Supply Center. He told her she didn't need to work, that he could support her, but, again, she wanted her own money. Back to Mrs. Bradford, Grammy. She was a bit on the heavy side (which I thought made for the best, most cuddly hugs) with long grey hair that she wore up with tons of bobby pins. She always wore a floral bib apron with large pockets and she'd fill them with pears when we'd go to that special corner of our back yard. Oh the smell! Those yellow pears and the carpet of yellow leaves. Memories of Grammy Bradford brought back memories of Thelma Massenburg. She looked exactly like Aunt Jemima (OH FOR HEAVEN'S SAKES, we can't say Aunt Jemima anymore!) Recently a friend told me he'd made pancakes and I asked what kind of syrup he used. When he said, "Pearl Milling," I thought it sounded kinda cool, but when I looked it up I found out it was the new name for Aunt Jemima syrup. SERIOUSLY? Anyway, she was wonderful. She cleaned our house, scrubbed the floors and walls and worked harder than anyone I'd ever seen. I loved her. She always wore a bandana tied around her head. She lived in a tiny reddish tar papered house with ten children. Who knows where they all slept! She was diabetic and I was a little stinker and liked to tease her with Hershey Bars. I'd wave one in front of her nose and she'd smile and say," "You bad, chile." The last time I saw her she was in the hospital and her eyes were very, very yellow. Liver disease. The scarf that was always wrapped around her head was gone and I am sure that I could hear her say, "You bad, chile," although she probably didn't. Thank you my sweet Thelma. My Aunt Jemima.
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