My father grew up in a place called Possum Holler. This is not a joke, it's really called that by the locals. Incorporated? No, you will never find it on a map! Inhabited by Opossums? Yes! So named because sometimes while traversing the forest lined roads leading to this hard to find hollow near the Tennesse side of the Land Between the Lakes you come across opossums whom when unable to flee in the path of an oncoming car, extreme fear places the opossum into an involuntary coma . This is where the "playing possum" part comes in.
After researching this fact, I equated how many times I have involuntarily "played possum" in my life and been paralyzed with fear by unexpected situations - such as hearing a pediatrician tell you that your newborn baby needs surgery on her spinal cord or standing up in front of a judge when your divorce is granted. Both times I literally couldn't move, I had to have physical and emotional support to go forward. There are other times I encountered that I should have played possum and didn't realize it at the time and forged ahead unaware of the fear that should have immobilized me.
Possum Holler is the place I retreat to in my memory when I think of my childhood, because it was in this safe place of Possum Holler that filled my life with those unforgettable memories that everyone should possess. Swinging on grapevines, swimming and bathing in Miss Janie's creek, pretending you are Indians on lookout on the bluffs, charging lunch at Carl and Millie's Bait Shop and watching the minnows before you head back to your grandmother's for another afternoon of unexpected exploring. falling into bed with sheer exhaustion and sunburn from playing outside the entire day. Here you not only could hear the song of a whipporwill each night, but we learned to mimic it's cry. Possum Holler for me is the place where love lives.
The Great Outdoors were wonderful in those days in Possum Holler, but at nights the Great Indoors were equally as inviting. When the day ended you could find all my 9+ cousins, siblings and three aunts coming and going at my grandmother's house - her living room served as headquarters and stage for many talent shows, gossip sessions, birthday celebrations, dramatic interpretations and the drop-in site for neighbors & characters from up the road or from afar. If Mama made a phone call we would all stop talking and eavesdrop on her conversation. Her three bedrooms were always full. The screen door was always slamming, a wrong was always righted. Her house was full of love and the lessons of life she handed down. You didn't want to miss anything by not being a part of the living room sessions and most importantly, none of us had to play possum there. In her home, there was nothing to fear and you were encouraged to be yourself.
To this day, I miss the amber glow from the lamp that sat by her chair. You could see it in the lower right hand corner of the picture window when you pulled in the driveway and you knew you would find her sitting there when you walked in the door. Her crochet needles and Bible was always out in plain view along with the pictures of her favorite grandchildren (usually the first born and the boys in each family - the rest of us knew we were special and loved, however, just not on the fave list). I think out of necessity she slept in that chair, keeping watch over her loved ones that gathered there through the night with her little lamp emitting it's comforting glow.
I know that many times in her life Mama had setbacks where she must have temporarily "played possum" or wanted to at the very least - when she lost her 10 year old (and oldest) son to a blood disease and spent many nights at Vanderbilt Hospital at his bedside. Shortly after losing him, her sweetheart of a husband died after going to bed one night. When she woke up the next morning she discovered he had passed on to the other side. So instead of playing possum and growing stiff and laying down with her sorrow the rest of her life, like a mother opossum she gathered my father and his three sisters on her back, faced her fears head on - because with four small children she didn't have time to be comatose - she moved forward, found ways to support her family in this rural lakeside community and lived her life. At an early age, I learned from her that love doesn't die when a person dies, the love you share with that person lives on in your heart and your memory. As her grandchildren we grew up knowing every aspect about our Uncle and Grandfather's lives as if they had spent many evenings in that living room with us.
Lucky for me in my times of struggle I can escape to my recollections of Possum Holler that were stamped on my childhood psyche - jumping off the dock into the Kentucky Lake, wading up the creek driving crawdads into collection nets for our fishermen uncles, weenie roasts under the navy blue skies and ultra white stars, running from black racers that ventured onto your path, finding Indian money in the creek beds, standing at the piano singing at the top of our lungs while our cousin played our favorite songs over and over, being afraid of what might happen if you went forward during the altar call at the Leatherwood United Methodist Church, and the icy cold sensation in your throat of drinking water from the Spring Branch.
Today, when I confront my fears, sometimes I feel paralyzed and want to play possum in the face of the adulthood responsibilites that have come my way, but I have learned to face my fears like she did and find the strength to gather my daughter on my back, remember all the love in my life, stand up tall, move forward and live my life.
SabHop
