Our Lady Ginger of The "Oh, My Lordy God!"

I can't tell you how many hours I've spent this past weekend, culling through literally thousands of photos packed in envelopes in a crate AND those shots which actually made it into my library of albums, gathering what I needed to create a slideshow for my graduating high school senior.  Oh, and scanning them into the Mac, too!  Is it possible to develop carpal tunnel syndrome in two days? 

In the process, I stumbled over gems that I couldn't leave well enough alone.  On Facebook, I uploaded a multitude of family pictures which encompassed almost every paper photo I could find of grandparents and great-grandparents on my husband's side of the family; I plan on uploading those from MY side of the family later this week.  They're simply too precious to keep to myself, stored in a box far away from admiring eyes, or crammed between pages which are beginning to yellow and fall apart.  For whatever reason, even before the dawning of the digital age of photographic ease, it has fallen to me to chronicle the lives and happenings of everyone around me from the time I married Jimmy, 22 years ago, up to today and beyond.

One album in particular housed an array of photos which allude to an interesting chapter in my life back when my children were yet quite young.   I made the acquaintance of a local woman in the small town of Lamar, Colorado.  Her name was Ginger Alba.  That initial meeting blossomed into a unique, sometimes rather precarious and strange, friendship over time.  But then again, Ginger was, herself, incredibly unique and different, and rather unstable if truth be told.  And I've got a thing for special cases.  For IMPOSSIBLE cases.

Ginger in her home in her trademark stocking cap and long-johns.

Ginger wandered the streets of Lamar dressed much like a homeless person.  She often wore her clothing, layers of mismatch shirts and sweaters and sweatshirts with logos and baby animals emblazoned across their fronts in the winter, worn jong-johns beneath loose jeans or sweatpants, and patterned socks, oft times several pair at a time, for days on end.  She had an endless supply of stocking caps which she pulled tightly over her head.  In the winter, of course.  Summer gave way to oversized t-shirts and blouses paired with a light cotton layer beneath.  But never skirts or dresses or shorts.  And ballcaps or hair ribbons.  During her time with me, I would often wash and dry her laundry, encouraging her to bathe in our restroom to rinse the sour odor rising from her body.  I also tried to match up an outfit here and there, like the one below.  And because she didn't visit the barber or hairdresser, I volunteered to cut her thick gray locks more than once.  She really did have an expressive face which was brightened and lightened with a washing and a trim!

Me and Ginger after a haircut in my kitchen.

Ginger developed a strong affection for me.  Perhaps too strong.  She used to hug me and say that I was like her sainted mother.  Her mother had died some time before I met her.  When conversations wandered in that direction, her mood became quite sad and her affect devolved into that of a young child.  She also discussed her siblings, recounting stories of her childhood and their role in it.  To hear her tell it, they kept her from spending more time with her mother and they didn't treat her right.  I did realize that her perspective was skewed and her maturity was stunted -- arrested development.  Her ideas about things sexual were innocently limited for a woman in her late 60's and she refused to actually say the proper name of certain body parts.  Ginger played with a full deck but some of the cards were blank, if you know what I mean.  Her ability to see life from another point-of-view was non-existent.  Therefore, understanding others happened through a narrow filter.  

Ginger with my kids.  Though she liked them in a general sense, over time she began to see them as competition for my attention.  That's when I realized we needed weaning, one from the other.

 You see, Ginger latched on to a woman she liked, someone who paid her attention and extended compassion, and remained her friend until her mind and heart reached a point where they could go no further.  Before me was a woman named Linda.  Ginger introduced us before Linda moved away from Lamar; Linda made a point to explain how demanding the sweet and humorous Ginger Alba could, and most likely WOULD, become.  She was absolutely correct!  But still I loved Ginger for all her quirky ideas and unreasonable fears and odd social behaviors.  Though she could be tricky, she was honest.  I found her quick shuffle-walk endearing.  I observed her enter local businesses for a hello and maybe a question or two . . . or six!  Locals knew who she was.  She didn't know strangers though she was a bit more standoffish with men.  Most folks engaged in chit-chat with her.  Every now and again, some imaginary slight would occur and Ginger would boycott a store or an individual, telling everyone she could that they should avoid the place or person because they did her wrong and therefore were rotten to the core.  It could be difficult to stop her angry verbal ramblings.  But I became quite skillful at it to my own exhausted detriment.  Her speech was peppered with the affectionate "Honey" (a distinct two-syllable, two-note, lilting pronunciation) and that famous personal exclamation reserved for anything which shocked, surprised, or otherwise caught her off guard, "Oh, my Lordy God!"  She did not possess an indoor voice.  Her firm but toothless gums sometimes caused her words to sound slightly slurred or liquid when she got herself worked up.  And a good many words had added letters in their formation as they passed by her lips.  For example, 'slave' became 'sclave.'  Nothing would change that.  "Ho-o-n-ney, I've been saying it that way all of my life.  Why would I want to go and change that now?!"  All wide-eyed and serious.

A portrait of Ginger doing what she often did: just sit and hang out in the odd place.  Sometimes watching.  Other times mumbling to herself.  Here she is in front of the public library building.

Eating was a favorite pastime of Ginger's.  BJ's Burgers, a local joint similar to Sonic Drive-In, had a cheeseburger about which she loved to talk; any a time did I load her up in the Pathfinder and treat her to one.  From Sonic (which she called 'Sonic-a') she enjoyed milkshakes.  SO DID I.  She had a knack for showing up around the house at lunchtime, right about the moment I sat the kids down for their midday repast, and they always opened up a chair for her at the kitchen table.  It amused them to watch her energetically gum through a sandwich or a piece of fruit, especially a ripe banana.  And she knew her way surprisingly well around a good hunk of steak!  Talking while eating didn't seem to trip her up none, either.  It did, however, trip me up, and I took to averting my eyes if I shared a meal with her.  I sent Ginger home with care packages of leftovers and special treats when I could, worried that she wasn't getting the nutrition she needed.  It was only later that I discovered the fate of leftover food in her home.

I loved those thin hair ribbons Ginger sometimes wore in her hair.
They lent an air of youthful playfulness to her appearance.
I do believe she's lunching on fried chicken here.

There are more Ginger stories to tell then I could ever possibly hope to remember.  A good friend of mine who happens to read this blog knew Ginger, having met her through me, and picking her fine brain could probably free a few more bats from the belfry.  But a few incidents come to mind worth telling here.


The first involved a period of time when I took to waking up at 5AM several times a week to help Ginger clean the clutter in her home.  She collected everything, from newspapers to nickels, and threw away nothing.  The rental house itself looked in danger of falling apart, and many years after I left Lamar it did burn down, forcing Ginger to finally move into one of those assisted living communities she couldn't stand.  Her fridge shelves were loaded down with the remains of meals from fast food places, the plastic containers of leftover I sent with her, and partially-consumed candy bars and soda bottles.  In my eagerness to work, to help, to fix, I ignorantly thought that once I cleaned everything up right nice, she would see the pleasure in it and maintain it.  Now, I realize that whatever illness did, in fact, plague her brain, caused her to compulsively collect these myriad items.


While I did manage to fill countless black plastic waste bags with the detritus littering her crowded living room and kitchen, a great many other possessions were deemed too important to find their way to the dumpster.  A broken radio.  Outdated calendars with cats and kittens, her favorite animal.  Piles of old newspapers she couldn't even read.  I had to actually point out the mold on food and explain the harm in leaving it sitting around to propagate.


But the worst, by far, was the row of orange plastic buckets with lids situated outside the bathroom door.  Ginger determined that the toilet was a danger to her and had thus turned off the water supply and covered the lid with plastic so as not to use it.  Instead, she collected her urine and fecal matter in these buckets.  Inside her house.  Actually in her kitchen.  I knew I had to do something with them but what?! How many there were, I can't recall.  More than five and less than twenty.  Even ONE was one too many, though.  In the end, I lugged each bucket to the furthermost edge of her property (praying with each trip that the lid would not loosen prematurely and allow the mellowing melange of bodily waste to splash on my person) and dumped the putrid contents on the ground, diluting it the best I could with a spraying hose after each empty.  I knew she would only start the process again but I was powerless to stop her.


Another time, my mother stopped in to visit and met Ginger for the very first time.  "Oh, ho-o-n-n-ey, you're her mama?  Well, I'm real glad to meet 'cha. I love her.  I love Gloria.  She's good to me, and makes me something to eat."  She had this habit of scrunching her eyes real tight when she got to cogitating over something.  And when she took in the image on my mom's t-shirt, the eyes took on a hard squint.  "Why, you got kitties on your shirt, don't 'cha?" her finger raised up and moved toward my mother's unsuspecting chest where words marched across the top of the the kittens, "What's that spell there?  K . . . I . . . T . . . T . . . "  Ginger's face was inches from the shirt, her bold index finger poking the top of my mother's upper female parts much to the dismay and disbelief of my mother.  Ginger just went on trying to pronounce the mysterious word without so much as a 'pardon me.'  Finally, my mom stepped back and put some distance between herself and the offending digit.  Classic Ginger.


Once, in a daring move I can't quite contemplate, my husband and I decided to bring Ginger along with us on a road trip to New Mexico to help our neighbor's move.  I don't believe she had left the state in a very long time before that, if ever.  As the picture below with Ashley demonstrates, she was giddy with excitement over the prospect.  Overall, she handled herself pretty well, childlike with wonder and fully entertaining to Uncle George and Aunt Donna in LaVeta when we stopped in on our way either to, or from, New Mexico.  My memory is foggy on this point.  Not that it matters.  Anyway, Ginger insisted on having her own motel room during the overnight portion of this trip.  She even paid for it.  This was a very big deal for her.  After making sure she was settled, the rest of us hunkered down for a good night's sleep.  When we woke in the morning and went to check on Ginger, she was perched on the edge of her bed, tense and sweating and wide awake.  The heated air emanating from her room almost pushed us back!  "Oh my Lordy God but I didn't sleep a wink last night.  After you turned on the heater, it got real warm in here but I couldn't turned the danged thing off.  Oh-h, honey, but I'm so tired and hot.  Turn it off!  Please!"  This last word was delivered as a little-girl whine.  Petulant and hoping for sympathy.  We were appropriately sympathetic though I did ask her why she didn't just knock on the adjoining door and ask for assistance.  "I didn't want to wake you up, ho-o-ney!" 

A road-trippin' Ginger attempting a bubble with her gum!

As do most good things with Ginger, our friendly little union eventually came to an end.  Her neediness became smothering.  More and more she demanded my unflagging attention.  She soured around my kids; I could see her beginning to compete with them for my devotion.  That just wouldn't do.  They were my first priority.  Several times I tried to reason with her.  But there is no reasoning with a stubborn Ginger.  She came around less and less before stopping all together.   I'll not soon forget the incident on Main Street which occurred with my visiting brother, John, in the car with me.  We were headed for the grocery store and as we approached our turn, I noticed Ginger on the sidewalk.  "Oh, there's little Ginger!  Honk at her, Jimmy!" I entreated my husband.  Upon hearing the horn, Ginger squinted hard as she tried to discern the people within the noisy automobile.  When recognition dawned upon her wizened brown features, she leaned forward, clenched her fists, and STUCK HER TONGUE OUT AT ME with all the ugliness and force she could muster, turning her head and body to follow us as we turned.  My brother was in stitches, barely able to catch his breath as he wheezed, "THAT is the funniest thing I've ever SEEN!  I'm sorry, Gloria, but IT IS!"   Though I could understand his amusement, it was hurtful to me.  I knew that for her, it was the ultimate expression of dislike.  Totally in keeping with her personality and sensibilities.


If there was any question left in me concerning the state of our friendship, it was laid to rest once we moved from Lamar for the big suburban community of Broomfield, Colorado.  One day I received a call from my little sis, Rebekah, who was living in Lamar with her husband at the time.  He happened to be a local police officer.  She relayed the story of how Ginger showed up at the police station a few days earlier to lodge a complaint against me.  Apparently, she told them that I had broken into her house and stolen all of the nickels and dimes that she kept hidden in socks all around her house.  Again, one of my siblings laughed at Ginger's expression of anger with me for treating less well then she felt she deserved. But this time, I had to laugh, too.  She'd accused others of this atrocity before.  Even told me of it.  This, I knew, was classic Ginger.


I lived.  I loved.  I learned.  I moved on.  There's never been, nor will there ever again be, another Ginger Alba in my life.  I'm not sure if she's still shuffling along the streets of Lamar.  But I know a few folks over that way.


I think I'll ask them.