A Sunday in Lawrenceville

Lawrenceville First Baptist Church is the first place I knew when we moved here fifty-one years ago,.  I met Nellie here--and other friends from my new school, Central Gwinnett. My wedding took place here in 1967.  It's also the place where my daddy's memorial service was held nearly fifteen years ago. It's filled with memories.

The large downtown church has been remodeled and changed a lot since those early days, but I still know many good people there and I love hearing them say how much they still miss my daddy.

After church, we had lunch at Folks with some of Carlene's friends from Sunday School. 

"What does the Sunday lunch group call itself?" I asked.

"We just call ourselves the widows," Carlene said.

Person after person told me, "Your mother is the prettiest woman in the church," and "You are so lucky to have Carlene for your mother," and "She is the only 91-year-old woman you'll see RUNNING to catch the elevator!"  To me, they say, "You look just like your daddy."

"I call her my mama," Kwabena said.

"That makes me your sister," I said. 

At lunch, Martha asked Marlene, "What cruise ship are you going on?"

"I can't hear you," Marlene yelled back across the table--to which Martha repeated the question.

"I hate to say what I thought you said," Marlene said, laughing at her own dirty mind.  To me, she said, "I thought she said screws!"

Finally, Martha yelled across the table, "Do you need hearing aids?"

One of the women told how the doctor always asks her if she's sexually active.  "Next time, I'm going to say NO, are you?"

"It's none of his business really, but if you have eleven great-grandchildren, you aren't sexually active."

These women are witty and and quick-witted (all but the one in green who has dementia) and Carlene is the oldest of the group.  They knew each other's husbands and have been together through hard times and good times for many years.

Lawrenceville has changed a lot since the days I lived here.  Back then, we were pretty much all Anglo; now it's a diverse population from all over the world.  One of the ministers is from Moldova.  The pharmacist who gave me my flu shot yesterday is Nigerian.  Mona at the juice bar is from Haiti.  The manicurist and hair stylist are bothVietnamese.  In the high school where I graduated, there are between fifty and sixty languages spoken.

The traffic is unbelievable and ethnic restaurants are everywhere.  But some things never change: pine trees, iced tea, kudzu, red clay and sweet, funny women who lunch together after church.