Janis Owens

While I was out partying with the Pulpwood Queens, two separate tragedies befell the old Cracker Clan, one more fatal than the other. On Saturday night, Daddy called me in Texas with the news that Mama had fallen in the kitchen while trying to reach high cabinet over the stove, and had broken her hip. He called me the night of the Barbie Party, and our conversation went something like this:

 “Jan! I called you twenty times! Where ARE you?”

“Texas, Daddy.”

“TEXAS? Well what’s that racket?”

“I’m at a party.”

“A PARTY?”

And so on and so forth. Later in the evening, my brother Jay called and we had the same, identical conversation. I immediately understood that breaking one of her major joints was Mama’s way of getting me out of the clutches of the Texas Queens and back to Florida where I belonged. I hastened back and found her happy as a clam on the orthopedic ward at Monroe Regional, cruising on Percocet and feeling no pain. She’d already had the hip replaced, and was far along the road to recovery. Every nurse, orderly, or dietitian who came within a block of her bed was introduced to Jan, the Writer. With every introduction, my fame and PR grew. To hear Mama talk, I’ve plastered the NY Times bestseller list for forty years, and have a few Nobel Prizes under my belt. Such are the pleasant myths of Mama-World.

Yesterday was my thirtieth wedding anniversary and Mr. Wendel bought me diamond earrings, from a pawn shop owned by a cousin of a guy he works with. I can’t tell you how much satisfaction it gives me to have diamonds (good ones, too) from a pawn shop. It is so Cracker. Such a gesture says:  “Yes, we know quality, and we’re smart enough to do it cheap.” Mr. Wendel’s presents can sometimes fall a little short of genius, and we were both pleased that after thirty years, he’s beginning to get it right.

I wish I could end on that, but just on the heels of the glorious diamonds came the news that my dearly loved cousin Michael Floyd died of an aneurysm. For those of you familiar with my family oeuvre, Michael is my millionaire cousin, who was born on the West End of Marianna and went on to great success in marketing and advertising and preaching on the side. He was such a startlingly alive personality that it really is difficult to encapsulate his essence in one mortal blog. He was larger than life in every aspect, and probably the most generous human being who ever walked the earth. He had the faith of Father Abraham and was quick to remind me that my success stemmed not just from my own labors, but the blessings left to me by my grandmother (his Aunt Eula) just as his own success was built on the faithfulness of Aunt Izzy. He said it sincerely as Michael was a man who not only acknowledged the world of the Unseen, but lived his life accordingly. I am proud to have him as one of the Great Cloud of Witnesses who accompany me on my own journey to my True Home. Michael always understood me on earth. He will understand me more so in heaven. Maybe he’ll even forgive me “all thet cussing” in my books (his single, only criticism of my fiction, bless him.)

Oh Michael: how much we loved you. You were the kindest Rich Man the West End ever bore. Go with God, my love. One day I will see you again.

Tags: Michael Floyd