On the eve of another new year I am thinking about resolutions, the many I want to make for 2013 and the many I have made in the past.
I love New Year’s Day. It is possibly my favorite holiday. Of course I really meant to say Christmas is my favorite holiday. I love spending time with my family, giving and receiving gifts that were specially chosen, decorating (well, maybe not so much anymore), and just the general anticipation and love associated with December 25. Now that I have given Christmas its “props” let me be honest. I find New Year’s Day to be a very personal holiday. It is a time for introspection and new beginnings or, what they call in golf, a Mulligan or a do-over. I love a do-over.
I love making and breaking New Year’s resolutions. I typically make and break the same resolutions every year. Lose weight, exercise, eat healthier, take control of my finances, remodel the house, become more spiritual, read more, write more, become more creative, live in the moment, be a nicer person, appreciate what I have, etc., yada, yada, yada.
Even though I have broken every New Year’s resolution I have ever made it horrifies me to imagine where I would be without at least making those resolutions. Resolutions force me think about the person I want to be, and maybe, just maybe, I get a little closer to becoming that person every year.
Will this year’s resolutions be much different? I doubt it. However, I am adding a new one – be more savvy about technology. That means I will finally up-grade from my hand-me-down I-phone (thanks Melinda) to a new one, I will switch to a Mac from a PC, I will learn how to use Google Docs, I will use an electronic calendar (but keep my trusty Day Runner as backup), I will learn how to utilize the scary television options, and if my luck holds I might even figure out how to set the correct time on my I-pad.
Here’s to a new year and to resolutions.
Monday, December 31, 2012
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
River Walk
September 19, 2012 – What a glorious morning in San Angelo, Texas. I skipped my yoga class and opted to go to the river for my morning exercise. After a summer of triple digit heat the 64 degree temperature was a treat. Even the sun seemed kinder, sort of like a child’s drawing complete with a smiling face.
The Concho River is one of my favorite things about my new hometown. I have lived in San Angelo for just over a year but I still say I’m new here. It is my understanding that unless you were born here you are still a newcomer. When I arrived last summer the river had been recently drained and dredged, yet I still found it a treasure. I was so smitten that I even ventured out to explore on hot summer days. This summer I wasn’t so brave, or perhaps I was more wary of heat stroke. Today’s expedition was like finding an old friend.
I parked at the Beauregard Bridge and headed east. I nodded to a woman walking her dachshunds and then realized she is my neighborhood association president. What a treat for me to see someone I know. Having lived in my former town for over thirty years I would rarely leave the house without seeing a friend. Here I don’t often see a familiar face. We chatted a bit about dogs, the drought and water restrictions and how to save our trees and then we moved on in opposite directions.
My next encounter was with a large heron. I’m saying it was a Great Blue Heron until someone tells me differently. Bird identification is not my strong suit, but according to my Google search that’s what it was. I stood and stared at it for a few minutes until I felt I was encroaching on its territory. What a beautiful bird. I wondered if it was from the nests I have been observing all year in the old tree that reaches out over the river.
Chastising myself for dawdling during my morning exercise I picked up speed and arrived at the Abe Street Bridge to find two separate crews of workers; a construction crew building forms for walkway repair and a cadre of white-clad inmates under the direction of a correctional officer stringing lights for the Christmas extravaganza. I missed this San Angelo tradition last year and I am looking forward to it like a kid going to Disneyland. What a production it must be to begin setup this early.
Continuing on I crossed Chadbourne and notice the water in front of the Museum of Fine Arts was rather still and full of trash. Styrofoam cups and plastic bottles littered the area. How sad. This is one of the prettiest places on the trail and it looked like it hadn't been cleaned up since the Fourth of July. I wondered who was responsible for picking up the trash. Whoever it is, they have fallen down on the job.
I continued on to Concho Avenue where I doubled back and retraced my steps to my starting point. At South Irving I saw an elderly woman being pushed in her wheelchair by a young girl. It made me smile to think of them enjoying the Riverwalk as much as I do, until I realized they were having difficulty accessing the path. I wondered if there was a section of the trail that is handicap friendly. Is there a smooth trail for wheelchairs? I have no idea. I left them behind and moved on.
I’m always on the lookout for wildlife on the river. I like watching the turtles basking in the sun and the squirrels chasing each other in circles around the trees. Today I saw what at first I thought was a nutria, but it was a black squirrel slinking through the underbrush. I had to leave the trail to catch a glimpse of its tail to make certain it wasn’t the rat-like tail of a nutria. It was the furry bottle brush tail of a squirrel. I had never seen nutria until last summer. I was standing on a pedestrian bridge over the river and saw them swimming beneath me. Gross. The semi-aquatic rodent is a pest and I find myself curious about what is being done to control this invasive species. It seems to me that it would have been a good idea to employ a nutria eradication offensive while the river was semi-empty during the dredging stage.
When I arrived at my car I saw that someone had fed the gaggle of geese that were so interested in me upon my arrival, but are now too busy gorging themselves on day-old bread to pay me any mind. I’m feeling a little guilty about cutting my yoga class, but it has been a good morning. I’ve missed the river. I’m looking forward to more cool mornings and more musings as I take in the beauty of my favorite spot in my new town. Namaste.
Saturday, August 18, 2012
The Queen of Pep
Arriving at my grandmother’s 1950s pink brick, ranch-style house, I find her in her usual spot. She is sitting in her lift chair, one that would assist her in getting up, if she had the patience to wait for the slow mechanism to raise her. This chair has become her island in the sea of the 2500 square foot home where she raised ten children. I yell loudly to be heard over the blaring big screen television, purchased one Christmas by her children, in hopes that she might be able to make out the larger-than-life images. Macular degeneration has not been kind.
“It’s me,” I yell louder. “How are you?”
She finds the enormous-numbered remote control, feels for the volume button and turns down the TV. “What do you know?” she asks, mostly out of habit, but desperate for information from the outside world.
I make a quick, mental tally of my day, attempting to glean something of interest to offer as the diversion she so desires. “I had lunch with a professor from the university,” I say.
This works, and she peppers me with questions. “What does he teach? Where did you eat? Why did you go?”
After exhausting all of the details of my lunch meeting, I ask her about her day. “Did you have any company?”
“I don’t think so.”
I know my Aunt Gail and Uncle Bob have been by several times, to make breakfast, to read aloud the newspaper and the crossword puzzle. Gail leaves the scrambled letters of the Jumble word puzzle written in five-inch tall black Magic Marker letters on a clipboard for grandmother to decipher. They return at noon to finalize the Jumble answer and to fix her mid-day meal. Uncle Steve usually eats with them as well. “What did you have for lunch?” I ask.
“I don’t remember,” she says, looking a little confused.
I know she has eaten well. When I lived with her in my early twenties she was fond of quoting, “Eat breakfast like a king, lunch like a prince and dinner like a pauper.” She usually said this as we sat down to a large evening meal, but now she is unintentionally living the advice. Her appetite is best in the morning, but wanes by late afternoon. If I can get her to eat a little something and drink a glass of milk in the evening before she goes to bed, I have succeeded. “What would you like tonight?” I ask. “Sweet or salty?” If the answer is sweet I know there is a peach cobbler in the refrigerator. But tonight she chooses salty.
“I’ll just have a few Fritos.” She loves chips, it must be the salt her worn-out taste buds crave. I hate it when she requests them as she has a hiatal hernia and they cause her to cough and choke. Some nights she coughs up more than she ingests. In the kitchen with its original green linoleum tile floor I spread Fritos on a plate, grate some sharp cheddar cheese on top, melt it for a few seconds in the microwave and pour a glass of milk. “I have a glass of milk in the ice-box,” she shouts from the living room.
She thinks she does. Any morsel of food or drink she doesn’t finish, she requests we save. She lived through the depression and raised ten children, she doesn’t believe in waste. But her caretakers don’t believe in serving her old food, so we pretend we put her leftovers in the refrigerator.
I serve her salty snack on a tray, carefully positioning her fresh glass of milk and guiding her hand to it. If I can distract her, she may forget she isn’t hungry and eat all of her food. She is no longer the slightly overweight woman who futilely attended Weight Watcher’s meetings every week. Now, when I walk behind her as she slowly maneuvers to her bedroom behind her walker, her hips are so narrow, I wonder how her pants manage to stay on.
I opt for the distraction ploy, knowing she needs the calories, but running the risk of a choking spell, usually set in motion when she talks while eating. “Tell me about the Queen of Pep,” I ask.
She closes her blind eyes and travels the roads of her memory, the roads more familiar to her than what she had for lunch today. In a voice stronger than a few minutes earlier, she begins. “I used to play cards with Mr. and Mrs. Murphy at the teacherage in Pep. Mildred was her name. They invited Oliver Fredenberger, what a name, from the gin to be my partner. I hate to play cards, I told him, makes me want to kick the table in the air.”
I can imagine this. As my grandmother tells the story, I can see her in her early twenties, used to the freedom of growing up on a west Texas ranch, her long red braids cut into a bob, trying desperately to be a proper small town school teacher.
“Oliver asked me what I liked to do. I told him I liked to dance. He said he didn’t dance, but there was a dance at Lehman he’d take me to if I’d like to go. So that Saturday night we went to the dance at Lehman. They had a real fine band from Lubbock, the Buffalo Rhythm Stompers. They played real good music.”
“What kind of music did they play?” I ask, interrupting her memories from 1929.
“I don’t know what kind of music, just good dancing music.” She opens her eyes and I’m afraid I’ve broken the spell. “That’s the night I met Lewis and Prof and the Widder,” she says.
I know Lewis ends up being my grandfather, and I’ve heard about Prof and the Widder my whole life. “How’d they come to be called Prof and the Widder?” I wonder aloud.
“Prof taught school earlier in his life, just for one year. That’s what they sometimes called school teachers back then, Prof, short for professor I guess.”
“And the Widder?” I ask. “Had she been married before?”
“No,” my grandmother replies, her eyes close again and her smile reaches all the way to them. “Prof named her that, said she’d just as well be a widder as married to him.”
I watch as her smile fades and her brow wrinkles in thought.
“When he was in the war, the Widder was pregnant. He wrote home and told her to name the baby Buckley Lane; I guess after his best friend who died in the war. You couldn’t just pick up the phone and call back then, people wrote letters. The baby was a girl and the Widder named her Buckley Lane. Lots of little girls got bad names back then because of that. Buckley Lane married and had two children, but I don’t know what became of her.”
I can see she’s gone down a side street in her mind, trying to remember Prof’s progeny. I want to hear about my grandfather. “What about Lewis?” I ask. “Did you dance with Lewis that night?”
The smile is back. “Yes, we danced. Lewis didn’t know my name. All he knew was I taught school in Pep. He and Prof drove to Pep a few days later. Said they were ‘buying corn.’ They weren’t really, maybe corn liquor. They called me the Queen of Pep. They talked mother into letting me go to Lehman to stay with the Prof and the Widder so I could go to the next dance. Can you imagine?”
She stops here, her eyes still closed. I can only hope she is in 1929, dancing with my grandfather to the ‘real good music’ of the Buffalo Rhythm Stompers.
“He called me the Queen of Pep,” she says one more time.
“It’s me,” I yell louder. “How are you?”
She finds the enormous-numbered remote control, feels for the volume button and turns down the TV. “What do you know?” she asks, mostly out of habit, but desperate for information from the outside world.
I make a quick, mental tally of my day, attempting to glean something of interest to offer as the diversion she so desires. “I had lunch with a professor from the university,” I say.
This works, and she peppers me with questions. “What does he teach? Where did you eat? Why did you go?”
After exhausting all of the details of my lunch meeting, I ask her about her day. “Did you have any company?”
“I don’t think so.”
I know my Aunt Gail and Uncle Bob have been by several times, to make breakfast, to read aloud the newspaper and the crossword puzzle. Gail leaves the scrambled letters of the Jumble word puzzle written in five-inch tall black Magic Marker letters on a clipboard for grandmother to decipher. They return at noon to finalize the Jumble answer and to fix her mid-day meal. Uncle Steve usually eats with them as well. “What did you have for lunch?” I ask.
“I don’t remember,” she says, looking a little confused.
I know she has eaten well. When I lived with her in my early twenties she was fond of quoting, “Eat breakfast like a king, lunch like a prince and dinner like a pauper.” She usually said this as we sat down to a large evening meal, but now she is unintentionally living the advice. Her appetite is best in the morning, but wanes by late afternoon. If I can get her to eat a little something and drink a glass of milk in the evening before she goes to bed, I have succeeded. “What would you like tonight?” I ask. “Sweet or salty?” If the answer is sweet I know there is a peach cobbler in the refrigerator. But tonight she chooses salty.
“I’ll just have a few Fritos.” She loves chips, it must be the salt her worn-out taste buds crave. I hate it when she requests them as she has a hiatal hernia and they cause her to cough and choke. Some nights she coughs up more than she ingests. In the kitchen with its original green linoleum tile floor I spread Fritos on a plate, grate some sharp cheddar cheese on top, melt it for a few seconds in the microwave and pour a glass of milk. “I have a glass of milk in the ice-box,” she shouts from the living room.
She thinks she does. Any morsel of food or drink she doesn’t finish, she requests we save. She lived through the depression and raised ten children, she doesn’t believe in waste. But her caretakers don’t believe in serving her old food, so we pretend we put her leftovers in the refrigerator.
I serve her salty snack on a tray, carefully positioning her fresh glass of milk and guiding her hand to it. If I can distract her, she may forget she isn’t hungry and eat all of her food. She is no longer the slightly overweight woman who futilely attended Weight Watcher’s meetings every week. Now, when I walk behind her as she slowly maneuvers to her bedroom behind her walker, her hips are so narrow, I wonder how her pants manage to stay on.
I opt for the distraction ploy, knowing she needs the calories, but running the risk of a choking spell, usually set in motion when she talks while eating. “Tell me about the Queen of Pep,” I ask.
She closes her blind eyes and travels the roads of her memory, the roads more familiar to her than what she had for lunch today. In a voice stronger than a few minutes earlier, she begins. “I used to play cards with Mr. and Mrs. Murphy at the teacherage in Pep. Mildred was her name. They invited Oliver Fredenberger, what a name, from the gin to be my partner. I hate to play cards, I told him, makes me want to kick the table in the air.”
I can imagine this. As my grandmother tells the story, I can see her in her early twenties, used to the freedom of growing up on a west Texas ranch, her long red braids cut into a bob, trying desperately to be a proper small town school teacher.
“Oliver asked me what I liked to do. I told him I liked to dance. He said he didn’t dance, but there was a dance at Lehman he’d take me to if I’d like to go. So that Saturday night we went to the dance at Lehman. They had a real fine band from Lubbock, the Buffalo Rhythm Stompers. They played real good music.”
“What kind of music did they play?” I ask, interrupting her memories from 1929.
“I don’t know what kind of music, just good dancing music.” She opens her eyes and I’m afraid I’ve broken the spell. “That’s the night I met Lewis and Prof and the Widder,” she says.
I know Lewis ends up being my grandfather, and I’ve heard about Prof and the Widder my whole life. “How’d they come to be called Prof and the Widder?” I wonder aloud.
“Prof taught school earlier in his life, just for one year. That’s what they sometimes called school teachers back then, Prof, short for professor I guess.”
“And the Widder?” I ask. “Had she been married before?”
“No,” my grandmother replies, her eyes close again and her smile reaches all the way to them. “Prof named her that, said she’d just as well be a widder as married to him.”
I watch as her smile fades and her brow wrinkles in thought.
“When he was in the war, the Widder was pregnant. He wrote home and told her to name the baby Buckley Lane; I guess after his best friend who died in the war. You couldn’t just pick up the phone and call back then, people wrote letters. The baby was a girl and the Widder named her Buckley Lane. Lots of little girls got bad names back then because of that. Buckley Lane married and had two children, but I don’t know what became of her.”
I can see she’s gone down a side street in her mind, trying to remember Prof’s progeny. I want to hear about my grandfather. “What about Lewis?” I ask. “Did you dance with Lewis that night?”
The smile is back. “Yes, we danced. Lewis didn’t know my name. All he knew was I taught school in Pep. He and Prof drove to Pep a few days later. Said they were ‘buying corn.’ They weren’t really, maybe corn liquor. They called me the Queen of Pep. They talked mother into letting me go to Lehman to stay with the Prof and the Widder so I could go to the next dance. Can you imagine?”
She stops here, her eyes still closed. I can only hope she is in 1929, dancing with my grandfather to the ‘real good music’ of the Buffalo Rhythm Stompers.
“He called me the Queen of Pep,” she says one more time.
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Promises of Rain
I just finished watering the lawn. We have an automatic sprinkler system, but it is old so I have to manually operate it, turning on each section and then checking to make sure the sprinkler heads all popped up and aren’t spraying into the street.
We are under water restrictions due to drought and can only water once a week. I wish I had a xeric lawn, but I don’t. The landscaping at my house probably dates back to 1934 when water was not the issue it is today. When we bought this house we took on large trees, shrubbery, and lots of grass. I am trying to be a good steward of the limited water resources, but I don’t want everything in my yard to die.
Yesterday was my day to water but I felt optimistic about the thirty percent chance of rain so I waited. The blue sky clouded over, my storm phobic Border Collie hid in her kennel, and the temperature dropped into the double digits. Hurrah, maybe the weather forecast was right this time.
I made a cup of tea and sat under the awning on the patio to watch the storm roll in. Weather watching is one of my favorite activities, one I don’t get to participate in much in west Texas. As the sky grew darker and the distant thunder grew louder and closer I could hear raindrops on my canvas shelter, but found it odd that the cement patio remained dry. It was raining, just not enough to “stick.”
After my second cup of tea I gave up on the rain. The weatherman on the five o’clock news said there was still a chance, but I think he is a big fat liar. Today he is reporting a twenty percent chance but I’m not feeling very optimistic. I saw it as an eighty percent chance of no rain and turned on the sprinkler.
Andy Wilkinson, a wonderful singer/songwriter from my hometown, wrote a song called “Promises of Rain.” The chorus goes:
Storms, they build up over me,
They clatter all around,
But the rain falls east of me
When crops are in the ground.
There is no balm in Gilead,
But on the Staked Plains
God anoints this farmer’s head
With promises of rain.
This song has been on my mind these past two days. Promises of rain are about all we get lately. Another thing that’s on my mind is – it’s only my lawn I’m worrying about, not crops.
I pity the farmers who are irrigating or trying to raise a dry-land crop. I pity the consumer who will pay the increased cost somewhere down the line. I just downright pity the lack of rain. Keep those promises coming, sooner or later the weather forecast has to be right.
(You can find Andy Wilkinson’s song, “Promises of Rain” on his Radio Free America c.d. You should check it out. http://itunes.apple.com/us/artist/andy-wilkinson/id674410)
We are under water restrictions due to drought and can only water once a week. I wish I had a xeric lawn, but I don’t. The landscaping at my house probably dates back to 1934 when water was not the issue it is today. When we bought this house we took on large trees, shrubbery, and lots of grass. I am trying to be a good steward of the limited water resources, but I don’t want everything in my yard to die.
Yesterday was my day to water but I felt optimistic about the thirty percent chance of rain so I waited. The blue sky clouded over, my storm phobic Border Collie hid in her kennel, and the temperature dropped into the double digits. Hurrah, maybe the weather forecast was right this time.
I made a cup of tea and sat under the awning on the patio to watch the storm roll in. Weather watching is one of my favorite activities, one I don’t get to participate in much in west Texas. As the sky grew darker and the distant thunder grew louder and closer I could hear raindrops on my canvas shelter, but found it odd that the cement patio remained dry. It was raining, just not enough to “stick.”
After my second cup of tea I gave up on the rain. The weatherman on the five o’clock news said there was still a chance, but I think he is a big fat liar. Today he is reporting a twenty percent chance but I’m not feeling very optimistic. I saw it as an eighty percent chance of no rain and turned on the sprinkler.
Andy Wilkinson, a wonderful singer/songwriter from my hometown, wrote a song called “Promises of Rain.” The chorus goes:
Storms, they build up over me,
They clatter all around,
But the rain falls east of me
When crops are in the ground.
There is no balm in Gilead,
But on the Staked Plains
God anoints this farmer’s head
With promises of rain.
This song has been on my mind these past two days. Promises of rain are about all we get lately. Another thing that’s on my mind is – it’s only my lawn I’m worrying about, not crops.
I pity the farmers who are irrigating or trying to raise a dry-land crop. I pity the consumer who will pay the increased cost somewhere down the line. I just downright pity the lack of rain. Keep those promises coming, sooner or later the weather forecast has to be right.
(You can find Andy Wilkinson’s song, “Promises of Rain” on his Radio Free America c.d. You should check it out. http://itunes.apple.com/us/artist/andy-wilkinson/id674410)
Saturday, July 21, 2012
Common Sense
I have sworn off of political commentary on my Facebook page, but not on my blog. I question if what I am writing about today is political commentary. I prefer to think of it as common sense and since I have not sworn off of that I will continue writing.
Gun Control.
Now that I have your attention, now that I have riled you up, I’ll promise right off the bat that I do not, I repeat, do not want to deprive you of your right to own a gun. What I’m writing about today is James Holmes and why he had an AR-15 semi-automatic assault weapon with 100 rounds of ammunition. If you own an assault weapon then I retract my earlier promise, I do want to take away your gun.
I am not an expert on Constitutional Law, but I did Google the Second Amendment and noted that it was adopted in 1791 and reads: A well regulated militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed. Okay, here comes the common sense thing – in 1791 who could have fathomed our current-day semi-automatic assault weapon?
What I’m trying to say is that the citizens of the United States of America do not need to keep and bear assault weapons. We do not need them to deer hunt. We do not need them for competitive shooting. We do not need them to protect our lives and our property. Who does need an assault weapon? Someone like James Holmes. Someone who wants to kill a lot of people as quickly as possible.
Another reason I’m writing this goes back to Facebook. After the shooting there were many posts asking for prayers for the victims and the good people of Aurora, Colorado. I think prayers are fine, but not one single Facebook post on my page said anything about the gun laws that allowed this person to buy an AR-15 semi-automatic assault weapon in the first place.
Keep your guns for sport and protection, but please let’s find a way to keep assault weapons out of the hands of people who would use them in a manner our Second Amendment writers could not have imagined.
I am certain I have sparked controversy. I am certain many of my readers are against gun control. I am certain many will see this as Democrat vs. Republican, liberal vs. conservative, left vs. right. I am certain that if changes are not made there will be more massacres. It is common sense.
Gun Control.
Now that I have your attention, now that I have riled you up, I’ll promise right off the bat that I do not, I repeat, do not want to deprive you of your right to own a gun. What I’m writing about today is James Holmes and why he had an AR-15 semi-automatic assault weapon with 100 rounds of ammunition. If you own an assault weapon then I retract my earlier promise, I do want to take away your gun.
I am not an expert on Constitutional Law, but I did Google the Second Amendment and noted that it was adopted in 1791 and reads: A well regulated militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed. Okay, here comes the common sense thing – in 1791 who could have fathomed our current-day semi-automatic assault weapon?
What I’m trying to say is that the citizens of the United States of America do not need to keep and bear assault weapons. We do not need them to deer hunt. We do not need them for competitive shooting. We do not need them to protect our lives and our property. Who does need an assault weapon? Someone like James Holmes. Someone who wants to kill a lot of people as quickly as possible.
Another reason I’m writing this goes back to Facebook. After the shooting there were many posts asking for prayers for the victims and the good people of Aurora, Colorado. I think prayers are fine, but not one single Facebook post on my page said anything about the gun laws that allowed this person to buy an AR-15 semi-automatic assault weapon in the first place.
Keep your guns for sport and protection, but please let’s find a way to keep assault weapons out of the hands of people who would use them in a manner our Second Amendment writers could not have imagined.
I am certain I have sparked controversy. I am certain many of my readers are against gun control. I am certain many will see this as Democrat vs. Republican, liberal vs. conservative, left vs. right. I am certain that if changes are not made there will be more massacres. It is common sense.
Friday, July 20, 2012
Apple
I’ve been thinking a lot about my mother this week. She died in 1991 at the age of fifty-seven, but before she left us she was a wonderful grandmother to my daughters. My oldest daughter Courtney, the oldest grandchild, had the pleasure of knowing her the best. Courtney visited me these past two weeks with her daughter, the first and so far the only grandchild. We reminisced about my mother, about how much she loved Courtney and about how much Courtney loved her.
Courtney recalled making a childhood announcement that when she grew up she wanted to marry MaMaw. No amount of reasoning could dissuade her from this idea. It wasn’t until my mother asked, “But who would fix PaPaw’s dinner?” that Courtney finally realized she could not marry the person she loved most in the world. Fortunately, she later found someone she loved as much.
I reminded Courtney of an incident that occurred at the airport when she was about five years old. As we boarded the plane for home after visiting my parents Courtney was bereft about leaving. She sobbed and wailed in a most melodramatic fashion during our goodbyes and the entire flight. I’m sure the other airline passengers were happy when we were no longer sharing cabin space. I was excruciatingly embarrassed, but now I find myself secretly hoping that my granddaughter will have similar feelings upon leaving me one day.
The two weeks I spent with my grandbaby were priceless. At seven months old I doubt she remembers me from previous visits so we had to go through the getting to know each other process again. On the second day, when she gave me an ear to ear grin as I got her out of her crib, my heart filled so that I truly did feel my chest expand. We got along just fine, she and I, while her mother sequestered herself to study for the New York bar exam. Every day I learned a little more about this precious child. She laughs at the pat-a-cake song (or my singing), she doesn’t like to nap unless we are strolling through my neighborhood, and she enjoys a frequent change of scenery. I will see her again in September and I can’t wait to discover more about her.
The love between a grandmother and a granddaughter is a special thing. I had my Big Red and my daughters had their MaMaw. I have learned from the best. My grandmother name is Apple (because I am a Granny Smith); I hope I’m a good one.
Courtney recalled making a childhood announcement that when she grew up she wanted to marry MaMaw. No amount of reasoning could dissuade her from this idea. It wasn’t until my mother asked, “But who would fix PaPaw’s dinner?” that Courtney finally realized she could not marry the person she loved most in the world. Fortunately, she later found someone she loved as much.
I reminded Courtney of an incident that occurred at the airport when she was about five years old. As we boarded the plane for home after visiting my parents Courtney was bereft about leaving. She sobbed and wailed in a most melodramatic fashion during our goodbyes and the entire flight. I’m sure the other airline passengers were happy when we were no longer sharing cabin space. I was excruciatingly embarrassed, but now I find myself secretly hoping that my granddaughter will have similar feelings upon leaving me one day.
The two weeks I spent with my grandbaby were priceless. At seven months old I doubt she remembers me from previous visits so we had to go through the getting to know each other process again. On the second day, when she gave me an ear to ear grin as I got her out of her crib, my heart filled so that I truly did feel my chest expand. We got along just fine, she and I, while her mother sequestered herself to study for the New York bar exam. Every day I learned a little more about this precious child. She laughs at the pat-a-cake song (or my singing), she doesn’t like to nap unless we are strolling through my neighborhood, and she enjoys a frequent change of scenery. I will see her again in September and I can’t wait to discover more about her.
The love between a grandmother and a granddaughter is a special thing. I had my Big Red and my daughters had their MaMaw. I have learned from the best. My grandmother name is Apple (because I am a Granny Smith); I hope I’m a good one.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Who Are These Women?
My college sorority reunion is less than a month away. This is one of my favorite annual events, only surpassed by Christmas and my beach birthday extravaganza. It is also blog fodder this time every year. I love to reminisce about those coming of age college years and the women who saw each other through it all. I love that we pick up right where we left off thirty-plus years ago without a hitch. I love that no matter how different we are in our views concerning politics, religion, sexual orientation, and/or fashion sense we still love and respect each other. I love that I know these women and get to spend a weekend with them every July.
The list of this year’s attendees just came out and I am surprised to see quite a few names I don’t recognize. Who are these women? Every year our circle of sisters broadens to include those from years before and after my time at dear old SHSU. It would be silly to think that only those from my class should be invited, but it is also my nature to want my dearest, closest friends in attendance. Who will share in my glee as we discuss mixers at the fire tower or parties at Hard Times if these places were relics of the past by the time some of these girls (I mean, women) pledged? I may not be the only one thinking this as the reunion nears and the guest list is circulated.
The younger set is probably wondering if the oldsters will stay up past ten o’clock, and the oldsters are probably wondering if the really oldsters will need assistance on the cabin stairs. And we may all be wondering – will we have anything in common?
Yes, we will. I promise. I learned a valuable lesson last year from a newcomer to the reunion, a woman who was in and out of the sorority picture before I even graduated from high school. Ginny Pat and I arrived early at the lake cabin and my first thought upon meeting her was, “Poor woman, she’s not going to know a soul, how can she possibly have a good time.” (Sorry Ginny Pat, but I really did have that thought.)
Well, she showed me! She was the life of the party. One of the most outgoing and interesting women I’ve had the pleasure to meet. She proved that sharing experiences, like going to Hard Times or the Jolly Fox, didn’t make us sisters. She proved that sharing knowledge, like who dated which Sigma Chi, didn’t form lifelong bonds. It didn’t matter that we never went on a “wine-run” together. It didn’t matter that I never held her hair away from her face as she threw up in the toilet after being “over-served” at the Sound Machine. What mattered was our connection to something bigger than us.
If you are reading this you probably think I am going to wax poetic about the sorority, its values, its esoteric lessons, yada-yada-yada. Well, there is that, but what makes us sisters is our willingness to accept each other for who we were then and who we are now. Our eagerness to know each other as grown-ass women with minds and hearts and souls and lots and lots of life experience that shaped and molded us into unique and really awesome women. Yes, we shared a history of sorts. We probably all detested that horrible red carpeting in the living room. We all had to use the back stairs while pledging and sit while smoking cigarettes. But somehow, some way, something in those experiences shaped us into who we are today. Somehow, some way, we all owe part of who we are to those years we spent in the Chi Omega house.
We will come together next month as old friends and as new friends and we will all leave as dear friends, as sisters – just ask Ginny Pat.
The list of this year’s attendees just came out and I am surprised to see quite a few names I don’t recognize. Who are these women? Every year our circle of sisters broadens to include those from years before and after my time at dear old SHSU. It would be silly to think that only those from my class should be invited, but it is also my nature to want my dearest, closest friends in attendance. Who will share in my glee as we discuss mixers at the fire tower or parties at Hard Times if these places were relics of the past by the time some of these girls (I mean, women) pledged? I may not be the only one thinking this as the reunion nears and the guest list is circulated.
The younger set is probably wondering if the oldsters will stay up past ten o’clock, and the oldsters are probably wondering if the really oldsters will need assistance on the cabin stairs. And we may all be wondering – will we have anything in common?
Yes, we will. I promise. I learned a valuable lesson last year from a newcomer to the reunion, a woman who was in and out of the sorority picture before I even graduated from high school. Ginny Pat and I arrived early at the lake cabin and my first thought upon meeting her was, “Poor woman, she’s not going to know a soul, how can she possibly have a good time.” (Sorry Ginny Pat, but I really did have that thought.)
Well, she showed me! She was the life of the party. One of the most outgoing and interesting women I’ve had the pleasure to meet. She proved that sharing experiences, like going to Hard Times or the Jolly Fox, didn’t make us sisters. She proved that sharing knowledge, like who dated which Sigma Chi, didn’t form lifelong bonds. It didn’t matter that we never went on a “wine-run” together. It didn’t matter that I never held her hair away from her face as she threw up in the toilet after being “over-served” at the Sound Machine. What mattered was our connection to something bigger than us.
If you are reading this you probably think I am going to wax poetic about the sorority, its values, its esoteric lessons, yada-yada-yada. Well, there is that, but what makes us sisters is our willingness to accept each other for who we were then and who we are now. Our eagerness to know each other as grown-ass women with minds and hearts and souls and lots and lots of life experience that shaped and molded us into unique and really awesome women. Yes, we shared a history of sorts. We probably all detested that horrible red carpeting in the living room. We all had to use the back stairs while pledging and sit while smoking cigarettes. But somehow, some way, something in those experiences shaped us into who we are today. Somehow, some way, we all owe part of who we are to those years we spent in the Chi Omega house.
We will come together next month as old friends and as new friends and we will all leave as dear friends, as sisters – just ask Ginny Pat.
Monday, June 18, 2012
Father's Day
I’m thinking a lot about dads this week because of Father’s Day. I know some pretty amazing dads beginning with my own father. He was a strict man, but a loving one. He believed strongly in “spare the rod and spoil the child,” but when I think of my father I can’t recall one spanking. Don’t think for a second it was because I didn’t receive my fair share of corporal punishment. I just can’t recall any specific spanking because that was just part of my childhood, a happy childhood I must add. If/when I did something wrong I got a talking to and if the transgression was worthy of it a spanking usually followed. Did I consider this abuse? Of course not. I considered it a deterrent to repeating wrong behavior. Did I think my father was mean? No, in fact, I knew he loved me unconditionally. I tried extra hard to be a good child so as not to disappoint him. Even when I was well past the age of spankings I was dissuaded from bad behavior because I didn’t want to see the look of disappointment in my father’s eyes. I miss him terribly and thank him for loving me and raising me to be who I am today.
My husband, the father of my children, was not the strict disciplinarian my father was, yet our children were well behaved and respected him. He is the best father I could imagine for our daughters. Gentle and wise, kind and patient, always giving of himself, he is the “good cop” to my “bad cop” when it comes to parenting. He is the parent my children seek out first in a crisis or with good news and I love him all the more because of it. They know he loves them more than anything or anyone in this world. They know that is what it means to be a good parent.
There is a new father in my life, my daughter’s husband, the father of my six month old granddaughter. I can already tell he will be an excellent father. The way he lights up when he sees her, and vice-versa. The way she calms when he sings to her and the way he sings to her. The cute games they play – the peek-a-boo-where’s-Evelyn-blanket game. And the way he is making a secure home and future for her. I know my granddaughter, like me and her mother, hit the daddy-jackpot.
What do these men have in common? Each with their own parenting styles, each with their own ways and beliefs. They share the most important quality a father can possess. The thing that makes them all stellar fathers is the love and respect they have for the mother of their children. On this Father’s Day I honor you and I thank you, the three most important fathers in my life.
My husband, the father of my children, was not the strict disciplinarian my father was, yet our children were well behaved and respected him. He is the best father I could imagine for our daughters. Gentle and wise, kind and patient, always giving of himself, he is the “good cop” to my “bad cop” when it comes to parenting. He is the parent my children seek out first in a crisis or with good news and I love him all the more because of it. They know he loves them more than anything or anyone in this world. They know that is what it means to be a good parent.
There is a new father in my life, my daughter’s husband, the father of my six month old granddaughter. I can already tell he will be an excellent father. The way he lights up when he sees her, and vice-versa. The way she calms when he sings to her and the way he sings to her. The cute games they play – the peek-a-boo-where’s-Evelyn-blanket game. And the way he is making a secure home and future for her. I know my granddaughter, like me and her mother, hit the daddy-jackpot.
What do these men have in common? Each with their own parenting styles, each with their own ways and beliefs. They share the most important quality a father can possess. The thing that makes them all stellar fathers is the love and respect they have for the mother of their children. On this Father’s Day I honor you and I thank you, the three most important fathers in my life.
Monday, June 11, 2012
I am a Writer
I am a writer. There, I said it. It is official. I’ve even changed my Facebook job status from retired to writer so it must be true. I am a writer. I write. It is what writers do. We write. I write.
Why is saying, “I am a writer” such a difficult thing to do? Is it because my fifth grade teacher made me feel like a loser? Is it because I think it sounds pompous? Is it because of the wee small voice in my head that says ever so snarkily – “Yeah, right.” Is it because I make up words like snarkily? Maybe it is hard to say it because once I declare it I will have to make it so. I will have to actually show up and do the work rather than just think about it.
Writing is now my job. It is what I do. I will go to my office every day and put in my time. I will write. I will not check Facebook updates or email. I will not read blogs or cruise websites. I will write. I will set goals and meet them. I will be proud of myself. I will show that mean fifth grade teacher that she was wrong. I will write. I will hush that snarky voice in my head. I will write. I am a writer. Writers write.
Why is saying, “I am a writer” such a difficult thing to do? Is it because my fifth grade teacher made me feel like a loser? Is it because I think it sounds pompous? Is it because of the wee small voice in my head that says ever so snarkily – “Yeah, right.” Is it because I make up words like snarkily? Maybe it is hard to say it because once I declare it I will have to make it so. I will have to actually show up and do the work rather than just think about it.
Writing is now my job. It is what I do. I will go to my office every day and put in my time. I will write. I will not check Facebook updates or email. I will not read blogs or cruise websites. I will write. I will set goals and meet them. I will be proud of myself. I will show that mean fifth grade teacher that she was wrong. I will write. I will hush that snarky voice in my head. I will write. I am a writer. Writers write.
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Fifty-seven
Yesterday was the anniversary of my mother’s death. She died on May 7, 1991 at the age of fifty-seven. I will be fifty-seven next year. I will breathe a sigh of relief when I turn fifty-eight. There will be something to surviving my fifty-seventh year. I’m not normally superstitious, but I’ll admit – fifty-seven freaks me out a bit.
I am so young (I think I am!) and healthy (my doctor says I am!). I’m sure my mother felt the same. What am I doing to protect myself from the perils of fifty-seven? I quit smoking on the day my mother was diagnosed with lung cancer. Cold turkey. Watching your mother waste away in M.D. Anderson Hospital is the best cure for kicking the smoking habit I’ve found. Forget the patch, I’ve discovered a better way. My husband quit with me. (He also stopped riding his motorcycle after my brother died in a motorcycle accident, but that’s another story.) I see my doctor regularly, not waiting and worrying, and putting it off like mother did. How long did she have the big C before she sought medical treatment? Her last excuse was she didn’t want to ruin Christmas. She went to the doctor after the first of January and was dead by May 7th. Four months of hell.
Perhaps she knew and was afraid to face it. Of course she knew. Part of me wants to be mad at her. Mad at her for leaving me, leaving my daughters, leaving my father, my siblings, my nieces and nephews, the great-grandchildren she would one day have. But you can’t get mad at my mother; she was too nice, too kind, too gentle.
She shouldn’t have smoked. She began at an impossibly young age and smoked a lot, refusing to believe the Surgeon General’s warning applied to her. Doctors used to say it was good for you to smoke. She even switched to menthol cigarettes when she had a cold or a sore throat. She said the menthol was soothing.
She was a nicotine addict. She was fifty-seven. She was my mother. I miss her.
I’ll be fifty-seven next year.
I am so young (I think I am!) and healthy (my doctor says I am!). I’m sure my mother felt the same. What am I doing to protect myself from the perils of fifty-seven? I quit smoking on the day my mother was diagnosed with lung cancer. Cold turkey. Watching your mother waste away in M.D. Anderson Hospital is the best cure for kicking the smoking habit I’ve found. Forget the patch, I’ve discovered a better way. My husband quit with me. (He also stopped riding his motorcycle after my brother died in a motorcycle accident, but that’s another story.) I see my doctor regularly, not waiting and worrying, and putting it off like mother did. How long did she have the big C before she sought medical treatment? Her last excuse was she didn’t want to ruin Christmas. She went to the doctor after the first of January and was dead by May 7th. Four months of hell.
Perhaps she knew and was afraid to face it. Of course she knew. Part of me wants to be mad at her. Mad at her for leaving me, leaving my daughters, leaving my father, my siblings, my nieces and nephews, the great-grandchildren she would one day have. But you can’t get mad at my mother; she was too nice, too kind, too gentle.
She shouldn’t have smoked. She began at an impossibly young age and smoked a lot, refusing to believe the Surgeon General’s warning applied to her. Doctors used to say it was good for you to smoke. She even switched to menthol cigarettes when she had a cold or a sore throat. She said the menthol was soothing.
She was a nicotine addict. She was fifty-seven. She was my mother. I miss her.
I’ll be fifty-seven next year.
Monday, May 7, 2012
Sight
It doesn’t come as a surprise to me that Big Red restored my vision; she’s been helping me to see for a long time.
On what would have been her 105th birthday my Uncle Steve, the executor of her estate, made a cash distribution to her heirs. We were all grateful and surprised by the unexpected gift. On a family e-mail several of my cousins, aunts and uncles commented on what they were going to do with the boon. There was talk of reupholstering dining room chairs and buying new shoes. I put my check in the bank. I felt that my always frugal grandmother would have approved.
Right about this time I found out I needed cataract surgery. Health insurance covers the procedure, but not the new corrective lenses that would give me twenty-twenty vision, something I have not had since I was nine years old. What to do? I didn’t have several thousand dollars just sitting around the house, but I did have my benefaction from Big Red. Thinking about using her money to restore my vision brought back a memory and made me smile.
When I first went to live with her in my junior year of college I was wearing the old-fashioned hard contact lenses. Wearing them was like putting a plastic tiddlywink in one’s eye. Soft contacts had recently come on the market, but were cost prohibitive for me trying to finish school on a budget. After yet another day spent in a dark room with a cold wash cloth over my eyes suffering from a scratched cornea courtesy of the hard lenses Big Red announced she was buying me a pair of soft lenses.
“I promised the Lord that if I won at Bingo I’d give the money to charity and I think your eyes are a good charity,” she said after winning $1,000 the night before at the church hall.
I took her up on her offer. Little did I know that was just the beginning of gaining sight from my beloved grandmother. Over the next thirty-plus years she taught me how to look at the world. I learned to see my life, my home, my family, my friends, my career as she would have seen them. I’ve asked myself on many an occasion, how would Big Red do this, handle this, react to this. I became a better person by examining things through her eyes.
She is gone, but she is still giving me sight – both literally and figuratively. I now have twenty-twenty vision afforded because of her monetary legacy and I have the gift of her love and her example for how to live my life. Sight is a wonderful thing.
On what would have been her 105th birthday my Uncle Steve, the executor of her estate, made a cash distribution to her heirs. We were all grateful and surprised by the unexpected gift. On a family e-mail several of my cousins, aunts and uncles commented on what they were going to do with the boon. There was talk of reupholstering dining room chairs and buying new shoes. I put my check in the bank. I felt that my always frugal grandmother would have approved.
Right about this time I found out I needed cataract surgery. Health insurance covers the procedure, but not the new corrective lenses that would give me twenty-twenty vision, something I have not had since I was nine years old. What to do? I didn’t have several thousand dollars just sitting around the house, but I did have my benefaction from Big Red. Thinking about using her money to restore my vision brought back a memory and made me smile.
When I first went to live with her in my junior year of college I was wearing the old-fashioned hard contact lenses. Wearing them was like putting a plastic tiddlywink in one’s eye. Soft contacts had recently come on the market, but were cost prohibitive for me trying to finish school on a budget. After yet another day spent in a dark room with a cold wash cloth over my eyes suffering from a scratched cornea courtesy of the hard lenses Big Red announced she was buying me a pair of soft lenses.
“I promised the Lord that if I won at Bingo I’d give the money to charity and I think your eyes are a good charity,” she said after winning $1,000 the night before at the church hall.
I took her up on her offer. Little did I know that was just the beginning of gaining sight from my beloved grandmother. Over the next thirty-plus years she taught me how to look at the world. I learned to see my life, my home, my family, my friends, my career as she would have seen them. I’ve asked myself on many an occasion, how would Big Red do this, handle this, react to this. I became a better person by examining things through her eyes.
She is gone, but she is still giving me sight – both literally and figuratively. I now have twenty-twenty vision afforded because of her monetary legacy and I have the gift of her love and her example for how to live my life. Sight is a wonderful thing.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Fire
I’m still having a difficult time wrapping my mind around Courtney and Evelyn’s fire experience. This morning I recalled a stage Courtney went through as a child where she was scared to death that we would have a house fire. Perhaps it was from a fire safety program at her school or from something she saw on television, but she was nearly panicked over the idea that our house would burn to the ground. Her fear, which at the time I found absolutely unrealistic, nearly came to fruition a quarter of a century later in her own home.
The fire in her apartment building began on the fourth floor, but she had no way of knowing this when the smoke alarm in her sixth floor apartment went off. She grabbed only her cell phone and entered a smoke filled hallway with her three month old daughter, my granddaughter, Evelyn.
This was on Monday so Courtney was at home with Evelyn. Had it been Tuesday or Thursday Evelyn would have been home with my niece, Taylor, the nanny and Courtney would have been at Columbia University finishing her final month of law school. But it was a Monday and Courtney was in her bathrobe breastfeeding Evelyn when their recently replaced smoke alarm began beeping.
I can only imagine the thoughts that went through my daughter’s mind at that time: annoyance, disbelief, and panic, followed by a mother’s instinct to save her child. She put her palm to the front door feeling for heat, there was none, so she exited and made her way down a stairway so dark with smoke she fell once on her hip, still protecting her child. The fifth floor was smokier than the sixth, but not knowing where the fire was she didn’t know where to go. She somehow managed to open a window in the hallway and hold Evelyn to it so she could breathe fresh air. And then my soft-spoken daughter screamed louder than she thought she could for help until New York’s finest firefighters burst onto the fifth floor, ran them down the remaining flights of stairs and into an ambulance for the hospital.
Fortunately they were not physically injured. Courtney is hoarse and is coughing up soot. Evelyn’s pediatrician gave her a clean bill of health and assured Courtney that the baby will have no traumatic memories of the fire. When Courtney was able to phone me after she was released from the hospital she kept repeating, “I thought Evelyn was going to die.” How does a parent recover from that? How does a grandparent, on the other side of the country, recover from that? I can’t close my eyes without imagining what horrors Courtney experienced in the few minutes between the smoke alarm sounding and the ambulance doors closing. I know she will never be able to forget it.
She has learned the toughest lesson of motherhood. Try as we will we can’t be sure of our children’s safety. We have to protect them and let them gradually make their way in the world. There will be illness and the first day of school and driver’s education classes and dates with boys in cars and going off to college. I pray that she never experiences anything worse than this horrific fire. I am sorry she had to learn this lesson so soon and so traumatically. I am not there now to hug them, but I will be soon. In the meantime I am saying I love you more often and giving more hugs to those who are near to me. I hope everyone does the same.
The fire in her apartment building began on the fourth floor, but she had no way of knowing this when the smoke alarm in her sixth floor apartment went off. She grabbed only her cell phone and entered a smoke filled hallway with her three month old daughter, my granddaughter, Evelyn.
This was on Monday so Courtney was at home with Evelyn. Had it been Tuesday or Thursday Evelyn would have been home with my niece, Taylor, the nanny and Courtney would have been at Columbia University finishing her final month of law school. But it was a Monday and Courtney was in her bathrobe breastfeeding Evelyn when their recently replaced smoke alarm began beeping.
I can only imagine the thoughts that went through my daughter’s mind at that time: annoyance, disbelief, and panic, followed by a mother’s instinct to save her child. She put her palm to the front door feeling for heat, there was none, so she exited and made her way down a stairway so dark with smoke she fell once on her hip, still protecting her child. The fifth floor was smokier than the sixth, but not knowing where the fire was she didn’t know where to go. She somehow managed to open a window in the hallway and hold Evelyn to it so she could breathe fresh air. And then my soft-spoken daughter screamed louder than she thought she could for help until New York’s finest firefighters burst onto the fifth floor, ran them down the remaining flights of stairs and into an ambulance for the hospital.
Fortunately they were not physically injured. Courtney is hoarse and is coughing up soot. Evelyn’s pediatrician gave her a clean bill of health and assured Courtney that the baby will have no traumatic memories of the fire. When Courtney was able to phone me after she was released from the hospital she kept repeating, “I thought Evelyn was going to die.” How does a parent recover from that? How does a grandparent, on the other side of the country, recover from that? I can’t close my eyes without imagining what horrors Courtney experienced in the few minutes between the smoke alarm sounding and the ambulance doors closing. I know she will never be able to forget it.
She has learned the toughest lesson of motherhood. Try as we will we can’t be sure of our children’s safety. We have to protect them and let them gradually make their way in the world. There will be illness and the first day of school and driver’s education classes and dates with boys in cars and going off to college. I pray that she never experiences anything worse than this horrific fire. I am sorry she had to learn this lesson so soon and so traumatically. I am not there now to hug them, but I will be soon. In the meantime I am saying I love you more often and giving more hugs to those who are near to me. I hope everyone does the same.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
The Sewing Machine
The Sewing Machine
After searching stores and the internet for the perfect curtains for my kitchen and utility room I gave up and decided to make them myself. Believe it or not, it was sort of fun. I don’t sew often. In fact, I sew so little that I almost sold my sewing machine in the great-purge-of-2011 garage sale. My father bought the machine for me when I was in junior high school. He bought it from someone he knew who either owned a pawn shop, or had a connection to someone who did. I think he paid a whopping thirty-five dollars for it, but for someone as frugal as my father that was a dear price.
I was taking sewing in my Home Economics class at the time and the adage, “A little knowledge is a dangerous thing,” was certainly applicable. The first sewing project I undertook on my new sewing machine was to re-make a pair of my father’s U.S. Navy white bell bottoms I found in his ancient footlocker in the closet under the stairs. The entire fashion foray was a frustrating fiasco. I remember staying up half the night (I wanted to wear them to school the next day) sewing and seam ripping and trying on and crying and cussing. My parents had gone to bed hours before and I cussed an adolescent blue streak, damning both the bell bottoms and the sewing machine straight to hell.
I never succeeded in re-fashioning those Navy issued bell bottoms, but I learned more in that sewing all-nighter than I learned in the whole semester of Home-Ec. I learned one must be patient to be a good seamstress. I learned following a pattern is easier than trying to wing it. I learned you cannot re-size a pair of pants just by taking in the seams. Perhaps the biggest lesson I learned that night was my parents were willing to let Miss Know It All make her own mistakes without saying, “I told you so.”
As frustrating as that first experience was I grew to love sewing on that old machine. I made clothes, cute clothes, from Simplicity and Butterick and Vogue tissue paper patterns. I made most of my college wardrobe following the fashion advice from Seventeen Magazine. The old machine followed me into my married life and I made maternity clothes and matching “sister dresses” that miraculously didn’t warp my daughters’ fashion sense.
I’m still using that old machine. Last night I made curtains out of a lightweight white canvas duck cloth that was ironically similar to the fabric in that long ago bell bottom debacle. Thank you Daddy, for giving me much more than a second-hand sewing machine all those years ago. You gave me the confidence to try new things – even if I didn’t know what I was doing. You taught me to keep trying even when I failed the first time. And, most importantly, I knew you always believed in me. Not bad for a thirty-five dollar investment.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Grandmothers
My oldest daughter celebrated her birthday last month. It is hard for me to realize that thirty-one years have passed since I gave birth to my firstborn. It is even harder to believe that a little over a month ago she gave birth to her firstborn. Thirty-one years ago I was twenty-four years old and clueless about being clueless when it came to babies. I thought I was prepared to be a mother up until the point when the nurses let me leave the hospital with my newborn. What were they thinking? We knew nothing about babies, especially this bald, big-eyed one who could twist my heart with a whimper.
The drive home from the hospital was like driving through a Bosnian mine field, there was danger everywhere. I now saw the other drivers for the idiots my father always swore they were. I couldn’t depend on traffic signals to stop the flow of oncoming cars, and even pedestrians presented peril. Were the doors locked? The elderly woman waiting to cross the street could be a crazed babynapper.
Once home I had no idea what to do with this baby of mine. Should I put her in her crib, her bassinette, her infant seat? Unable to make a decision of this magnitude I think I just held her for two days until my mother arrived. My mother, who was now a grandmother (at the ripe old age of forty-seven), knew what to do with a baby and I learned from her. Or, so I thought.
Having just been through the new grandmother experience myself, I think I can say with some authority that we grandmothers don’t know much more about babies than the new mothers. It’s been too long, and believe it or not, things change. Oh, babies don’t change – they are still cute and helpless and smell like sweet milk, and pee and poop and spit up, but their care and handling changes.
While sitting in the obstetrician’s waiting room during my daughter’s last pre-delivery appointment I read an article in a parenting magazine that reinforced just how much things have changed in thirty years. Babies now sleep on their backs. In the olden days they had to sleep on their stomachs. Dear God, if I don’t even know the fundamentals how am I going to help my daughter through the new-baby-at-home-stage like my mother helped me? Were things this different for my mother when she was my new baby salvation? I committed the rest of the doctor’s office magazine article to memory and reminded myself that my daughter was much smarter and surely more baby savvy than I had been as a first time mother.
Then it was her turn to wonder why she was allowed to leave the hospital with her infant daughter. The new parents and precious newborn arrived at their New York apartment via a taxicab. (I can only imagine the horror of that ride home from the hospital.) I was there waiting for them, waiting to be the arms of experience and knowledge for my daughter to pass her daughter into. How did I pull it off? I did what my own mother had done over thirty years ago. I took my granddaughter into my arms and silently vowed we would get through this together, and then proceeded to pretend I knew what I was doing.
Friday, January 20, 2012
Progress Report or I Promise I'm Not Hiding Under the Bed
Art Museum in San Angelo, Texas
Last night was San Angelo’s third Thursday Art Walk. I really, really wanted to go, but I did not want to go by myself. My husband’s work schedule is such that I never know when he will walk through the door in the evening. After thirty-two years of marriage I’ve gotten used to being fairly flexible when it comes to planning and I’ve never shied away from going out on my own. But circumstances feel different in a new town where I don’t yet have friends I can count on seeing when I solo.
I made myself a deal: If my husband didn’t get home in time to go on the Art Walk I would stay in and have a glass of wine with Dr. Sheldon Cooper (Big Bang Theory) instead. Fortunately, I was spared my virtual date and had the pleasure of a real date with my spouse.
Our first stop was a new studio, Art in Uncommon Places, where I had the pleasure of meeting the owners. These two women are literally changing the face of San Angelo with their creativity. I got to see a mosaic mural in progress that will soon adorn one of the bridges near the Concho River. I also learned of other public art installations planned for their work. Being in their studio, talking to them, inspired in me such a rush of creativity I am inspired to get back to work on my own projects.
At another stop we enjoyed a glass of wine and listened to live music. While there I met one of the owners of the wine bar, eavesdropped on a conversation about a yoga studio, and realized I had met the performing singer the day before while in line at Office Depot (one of the joys of living in a small town).
Our last stop of the evening was the cosmic culmination of the night. At a gallery/wine bar (yes, another wine bar) with live music and open mike night, we enjoyed a glass of our favorite local wine (Christoval Vineyards Tempranillo) and listened to a very talented bar patron sing songs by Paul Simon, The Beatles, and Neil Young. Then the stars aligned and who should come into the bar? The singer from the previous bar and the yoga conversation woman. We enjoyed more dialogue and discovered we all live in the same neighborhood and have similar interests.
I’m meeting people. I’m not hiding under the bed
Apologies to Dr. Sheldon Cooper for standing him up.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Home
So here I am, back in my new town trying to get on a schedule after a month and a half away. I didn’t really have an opportunity to settle in to my new home before I left. The house is a mess, not even fully unpacked from the move (or even my trip). There are many remodeling and renovation projects yet to do. I still need to learn my way around town. I still need to meet the neighbors. I still need to make some friends. I want to find a place to volunteer, to exercise, to get my nails done, to shop. The dogs need a vet and I need a housekeeper and a contractor. If I let myself think about it all I get a little overwhelmed.
Perhaps I should focus on the positives. I’m here. I’m reunited with the man I can’t stand to be away from after living apart for over a year. I have a doctor, a dentist, a pharmacy and a drycleaner. I found someone to cut my hair. I met some wonderful women and hopefully new friends in the extended learning class. I took the extended learning class. I have affiliated with my local political party. I joined the museum. I discovered the river walk. I went to a wine tasting at an awesome wine bar. I found a great place to listen to live music. I found a place to have a glass of wine at four o’clock in the afternoon while contemplating buying art. I’ve eaten at several really good restaurants. I met another newcomer and we’ve enjoyed several outings. I learned about The Chicken Farm Art Center and attended one of their first Saturday events. I went on the third Thursday art walk in November. I’ve had houseguests twice. I’ve gone to garage sales and estate sales and antiques stores. I went to the mall. I have a workable home office. I guess I’m doing okay.
After hearing that I had signed up for an evening class at the local university one of my best friends commented that if she were me she probably wouldn’t have left the house yet. That comment brought on thoughts of how much easier it would be to just hide under the bed all day or sit on the couch and watch bad reality television on Bravo until my husband came home from work and announced that this move was just a joke and we were going home. But I am here and this will work. No more “Housewives of Anywhere” marathons, no more episodes of “Hoarders,” no more hiding under the bed. I’ve got things to do, people to meet, and a housekeeper to find.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Metamorphosis
I went to New York on December first for the arrival of my first grandchild. She was due on the fifth, but the little sweetheart made her own schedule (and has been doing so since) not arriving until two weeks later, opting to share her father’s birthday. My trip was scheduled for the entire month of December, giving me what I thought would be almost a month with the precious child. I had a glorious time with my daughter and son-in-law while waiting, but I wanted as much grandmother time as possible. Fortunately, the owner of the apartment I was sub-letting agreed to two more weeks.
Everyone told me having a grandchild would be a life changing experience and I thought they were exaggerating. Sure, I was excited to have a grandchild, but life changing, really? Yes, really!
From the moment I walked into my daughter’s hospital room and saw her holding her daughter I was changed. I held my granddaughter and with tears streaming down my cheeks and splashing onto her I realized that this little girl and I are going to have quite a time over the next several decades. With her miniature face looking inquisitively at me we formed a bond, I swear we did. I will always be there for her, no matter the miles between New York and Texas that separate us.
It is said that on one’s deathbed your life flashes before you. At my granddaughter’s birth I saw my life and her life before me. I saw long walks on the beach searching for perfect sand dollars. I saw over-priced frilly dresses and tears at airports and reading Anne of Green Gables and hugs and kisses and letters and phone calls. (Or texting or skyping or whatever technology brings us in the years to follow.) Mostly I saw love, an overwhelming, all consuming, my-life-really-won’t-be-the-same-ever-again love.
And then, way before I was ready, forty-five days passed and I had to board a plane for home. My heart broke to leave my little New York family. My heart broke to leave my granddaughter. I’ll see her in two months and we will get to know each other all over again, and continue to make memories in this new love affair I have embarked on. It is life changing – really, truly.
Everyone told me having a grandchild would be a life changing experience and I thought they were exaggerating. Sure, I was excited to have a grandchild, but life changing, really? Yes, really!
From the moment I walked into my daughter’s hospital room and saw her holding her daughter I was changed. I held my granddaughter and with tears streaming down my cheeks and splashing onto her I realized that this little girl and I are going to have quite a time over the next several decades. With her miniature face looking inquisitively at me we formed a bond, I swear we did. I will always be there for her, no matter the miles between New York and Texas that separate us.
It is said that on one’s deathbed your life flashes before you. At my granddaughter’s birth I saw my life and her life before me. I saw long walks on the beach searching for perfect sand dollars. I saw over-priced frilly dresses and tears at airports and reading Anne of Green Gables and hugs and kisses and letters and phone calls. (Or texting or skyping or whatever technology brings us in the years to follow.) Mostly I saw love, an overwhelming, all consuming, my-life-really-won’t-be-the-same-ever-again love.
And then, way before I was ready, forty-five days passed and I had to board a plane for home. My heart broke to leave my little New York family. My heart broke to leave my granddaughter. I’ll see her in two months and we will get to know each other all over again, and continue to make memories in this new love affair I have embarked on. It is life changing – really, truly.
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