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.

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.

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.