Magic Women

Magic Woman

Something happens in the company of women.
Souls open like the sun, rising between blue mountains.
All we’ve shared are scattered moments;
Carrot cake, black beans and rice,
Liane Foly, Anais Nin,
Strawberries and cream, the richest of green.
Just a few scattered heres and theres, and yet there’s magic.
The world spins on at warp speed. Above me, below me,
Behind me, before me,
In spite of me, because of me,
She is there, choosing to be there.
Asking for me.
Her energy is intense.
She is a driving force.
It’s as though a giant,
Dark red ribbon has been wrapped around me
And she holds the loose end as I spin.
She helps me to unwind, unlock, unleash.
She supports me, encourages me,
Rocks me, calms me.
She helps create me
Even as the ribbon strips me naked, shakes me,
and opens me to the world.
I am safe.
There is magic.
Something happens in the company of women.
Souls open like the sun,
Rising between blue mountains.
Author unknown

I am fortunate to have always been in the company of good and loving and supportive women. I was born into a family of amazingly strong women. I am the oldest daughter of the oldest daughter of the oldest daughter of the oldest daughter. I’m not certain how far back that goes, but far enough to lend a sort of mystical strength. My mother, my grandmother, my maternal aunts and great aunts were my first and most steadfast circle. I’ve lost the physical presence of some, but those remaining and the spiritual presence of those gone continue to lift me and support me.

My sister, my constant for all but five years of my life, has been through every stage with me. We share something greater than DNA. We share a history that no one else will ever know or understand. Every time I look in the mirror I see a glimpse of her and every time I look at her I see a piece of our mother and a piece of myself.

My nieces, the daughters of my brothers and of my sister, and my great nieces are a part of the family legacy of strong women.

My cousins. I had six female paternal cousins. I spent long weekends and many summers in their company giggling on pallets on the floor of our grandparents’ living room, swimming, shopping at Perry’s, talking about boys, growing up and discovering our potential. These women were instrumental in shaping me. I have sixteen maternal first cousins. I am the eldest, more of an aunt, an older sister, a mother to them. We are bound by the ribbon of our beloved grandmother, Big Red.

My daughters. A smaller circle, the three of us, but perhaps the most powerful. The circle has increased to four with the addition of my granddaughter, Evelyn, who carries the blessing of the oldest daughter of the oldest daughter of the oldest daughter. The potential of this circle is overwhelming with its love and power and strength.

My friends. Since elementary school I have been blessed to have good female friends. The girls in Catholic school uniforms and black and white saddle oxfords, the junior high want-to-be cheerleaders, the welcoming cliques of high school friends, my college sorority sisters, the young pre-school moms, the mothers of my daughters’ classmates, my groups of women friends. So many girls and women who influenced me, loved me, shaped me.

My newest friends. I call them my soul sisters, the eight women who comprise our circle of nine. We, who are each at a crossroad. We who are each witness to each others’ journey. “Something happens in the company of women. Souls open like the sun, rising between blue mountains.”

Magic.

The Estate Sale

The three hour drive to my grandmother’s house was filled with dread. I hadn’t been back since her funeral four months earlier and I wasn’t sure I could handle walking through her front door without shouting my usual, “It’s me,” a greeting I’d uttered thousands of times after she’d lost her sight and most of her hearing. My aunts were supposed to meet me, but it looked like I’d arrived first. I sat in the car outside of her house for a few minutes trying not to cry, but I was unsuccessful. Through eyes shimmering with tears I looked at the home my grandfather built in 1953, the pink brick ranch with the huge picture window in the living room; the window from which my grandmother monitored the world, or at least the comings and goings of her neighbors for almost sixty years.

Sitting in the car and trying to find a clean tissue at the bottom of my purse to wipe my eyes and blow my nose I felt a familiar guilt. The same feeling I’d experienced hundreds of times in the same spot while finishing an important work call on my cell phone knowing Big Red, our name for my grandmother, had made out the shiny rims of my car wheels through her macular degenerative vision and was wondering why I was taking so long to come into the house. The feeling that she was waiting for me now was so overwhelming I found myself unlocking the front door before I remembered she would not be sitting in her chair in front of the window. As I pushed open the heavy oak door I steeled myself against the pain of loss that was already washing over me.

Inside everything was different, yet the same. My aunts had rearranged furniture and I noticed paintings from other rooms were hung haphazardly on the living room walls in preparation for the estate sale we were conducting this weekend. But her chair, the blue corduroy electric lift chair was still in its place, lording over the room just as my grandmother, even at 104 years old had always done. I made my way past boxes and knickknacks and furniture covered with neon price tags to her bedroom. The hospital bed that she had used for the past two years was gone, having been removed on the very day of her death by the sympathetic men from the medical supply rental company and replaced with the blonde-wood circa 1950 bed, or mid-century modern as the antique dealer we tried to hire to hold the estate sale called it. The bed she only slept in with my grandfather for five years after they moved to town from the farm before his untimely death at age 57 leaving her with ten children ranging in age from five to twenty-five.

I went to her bed and ran my hand along the nubby stitches in the quilt she pieced together in a quilting class the year after she retired from teaching second grade. She was so proud of this sampler quilt and now it bore a price tag of two-hundred and twenty-five dollars. We cannot sell this quilt I thought as I laid down on it and drew the sides around me like a cocoon and sobbed.

I knew what Big Red would think of this behavior. She would tell me I was an Owen (even though I’m actually a Primo, I never argued with her) and Owens keep a stiff upper lip. This was her way of telling me and anyone else who had the audacity to cry in front of her to be strong and deal with whatever was wrong. I got up and made my way through the rest of the house looking at all the familiar things that would soon belong to other people. I was not looking forward to helping the family conduct this sale, but I put on my stiff upper lip and moved forward.

The antique dealer we had originally contacted to conduct the sale had reneged after family members laid claim to at least half of the household contents. My cousin, Ryan, had the brilliant idea of photographing every piece of furniture and every knickknack and shared the photos on our family social media page. Within minutes messages began pouring in to this effect: “If nobody else wants it, I would love to have such and such.” At the time of her death my grandmother had 104 descendants. Of course everyone wanted a memento, a keepsake. We all had a particular piece we loved, something that reminded us of our love for Big Red and hers for us. And then there were all the items that already had someone’s name written on the bottom in greasy black china marking pencil. For years and years anytime she received a gift from a family member or friend, or if you casually mentioned you liked something, she would write your name on it and say you could have it when she “kicked the bucket.”

A funny thing happened at the estate sale as my aunts (one even surprised us by showing up the night before from Wisconsin), my uncle, my cousins, my daughter, our dear family friend, Susie, and I greeted the mob of early morning bargain hunters. As shoppers picked through her belongings they began asking questions. “Who was this woman?” “Was she a calligraphist, a teacher, a painter?” “Did she quilt, sew, crochet, knit?” “Was she an avid reader?” As we answered the questions about her life we began to weave the story of what a remarkable woman she was, a woman of many interests and talents. Instead of being a burden, the dreaded estate sale was becoming a blessing.

While the customers inspected paintings and fingered linens my relatives and I found ourselves wanting them to have her things. The nice couple who wanted the painting from the den, the man who showed such an interest in her antique Singer, the young mother who thumbed through all of the children’s books were worthy recipients. Rather than feeling like we were disposing of my grandmother’s life, it felt like we were sharing it.

There were many tearful moments that weekend, but there was more laughter than pain. Aunt Gail showed up with a huge red canvas tote bearing the inscription “BIG RED BAG” in white block letters (one of those reclaimed gifts I feel sure) full of vodka, bloody Mary mix, plastic cups and ice. A bar was promptly set up in the master bathroom for family. Before the end of the day Uncle Steve began embellishing, in jest, the remaining items. A blue chiffon formal circa 1960 was labeled “Carrie’s Prom Dress.” His high school football helmet and pads soon boasted the forged signature of Joe Namath. It became a contest to see who could come up with the most outlandish way to get rid of the last merchandise.

When it was all over we convened around the kitchen table, as has always been our tradition. It would be the last time our family gathered around this table in this kitchen, but the table would see another generation of family, as one of my aunts was taking it home. We posed for a photo with the earnings from the sale. It is the last picture I have of Big Red’s kitchen, the kitchen where she cooked thousands of bowls of oatmeal, where we played cards, where I studied during college, where countless friends and family were nourished. I will miss the green linoleum tile floor, the warm paneling, the copper molds and the hand painted china plates, but most of all, of course, I will miss her. We each took a keepsake, a trinket to remember her by, but I like to think we took more than that. We each have something of her inside of us. So I will keep trying to keep a stiff upper lip, and I will always remember my Big Red.

Writing

I just spent the last hour and fifteen minutes working on the writing project I labored over all last week while at the lake house. I was in seclusion resurrecting a novel I began in 2010. For the last three years I have been unable to get the characters and their stories out of my head. I have even begun to think of them as real people, as people I know and love. So, you see, I have to finish their story.

Writing is difficult work in so many ways. There is the time factor. It is hard to find the time, or make the time, to sit down at the computer and weave the story. I am not a disciplined person like some of the writers I know who push through to a certain word count every day no matter what. I’m still trying to figure out what kind of a writing schedule will work for me; one that lets me attend yoga and tai chi classes. A schedule that permits out of town trips every few weeks and houseguests. I’m not the person who can close the door and tell others, “I’ve got to work for the next three hours. See you later.”

Perhaps more daunting than the scheduling is the fear that comes with being a writer. For me, writers’ block is being paralyzed by the dread of discovering I really suck as a novelist. The anxiety of thinking that others will reject my work, or worse, my beloved characters, is enough to make me find excuses not to write. If I don’t write then I can keep pretending I am brilliant. There does seem to be a problem with that logic. A manuscript sits in a big red binder on the shelf for three years.

I have a plethora of reasons for not writing. I need the perfect space for creating. I’ll write as soon as I clean my office or finish the timeline or answer the character questions for all the people in the story. I’ll write as soon as I finish reading the book on how to write a novel or on how not to write a novel. I’ll write as soon as I take a creative writing course. I’ll write when I begin going to the writers’ group meetings. I’ll write when inspiration hits. I’ve got to stop making excuses.

It may take another three years (or longer), but I will see this novel to completion. I may not have the discipline or a perfect command of the craft or even a clean office, but I have a great imagination and I love to tell a story. The rest will follow.

Respite

Stretching in front of me are four days of doing just as I please. I have accountability to no one but myself. I am on retreat. I have a beautiful, serene lake view. I have good food and better wine. I have music and the company of two dogs who think I’m awesome.

I don’t have to be anywhere or do anything. No chores to do, no errands to run, I do not have to make my bed. No schedule whatsoever; no bedtime, no alarm clock. I can have chocolate for breakfast if I choose. And I just may as it would be a perfect accompaniment to the mocha coffee I’m having because I’m not sharing the pot with someone who dislikes flavored coffee.

I can sit on the deck and stare at the lake for as long as I want. I can be still and do absolutely nothing. I can breath. I can be thankful. I can let my mind wander. I can daydream. I can just be. There is a beauty to doing nothing. We all need it. There is something sacred about it. We must be still to hear the whisper of our soul. I am still.

Is it a coincidence that I have this quote by Thomas Merton just inside the door of my lake house?

“Some of us need to discover that we will not begin to live more fully until we have the courage to do and see and taste and experience much less than usual… There are times, then, when in order to keep ourselves in existence at all we simply have to sit back for a while and do nothing. And for a man who has let himself be drawn completely out of himself by this activity, nothing is more difficult than to sit still and rest, doing nothing at all. The very act of resting is the hardest and most courageous act he can perform.”

The House

It is that time again. In less than three weeks I get to spend a magical weekend with over thirty of my sisters. Yes, I am from a very large family, but even I don’t have that many siblings. I’m referring to my sorority sisters, women I met and grew to love almost forty years ago. I went to a small university eighty miles from my parents’ home. Far enough away to ensure Mom didn’t show up unannounced to make sure I was doing my homework, yet close enough to go home when I missed her fried chicken and mashed potatoes.

The Greek system was big on our campus in the mid-1970s. My college roommate, a friend from high school, and I pledged and moved into the Chi Omega house on Sorority Hill – a row of small campus housing dorms boasting brass Greek letters on the front doors. It was in this shared living space that we bonded and became sisters.

The living room with its red carpeting and comfy sofas was where we had our formal chapter meetings, but also where we watched All My Children between classes and visited with the cute frat boys who came to call. The adjacent dining room was where we put on our “freshman fifteen” eating the meals prepared by our house cooks, Mary and JoAnn. The front stairs were for initiated sisters only. The back stairs were for pledges. The bedrooms were all suites, every two rooms sharing a bathroom. The bedrooms were small, each with two twin beds, two built-in desks, two small closets, but big enough for a dozen girls to sit around smoking cigarettes and talk about boys.

The front door led down the hill toward campus. The back door led to Hooter Bay. Out the door, across an alley and up some cement steps was a grass and dirt (well, mostly dirt) parking lot dubbed Hooter Bay. I always thought the name was a reference to our sorority mascot, the owl, but in hindsight it may have been because our sorority sunbathed there in skimpy bikinis.

I loved living in that house. I loved being in a sorority. I loved my sorority sisters. I can’t wait to see them this month at our huge log cabin rental on Lake LBJ, the cabin we will turn into a Chi Omega house for the weekend. I can’t wait.

Birth

I was born on November 9, 1956, the oldest child of Carol Louise Owen Primo and Robert Julius Primo. A story I thought was true for almost forty years.

My parents were married on February 11, 1956, which, according to my mother, meant I was a honeymoon baby. Mom didn’t tell me much about my birth, probably because I never asked and/or just wasn’t much interested until it was too late. One tidbit I do remember her sharing is that she and Daddy had gone out to eat Mexican food with their dear friends, Chick and Jaye Richardson, the night I was born. Daddy took mother home before taking Chick and Jaye home. Why? Was Mom feeling bad? Did she know she was going into labor? Or was it a sudden surprise once Dad left her alone at the little house on 33rd Street in Lubbock, Texas? 2622 33rd St, a white cinderblock two bedroom, one bath house with a backward “S” on the chimney and a huge blue cedar by the front door.

The house was furnished with early American solid maple furniture selected by my father and his house-mate, “old Lee Newell,” in their bachelor days; sturdy furniture with deep upholstered cushions and heavy wood frames. The matching sofa and arm chair had bun-shaped ornamental knobs on the arms. Mother often recounted, years later while sitting in “her” chair, that she thought she might twist the knobs right off the chair while waiting for Bob to return home to take her to the hospital.

I was delivered at Methodist Hospital, as were my younger siblings and both of my daughters. I wonder what my delivery was like. Because it was 1956 I can imagine that Mom was given anesthesia and was not aware of me until sometime later. I also imagine my father in a waiting room being told, “It’s a girl” by a nurse and seeing me for the first time through the glass of the baby nursery window.

That is what I knew of my birth, real and imagined, until 1991 when my mother was dying of lung cancer at an in-patient hospice facility in Houston. Her death was not pretty. Cancer is a mean bitch. She lived longer than we expected once we were transferred to hospice. Why would she not let go? Her suffering was immense. Nurses who knew about these things, dying and suffering, told us she might be hanging on because of an “unresolved life conflict.” My sister and I thought that absurd. My Aunt Mary, one of Mother’s younger sisters, said, “Okay girls, I’m going to punt here. Your mother had a child she gave up for adoption in 1953, before she met your dad. Maybe that’s it.”

The earth shifted slightly on its axis. Time wanted to stop, but I couldn’t let it. I couldn’t take in and process the words my aunt just spoke. I knew I did not have the luxury of thinking about what this life-altering news meant just then. Through tears, my sister, Kim, and I promised our mother that we would find her child, that we would make him a part of our family, and that we would tell him all about her.

If this had been a movie, a sugar-coated made for Lifetime Television movie, Mother would have taken her final breath and passed sweetly into whatever is next. But dying of cancer is not a made-for-TV movie. She suffered for a few more days and died while I was down the hall eating a hamburger. But her dying during the few minutes I left her is another story. This story is about my birth, not about my mother’s death. This story is about how you can believe something to be true for 35 years and then suddenly learn it is not. I am not the first born child of Carol Louise Owen Primo. That place belongs to John Anthony Rafkind, my big brother. The big brother we found, and made a part of our family, and told what a wonderful mother we had. Better fodder for a movie to be sure.

Adventure Training

In 98 days I leave on my Big Adventure to Machu Picchu, Peru where I will hike for seven days in high altitude. I am 56 years old, moderately out of shape, at least ten pounds overweight, and a little scared about what I am undertaking. I am, however, very excited about this opportunity and I plan to make the most of it. Today I began training in earnest!

It’s not exactly like I haven’t already been training. I count the shopping trips to buy things for the trip as a pre-training of sorts. I tried on many pairs of hiking boots (apologies to salesman), bought the special wool hiking socks ($20 a piece – seriously?), and even weather tested two jackets before eventually buying the exact same one my hiking-adventure buddy purchased. The thought of us in our twin ensembles on top of a Peruvian mountaintop makes me smile! I’ve also worn my new hiking boots around the house and to walk the dogs almost daily since making the purchase. But this morning I woke with a sense of panic about really getting serious about this training thing.

It’s hard to know exactly how to begin a training program for a hike to Machu Picchu and I do intend to research this and implement a “real” training program, but today I felt like I needed to get started with or without a plan. After walking the dogs on our usual one-mile through the neighborhood trek I drove across town to a trail I’ve wanted to try since we moved here over a year ago, the Gun Club Trail. It isn’t exactly a trail yet, but according to a Facebook page it will be someday. Now it is a two mile road one has to share with automobile traffic.

In west Texas it is difficult to find any elevation, but I gave it my best shot. According to a runner who was kind enough to post the following route: http://www.mapmyrun.com/s/routes/view/run-jog-map/texas/san-angelo/60214096
I can see that the elevation is 1,968.5 feet. Not quite the 8040 feet of Machu Picchu or the 10,800 feet of Cusco, Peru where we will spend three days acclimating to the altitude. Training for high altitude climbing will be a challenge. I’ve heard there is a mask to simulate high altitude, but I feel certain I would be arrested if I attempted to hike while wearing it.

Today I hiked two miles. Tomorrow I will do more. Surely I can get myself in shape in 98 days. My adventure awaits.

Adventure

On the heels of making (and breaking) my 2013 new year’s resolutions comes examining the life I lived in 2012. The mean taskmaster side of me is horrified by the lack of accomplishment. The nice-fun-loving-hippie-earth-mother side of me says, “Chill out dude, don’t worry about last year.” (Yes, she says “dude.”) My husband reminds me of the progress I did make during 2012. Of the three opinions, I’m going with his.

As much as I want to believe my husband and the earth-mother it is hard to make the taskmaster bitch shut up. All I seem to think about are the missed opportunities and the time wasted. I began 2013 with a sense of urgency to do something to atone for slacking in 2012. But what?

A phone call from a dear friend set in motion my 2013 adventure. We are going to Machu Picchu. We are going to hike and camp for seven days. We are on the downward slope towards sixty, slightly overweight, more than slightly out of shape, and desperate to do something BIG this year.

We have spent our lives raising children, volunteering, working, taking care of others. Now what? That is the question we find ourselves asking. We are used to working in rewarding careers and have found ourselves without jobs to give us our identities. Who are we? Apparently we are women who hike Machu Picchu.

The day after I agreed to the trip I saw the movie The Hobbit. Bilbo Baggins confirmed my decision to venture out of my comfort zone and go on an adventure. Like Bilbo, I must leave the safety and comfort of my living room and go out into the world.

2013 is going to be awesome!