Mirror, Mirror Why are you so honest?

I thought I knew about fashion, hair, and makeup until I had a teenager.

Having given that sentence some thought, I realize that I could fill in the blank after I thought I knew about with ANYTHING as long as it's followed by: until I had a teenager.

There was a time when I would confidently walk into say, Foley's and know exactly what to buy. Back in the days when I was skinny--and didn't know how to appreciate my shape, there were still plenty of things that didn't look good on me. And. I knew it. 

Even after I wasn't skinny, I knew that certain styles looked better than others. I had confidence in my selections. I knew how to minimize, hide, or enhance. I was an expert at not being noticed.

I've never been that concerned with makeup; but, I knew the big things to avoid--yellow based colors and that less was more.

Two things happened almost simultaneously:

1. I aged.

2. My child turned 13. (Actually it was more like 11--but that jacks up my opening thesis.)

I didn't get a choice about grey hair. It happened without my permission. Neither did I say while scrubbing a pan, "If only I could have hair that felt like this SOS pad!"

I remember Mom telling me that there would come a day when I wouldn't have to shave my legs as often because the hair wouldn't grow as fast. Awesome! What I didn't plan on and honest to goodness didn't put together until it happened, was that it slows down EVERYWHERE. That includes your head and eyelashes and eyebrows! (Correction...my bikini line still grows with vigor---which is just satanic.)

Although I was adequately warned about sun damage---I was convinced that a dark tan in the summer eclipsed thin, leather skin when I was old and married with kids. Who cares what your Mom looks like? She's in her forties!! No one notices HER! 

I'd heard something about skin tones changing with age; but, that was for grandmothers. Who cares? Grandmothers are old and no one notices them anyway. It truly never crossed my mind that when my elderly client's light pink powder blush looked like colored flour brushed on by a toddler that perhaps that shade looked fabulous on her 35 years earlier. Or that she couldn't see her face in the mirror anymore. More importantly I really, really didn't consider that she might still be interested in looking and feeling attractive despite her age.

What never occurred to me at age 17 was that I would age, at least not visibly. I was going to avoid that, through, you know, starving, being nice, and making sure people liked me. My world then could never encompass that I would have A child and not be married in my forties.

Back to real world aging.....

I won't even touch on wrinkles, hot flashes, zits during menopause, chin whiskers, and arms that aren't long enough to read menus. Cropped shirts worn bra-less aren't an option because your boobs are longer than the top. Long and lean only applied to legs or fingers in the past.

Now. If my self esteem wasn't in question enough, let's for fun add a teenager who is obliged to TELL you the items you might have missed. 

Your teeth. "Mom! Your teeth are gold. Gross." 

In more polite moments, "Mom! Did you know you can buy whitening strips from Target?" 

Hooded eyelids---"Wow, I'm so glad I didn't get those floppy skin things on my eyes! Do they get WORSE with age?"

Another reminder about hair---"Mom! Can I brush your hair and show you how it's done?"

The hair comment happened LAST night! Internally I said, "You want me to take that $12.00, wet hair brush and shove it up your nose?"

Instead, I recalled all my diatribe this past month that I thought went unheard. 

"My hair is FRIZZY!"  

"I can't get the ratio right on coconut oil! It's broom hair or Elvis!" 

"Screw it. No one is looking at my hair!" 

Except I am. And I still care.

Instead, I said, "Sure! I'd love for you to brush my hair." 

Here's what happened. With expertise and kindness, my YouTube obsessed daughter spent less than 20 minutes on my hair and it looked better than it has in years. (no exaggeration.) It turns out that she was listening. AND....Things HAVE changed and improved since I learned in the late 70's. That wet hair brush really is perfect for my wirey, grey hair disguised as medium brown. YouTube can teach you anything you want to learn.

I've changed too. What worked then doesn't work now in all cases. I do think the undertones of pink in my skin are being replaced with some yellow. I am happy that living in Oregon cured me of my need to wear makeup in public. Yet, I'm still not at the point I'm happy about a sales associate at JC Penny asking, "Have you ever thought about wearing makeup? Our Sephora associates are happy to teach you."

To be Sue Sylvester or Madea.

This morning I was getting dressed for a big presentation we're doing for our company, thera-LINK and I had an epiphany....

to look like what I did in the past, I spent about 30 minutes to an HOUR every single day before I stepped out of the house. 

And if I had a date or something later, I'd freshen up AGAIN. I doubt I'll ever invest that again--even though I really need it now more than I ever did in my youth. 

I had a client once who oft said, "Youth is wasted on the young." I, out of courtesy, laughed at her joke.

I understand now.

It's astonishing to realize that the person who was utterly dependent on me just 14 years ago, can teach me things I didn't realize I needed to learn. She can help me replace tired, outdated methods with efficient, modern ones. And having lived through many decades, I know that some current trends aren't worth any investment of money. Remember floral, bubble jumpsuits for adults? And a matching one for your infant girl. (Mine was red corduroy. The red bow flats are used for my Snow White costume now. Annie Beth is beyond relieved she wasn't a glimmer of a thought during that fashion era.)

I can learn and grow no matter my age. My knees may creak when I stand up. It might take an hour for the stitch marks embedded on my cheek from my 15 minute catnap on the leather couch to disappear. And the days of wash and go hair that actually looks presentable are gone.  But there are ponytails--even if someone might be tempted to sweep with mine.

I am convinced of something else,

          Smiles and joy trump good hair and makeup.

Here's to inner growth, loving extravagantly and aging realistically-- with a sincere hope that perms make a valiant comeback. 

My First Day of School Panic

Last night, I had run to the potty diarr&$@.  It's possible that I could, in part, blame the brownies. Yes, for the first time in sixteen months I baked and ATE brownies thanks to a King Arthur gluten free mix--all hail King Arthur.

Also it could have been my near head on collision in the alley with my very crazy neighbor. Insane red head never even glanced my way when I swerved into the driveway and grass of our neighbor.

Maybe it was because my favorite team lost Beach Flip. They seemed arrogant; but, I loved their house.

I woke up several times in the night with that awful gurgly gut. Wasn't gluten. Wasn't adrenaline. Wasn't loss.

It was school.

Annie Beth wasn't with me, she was at her father's. I tried to convince myself the anxiety stemmed from my stellar mothering skills. "Of course, Lori. You're so intuitive--what you are feeling is for your daughter." That's partially true. I'm no different than the other million mothers that are concerned for their children. But, she came by to drop off her suitcase this morning and she was at ease and ready for 8th grade. Hmmmm....

This in the gut anxiety was mine. I STILL get first day of school jitters. I'm 50 years old and I'm still worried about where to sit in the cafeteria. Will I remember my locker combination? What if I lose my schedule, can I get a replacement from the office?

WHAT IN THE WORLD IS WRONG WITH YOU???? YOU HAD YOUR LAST FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL IN 1986!!!

Now that I've listened to the ever present critic within AND given more time to the sane voice of experience and reason, I am learning a few things that might be helpful.

Fear is powerful. Our limbic brain is unaware of time or space. The same fear that was there in kindergarten can be there at 50. I'm talking about the very same feeling. The good news, though is that now that I have some better tools in my box, I can choose better responses. Without thinking, here are my go-to anxiety "management" tricks

1. go in the kitchen and polish off the last half of that pan of brownies. I told you King Arthur deserved praise.

2. sleep all day until it's time to pick up Annie Beth from school.

3. run around buying things I don't need.

4. find a way to blame my wasband.

Here's what I did instead.
*named the anxiety
*owned it as mine.
*admitted that I don't like change.
*reminded myself of what I already knew....

That was then. This is now. 

I graduated from high school and college. I have taken graduate classes. I loved most every aspect of those educational years. I found ways to be competent and successful without a working knowledge of Algebra 1 or 2 or subtracting long numbers in my head. Duh. Calculators.

Beyond that, I know now, that all of life is an education. I will never have all the answers. It's not possible. It's not even my job. My job is to love and be loved.

Not a small task.
Or an easy one.
Or one that I'm capable of doing on my own.

So today, I will work for thera-LINK. I'll scratch down ideas about ways to make a service of helping others more available. I'll get those contact's name on a spreadsheet.

I'll look at all the first day of school pictures on Facebook and marvel how much they've all grown.

I will read a post from Anne Lamott and wish I wrote like her. I will read some of Kelly Corrigan and wish I wrote like her. AND I will spend time writing my thoughts and be glad that I wrote and honed the skill of writing well.

I will open my heart up to the possibility of new relationships and developing a group of people interested in loving well and integrating that with an inclusive faith.

I will follow through and post this for the public. My deep insecurities of acceptance stopped me from writing after I received mean spirited criticism over a year ago.

I'll greet Annie Beth and be ready to be fully present as I hear about her first day of 8th grade. I'll remind myself, that it's her life, not mine. I just get to be a guide along the way--one that loves her more than I know how to express.

Who will Join Me?

Full Disclosure before I start writing.....

*I'm just shy of 49.

*I've colored my hair to hide grey since my late twenties. I use e-salon now and am on auto-pay each month. It's my own formula sent directly to my door. If my hair wouldn't fall out, I'd color every 3 weeks to hide that I'm 100% grey. I'm not sure when or if I'll stop coloring.

*I've obsessed about my weight since probably age 8. I've been skinny, toooooo skinny, fat, very fat, and pregnant. I've never felt "just right".

*I pay a private trainer to make myself work out. As long as I am able to afford this service, I will pay for it.

*The first post divorce "gift" I gave myself was a Groupon for Juvaderm to erase what I referred to as my divorce wrinkle wedged deeply between my brows.

*I spent an obscene amount of money last year on radio frequency something or other to try to get rid of hail damage (aka buttercream frosting and all you can eat evenings alone and genetics) on the previously mentioned thighs. After 13 treatments, I realized it was doing nothing, so I switched the treatment to my face. It felt wonderful and it worked. Four people noticed that I looked great. I counted myself twice in that calculation.

*I was very, very careful when my daughter was young not to use negative body words for myself or others. I'm not sure when this shifted; but, if you asked her what I consider my flaws, she can list all of them. She'd probably add one or two that I have yet to notice. (Big grin)

*I crop all posted photos to hide or reduce my double chin, non-Michelle Obama arms, and muffin top over those ridiculous low cut jeans which I'd avoid if I could find other ones that actually fit. All my i-phone photographers are instructed to hold the phone higher than my height, blah, blah.

*I am vain. I wish I wasn't.

*I will not apologize for wanting to be beautiful.

As a young social worker fresh out of college, I worked with aging adults. I knew there was a vast difference in the way people aged and was fascinated why some 75 year old women appeared so much older than women 20 years their senior. I admitted, even then, it was my own informal research in order to ensure a better aging process for myself. I was naive enough to believe that I could avoid many of the downsides of aging through data and implementation. (Caveat----there are pieces of truth in this: eating correctly, exercising, managing emotional health, feeding your soul---these things do matter.)

Now that I've walked the road a little longer, I know that aging is unavoidable, even for the most disciplined of people. Bad things DO happen to good people. And, as my friend Gay would say, "Good things happen to BAD people!" If you breathe, life will happen to you. Even with my efforts, I can never insulate myself completely from pain--physical or emotional.

I was two generations from experiencing the realities of aging at Allied Housing in Denver. I collected data, though. I expected all of my clients to have grey hair, if any. The ninety year old woman with jet BLUE hair made me chuckle internally.  I expected them to have wrinkles, and visible scars. I could observe the difficulties of managing dentures and the impact of weight loss with a set of rigid teeth connecting to shrunken gums. (Let's face it, I had no idea that weight and gums were connected!) Note to self then....take care of your teeth. I observed the difficulty of fractured hips and highlighted in my mental notes that people often die from complications after this injury. (Take a calcium supplement since you hate milk, Lori)

I loved my work and most of my clients. My favorite clients were the ones who could tell great stories. Ones that smiled and joked with me. I particularly loved the people who had made meaning of the darkest part of their journeys. I still admire resiliency.

Important rabbit trail story.....

Perhaps my favorite client of all was a tiny little woman named Minka Szyolwicz. She had dementia and came to my office daily to report the items stolen from her room. Most days we would go to her room and I would locate the item wrapped in notebook paper or a single ply napkin in the same place she hid it the day before. The item's contents, usually her teeth, would be notated in French, her 3rd language, in her own wobbly handwriting. She would laugh and say something like,

 "OH! My Darrrling!!! Tank you zo much! You zee, I have to hide deez tings because dare is a teef--(always in a whisper) in this building. I forget vhere I put deeze tings."

 She would then repeat a story I'd heard almost daily and never tired of hearing. In great detail she would tell me about fleeing Poland to France because it was safer for Jewish people. When France became unsafe, her husband boarded the ship before she did. It was sailing early for some unknown reason. She and her infant son couldn't reach the ramp before it was moved away from the dock.

"I vas deveestated. But I cooed not allow de chance for my son to be taken by de Nazis. Zo, I called out to Joe. He vas crying and leeening off de edge of de sheep. He vas saying, 'Minka, my love. I VEEL CATCH HEEM!' Zo, I prayed to God and I trew my baby vith allllll my might into de air."

Her eyes clinched into small slits, she would pause. Tears would gather instantly and several would trickle from the edge of one eye. I would watch the movie being played in her head. Her eyes would pop open. Staring Heavenward, she would say the same thing each time in a hushed, reverent voice,

 "My prayer vas answered."

 Her son Joe was a professor at a major local university.

Everyone loved Minka, all 4 foot 6 inches of her. She would sit in the lobby of the building. Frail and slumped over, her pelvis was almost even with her shoulder blades due to starvation as a teen and young adult. Her bones could snap with the slightest of falls. She was the first person I knew who didn't survive her hip fracture. As each staff member would leave she would she would say in her high pitched tone,

"Gud night darrling. Go DANCING!" 

Why the long rabbit trail story? In the end, her impact on me was profound and had NOTHING to do with vanity. I loved her. She was the portrait of life and beauty and vitality. She never knew my name but she loved me too.

Does vanity matter enough that I'd invest so much emotional and physical energy to the point of sheer exhaustion? To the point of mental instability or pure out crazy eating disordered living? To the point of death for my dear, young friend?

Minka and my grandmother's generation are for the most part gone now. I'm watching my parents age. It's not easy. My admiration for persistence and grit of older people has incrementally increased. We can marvel at young athletes and their ability to lift comic book sized weights overhead. But, have you ever watched a 99 year old woman with congestive heart failure navigate herself with a walker in and out of the tiny bathroom several times a day?

Even in my early 40's I heard myself saying, "I am WAY TOO YOUNG to FEEL this OLD!" Now, joints previously unknown speak when I lower my feet to the carpet each morning. My arms aren't long enough to read any menu. And just yesterday I was told about a ringtone that kids use now because most grownups can't hear it. I tried it. I am a member of the unknowing adult club.

And I haven't even transitioned back into vanity and appearances. I noticed several years ago in public with my young, beautiful nieces that all eyes were on them. I'm not gonna lie. I know what it's like to be noticed. I also know what it feels like to ignore unnecessary people.

I am the unnoticed, irrelevant mom or aunt now. It's weirder for me than I'd imagined back in the day because I'm single again and not sure how to navigate this whole gig. The best I get is, "She looks good for her age." (All you co-dependents...I'm not looking for a NO you don't comment.) It is true. And I'm trying to adapt and adjust in a way that nurtures and doesn't destroy. In another 15 years, I'll be in the category of grandmotherly types--regardless of whether I'm actually a grandmother.

So what in the world am I saying?

I think our culture is absolutely screwed up when it comes to aging and beauty! 

Every magazine for my demographic is funded by ads for plastic surgery, aging creams, and miracles to look younger and feel better. Even the age appropriate models have their wrinkles and scars brushed out with a Photoshop tool.

Where are the women with crows feet and bingo arms?
Where is the paper thin leather on the chests of women who used Johnson's Baby Oil while lying on a metallic mat during peak tanning hours?

I'd clearly be a hypocrite if I say, let's stop ALL of this! Not what I'm saying.

But, is it possible that with our generation we could start offering grace to ourselves for stupid tanning decisions?
If my hip breaks, can I not blame myself for being a typical 20 year old and ignoring solid advice to take a calcium supplement?
Can we be gentle with ourselves and dare I say be grateful for the line of blubber that happened after multiple babies were delivered via c-section?
Can we be accepting of what real life looks like on a real person?

Here's what I'm doing.
*I started with accepting my thighs after this blog in the Spring. How Long is a Minute?

*I'm committed to embracing my whole body with grace and acceptance--naked or clothed. I'm applauding Lena Dunham for modeling to her generation that perfect bodies are not required for success in Hollywood or NYC or Lansing, Michigan.

*I am focusing more emotional energy on learning how to be a storycatcher.

*I am trying to model for my daughter my commitment to health with an eye towards the realities of aging and accidents and real life. I want her to see that it's OK to enhance what she has, IF she wants that. I want her to value and honor all of the privileges and responsibilities that come with aging and caring for those who age.

*I want her to be aware that physical beauty IS fleeting. Inner beauty is timeless. 

Aging is not valued in our culture. It's unfortunate. And if I don't change the pathway, she will follow in my footsteps, at least for a period of her life, if not her whole.

And it's possible that our generation can change that cultural flaw. Who's with me? Let's start today. How can you make a change?



****I'm a huge supporter of Dove for all that they are doing to alter our crazy cultural biases. I buy their soap and deodorant just because of their commitment. I saw this newer video and it made me realize that my negativity was making an impact on my own daughter. Powerful stuff here. Another way we have hope for change.

Redefine Beauty--Dove--click here. .

Ubuntu, Amber

I heard of Amber’s death on December 20^th, 2013. Nothing will bring her back to those of us who loved her—especially words typed by my hands. However, words bring permanence to our stories. I want to offer my words to her story.

I’m in Denver today en route to Green Valley, Wyoming where tomorrow family and friends will gather together to speak words of tribute and grieve our great loss together.

My relationship began with Amber in August of 2009. I’d received several emails from her with subject line: IMMO Clark. (For those fortunate enough not to be acquainted with IMMO—it’s short for In the Matter of the Marriage)

I first saw her walking briskly down the hallway at the Denton County Family Courthouse. She was talking quietly and sternly with my lead attorney. She was wearing a grey suit and black stiletto heels with red lacquered soles. Her long blonde hair was pulled into a professional ponytail. She looked like a junior version of her new boss. It was surreal to hear her spout out details of my life having never met her in person. I remember thinking, “This little girl knows more about me than I do! Good grief, I could be her mother!” I interrupted their discussion to introduce myself.

She briefly acknowledged me with a polite smile and a cordial greeting. Without fanfare, she went right back into her conversation with my lead attorney. I’m not gonna lie. I was intimidated by this young lawyer whom I had internally referred to as a little girl.  The more I heard her talk, the more impressed I was with her mind and her abilities. I didn’t choose my attorney and her staff because I needed friends. I chose them because they were highly competent. Top of her Baylor Law School class, Amber was a shining new star in the firm. 

I was pleased she was assigned to my case.

I could have never imagined that she would become a treasured friend over the course of 4 years.

The divorce process is a little bit like a bad game of rigged strip poker with strangers. The longer you play, the less you’re wearing in a game where the other players remain fully clothed. I remember turning over my journals to them and wondered if there would be anyone who actually read them. I was hopeful it was just protocol without action—mostly for the discovery of my poor punctuation and bad poetry. Journaling was therapy for my eyes only, so I thought.

Amber, though, read every legible word from years of bound notebooks. For whatever reason, particularly through the juxtaposition of profanity and praises to The Most High, Amber told me she made two decisions:
 

1.     1.  Get Lori everything she legally could get me. (Those that know her well know that her language was FAR more colorful! I loved that about her. She taught me new ways to cuss.)

2.     2.  She decided that I was worthy of her trust. She, in her own way, allowed me to be her friend.

I couldn't begin to calculate how many hours of her life were poured into my case. I could look at the bills I received and those hours would be a fraction of what she truly invested. I was never a case to Amber. I was a person. My child was a real person that Amber knew well through pictures and stories and anecdotes. She loved us—a blessing I never expected or required.

The more I knew Amber, the more I loved her. The more honest and authentic she was with me about her own fears and concerns, the deeper my commitment to her became. We both struggled with being people pleasers. After reading of my struggle and years of recovery from bulimia, she shared with me her ongoing battle.

I was committed to her and loved her as well as I could. I tried my best to provide a safe place for her to be honest and flawed. She had seen me at my worst and she still  trusted me enough to glimpse her wounds and pain. I drove to Tulsa during her first treatment and spent as many hours as I was allowed that weekend. Beyond that, we met regularly for meals. We emailed and texted. I went many weekends to see her last year while she was at Project Bliss. I loved her with my time and my commitment to her best—just as she’d done for me.

Amber’s death is a tragedy. I cannot, even with the help of my wisest friend, wrap my head around why Amber isn’t alive. She lived with me and Annie Beth for a few weeks in October. I have never loved her more than when she was with us—difficult as it was to watch her slowly destroy what life her body had left in it.

I am just one person in the course of her 30 years on this earth. My love and my effort couldn’t save Amber. That stops me in my tracks. Every. Single. Time.

Amber,

My love for you will never end. You needed your life to matter. I am living proof that Amber Steiss Rechner’s work as a lawyer was exemplary. When I need to curse injustice, I will smile and thank you for my training in solid usage of the “F” word. When I need courage to stand up to people that seem impassable, I’ll thank you for showing me how to put on my game face and march right up to my virtual judge, jury, or opposing counsel. 

I know that you are whole now. I know that you are experiencing perfect love and that you finally understand why so many of us loved you so profoundly, imperfect as we all are.

I’m posting these pictures from your 29^th birthday a year ago. The window in the background speaks truth. I am who I am because of our relationship, Amber. I am a better woman for knowing you and for loving you. Thanks for letting me be a part of your inner world.

Ubuntu, ~lori

Post Script: After posting this hours ago, I'm thinking through my comment about my love and support not being enough.....Forgive me if that sounded self absorbed. My intent was not to be selfish. I have no illusions that any one person could take sole responsibility for helping another. I was among many that surrounded her with all we could offer. I am confounded by the reality that none of us that loved her could reach her. My only comfort is THE One that loved her perfectly from before conception saved her and she is like Him now.

Christmas Trees Revisited

December 25, 2013
Gift to Mom

Christmas Trees Revisited

I’m almost 49 years old. Without fail, I’ve had at least one Christmas tree every year of my life. I can safely estimate that I’ve had 50 different trees. I love a finished, decorated tree. Whether live or fake, skinny or fat, I’ve loved all of them once they were up and decorated. Turning on the lights each day brings instant non-caloric gratification.

I never, ever started scrapbooking because I’d spend WAYYYY too much money on supplies and then never make the books! And then I’d feel wasteful and guilty. Flipping through my virtual scrapbook, a casual observer would notice that most every tree looks alike. Trees had colored and white lights, tinsel icicles until I married. White lights only after marriage.

Martha Stewart wannabes, close your ears, please. I only really remember about 4 trees and it’s because they were IMPERFECT!

I posted this picture and this comment on FB last week

If you angle your head just right this 5000 pound tree is straight. (Shay Shay Ryder--I didn't need weight training today after all.)#impatientstubbornstrongerthanithought

I had this grand idea that my 12 year old and I would be able to straighten the tree without taking it out of the stand. Not possible.

Those with serious OCD issues will want to avoid my home this year. We’ve named this year:

2013, The Leaning Tree of Clarkville.

I laugh constantly when I see the star at the top at it’s 37 degree angle. (No, I didn’t actually get out a protractor.) Much more it reminded me of how very much I am like my mother. I love pretty trees. In the end, I’m just practical.

It was 1971 and flocked trees were all the rage. I have no idea how much they cost back then, I just know that if my Mom said, “I am NOT paying that much for a tree!”, we weren’t getting one on the lot. There was no googling how to flock your own Christmas tree—no way to watch someone else mess up on YouTube. Nope, Vae Hudgins had borrowed the Woodsen’s canister vacuum cleaner and bought a kit from either K & B’s or Schwegmanns. 

Conjuring up the memories, Mom and I decided that we did, indeed go one evening as family to choose the flocked tree. No purchase was made once the price was discovered. So on another day, she and I folded down all the back seats in the station wagon and went out buy our tree. She got the cheapest scotch pine tree we could find and headed home with it pushed into the back of our metallic beige Pontiac Catalina Safari.

I know now that all 5 foot 3 and half inches of her pulled that tree out of the car and managed to get that prickly tree upright on the back porch all while wearing her pantsuit with the brown and white polka dotted top. That week’s trip to the beauty shop included a fresh frosting on her hair. Unwilling to get additional flocking highlights, she wrapped a scarf around her head. We have an 8mm movie that illustrates my determined mother doing all the work, while her darling children laugh at her. If the projector still worked we could use the original screen purchased in the 60’s and see her. There she would be cat eye glasses dotted with homemade snow transforming the tree into something even better than what we’d seen at the lot.

 Many years passed and we’d moved to Kingwood, Texas. We had a cathedral ceiling in our den. I have no memory or details in the acquisition of the tree. I just know that trees were beginning to get more expensive and Mom, again, was simply not going to pay for a large tree. No memory of helping get it in the house or putting in the stand or making sure that it was straight. I simply saw that tree in the den and with no malice towards any of my Jewish friends then or now, I named it “The Hanukkah Bush”! Based on current experience with a pre-teen, I believe it’s fair to assume that I was relentless with my complaining and ridicule. (Sidebar….it’s never too late to say, I’m sorry. “Sorry, Mom.”)

Long memory intact, BOTH Mom and I were determined to get a tree worthy of our large room in 1981. Trees were even more expensive than in 1980. We had long since sold off the station wagons. Mom had a dark blue 1977 Delta 88.

Mom determined that if we went to an area of Houston with a lower income populace, then we might find a large, affordable tree. She picked me up from school and drove south on I59.

She was correct. We found a gorgeous fir tree at a fraction of what it would have cost in our area. Our joint memories still recall that it was over $100. The salesman was pleased. We were thrilled. I don’t recall how long it took to tie that tree onto the four door sedan. I remember vividly, however, that the tree extended from the hood ornament to the trailer hitch.

There was space for Mom to see---if she kept her head in the same position the whole ride home.

It was just prior to the peak of rush hour. Cars were moving. We traveled slower than the fastest moving car. We were about halfway home when without warning, one of the plastic ropes broke and our magnificent tree went flying off the back of the car.

I screamed and burst into wailing tears. I wasn’t at all concerned about having some sort of accident, I was concerned that OUR TREE WOULD BE RUINED!!

Mom, despite her histrionic teenager, pulled the car over to the side of the road. She opened the car door. Without MY permission and without warning, she waited for a clearing of cars and RAN towards the tree. With one swift and decisive move she pulled the tree off the interstate. I know this to be true because of the very large burn mark on the bottom side of the fir.

I did NOT see the entirety of her heroic rescue because I was HIDING on the floorboard of the passenger side of the Delta 88! I was crying and praying, “Dear God, DO NOT LET ANYONE I KNOW SEE MY MOTHER!”

My vivid recollections stop shortly after my pleas to God. Somehow my mother, tiny Vae, former Girl Scout leader used what rope she could salvage and got that tree back on the car and into the house. No cell phone. No roadside assistance. NO help once we were home. I, of course, had to recover from the trauma of the tree experience. I’m guessing Dad must have helped once home from work.

The road burn was carefully placed towards the back of the wall. Once in place, it was indeed a marvelous tree. Much more, it was the tree that will live on in our memories.

Mom, I thank you for suffering through my dramatic mood swings and my loud protests over insignificant details. But, thanks for always doing your best to make sure that holidays and birthdays--even dinner each night were enjoyable and beautiful.

Thanks for teaching me that saving money makes us better stewards of what we have. When we have more than we need we can share more easily and generously with others.

Thanks for teaching me to make the most out of everything. During lean years, I was grateful that I knew how to use coupons and shop specials. I was able to make gifts that were beautiful and appreciated from what little I could scrape together in cash and supplies.

Thanks for getting things finished. You cooked at least two full meals a day, which meant you shopped and planned those meals. You cleaned the house and sewed most all of our clothes. All the while you had what amounted to a full time volunteer ministry through Bible Study Fellowship. Even after the tree event, I’d guess that you had dinner ready by the time Dad got home from work.

Most of all, thanks for teaching me that sometimes you just have to pull yourself together and do what’s necessary—whether it’s teaching yourself to flock a tree, or pulling a gigantic tree off the freeway. I’m grateful that I inherited your resolve and your strength. I never imagined my life would turn out this way. How grateful I am your daughter.

More, I’ve been on the receiving end of your faith and your prayers. I know that you’ve always believed in me. You’ve always loved me and shown me the love that Christ offers is the best gift we can receive.

The Leaning Tree of Clarkville was knocked over by Catniss a couple of weeks ago. Most of the ornaments were broken. I cried over only two of them. One I made during cash starved years. The other was a nativity ceramic ornament you gave us the year Richard and I got engaged. It had always been a reminder each year of the two things I value most: Emmanuel and family. The ornament was beyond repair. But those relationships symbolized in white ceramic are forged stronger because of suffering, joy, and years of work. How grateful I am for growth and redemption.

Merry Christmas, Mom. I love you more in this year of 2013 than I’ve ever loved you. I look forward to the next time when I can confidently say that I love you more than at this given moment.

Word Gifts

Today is my mother’s 76^th birthday. Gift shopping for Mom is always easy and fun. It’s easy because Mom is never one to buy things for herself. Born during the depression and raised in drought prone west Texas, she was taught to use what you have and never waste anything—especially water. A couple of Thanksgivings ago, I was basting the turkey and noticed the baster was melted on one side of the plastic tube just below the harvest gold bulb.

Lori- “Mom, why in the world don’t you buy another baster?”

Mom- slightly irritated “Well. It STILL works!”

She got a turkey baster that year for a bonus birthday gift. I now realize it would have been the perfect package topper adorned with a tulle bow—my signature. I’ll do that in 20 years when she’s ready for another one.

It’s really fun to shop for Mom because she loves and appreciates any gift she receives. She’s full tilt enthusiastic about whatever is in the recycled box or bag placed before her. She’s particularly pleased when the gift was a bargain.

Mom- While opening package—“Oh, this is a NEW Talbot’s box!” Smiling, she carefully lifts the box top. (I gave up taping the sides of the box years ago! Too risky with the new generation of box-ruiners) She carefully unfolds the tissue paper. Pausing to snatch a bit of air she’ll exclaim , “Lori! I LOVE THIS SWEATER! It’s my color!!”

Lori- “And I only paid THREE DOLLARS for it!!!”

Mom- with even MORE enthusiasm, “REALLY?? I LOVE IT MORE NOW!!”

Volume is one of Mom’s natural, inherited strengths of which I am heir.

I often buy things in advance for Mom because I’ll see something particularly great that I know she’ll love. In addition, she, without guile will mention things she’d “love to have”. I’ve learned to listen carefully. I, with an uncooperative mind, keep lists now. This year, I didn’t have anything specific in the Mom folder in my Awesome Notes app. And Talbots, curses upon them, closed their Lewisville outlet store.  Clothing wasn’t on the list.

Mom has also learned that it’s not only ok, but appropriate to ask for what she wants. She announced during Thanksgiving that from now on she doesn’t want purchased presents for her birthday or Christmas. “I have EVERYTHING I could ever need. I want letters from each of you! I want to hear your favorite memories of our family and things you’ve loved about being out here at the ranch---anything you love and remember!!”

This request was prompted in great part out of her mother’s death this past year. Her mother’s daughter, Mom cherishes family. Shortly after Mom and Dad married, two west Texas kids with a baby on the way and just enough money to pay bills moved to Pennsylvania. It might as well have been The North Pole as far as distance was concerned. Phones were for emergencies and brief holiday greetings where each person stood sentinel for their chance to say, “Merry Christmas” as quickly as possible.  Mom wrote weekly letters to her parents and to her in-laws. She continued that habit even when long distance calls were not a financial concern.

Memo saved every single one of those letters.

She saved cards and letters from all her 5 of her children and all 13 of her grandchildren. This past Spring all of these were divided and given back to the sender.

When long distance became a free perk of owning a cell phone and a way to keep landline companies relevant, Mom started calling her mother everyday around 3 in the afternoon. In the last years, macular degeneration had robbed Memo the joy of easily reading cards and letters. Stories were relayed primarily by phone.

My mind and heart can see Mom sitting on her side of the forest green leather sectional, her legs elevated on the footrest—a necessary habit after a fall and a total reconstruction of her ankle in 2008. Mom, waking from her power nap, sees the clock and thinks, “Oh! It’s 3. I better call Mother.” Fully aware of the reality, tears for the ready, she reaches instead for the letters. Although I haven’t seen the stack of letters, my best guess is that they are in reverse order of postmarked dates. They are in a shoe box from the 70’s with a recycled rubber band from Memo’s junk drawer. Only God knows how old the rubber band is! I see Mom choose the last letter while carefully reading the date stamped by some faithful postal worker. It’s June of 1960. Mom carefully unfolds, in thirds, thin pretty paper with her writing on both sides. It’s properly dated in the upper left hand corner. In lovely, practiced cursive the first line reads:

Dear Mother and Daddy,

And the stories begin—blue ink, each page carefully notated with a number in the right hand corner. Each ending with:

Love,

Vae

Mom is a story teller. Her mother and father were both story tellers. I love reading letters from Mom because I hear her voice—that West Texas drawl, dramatic pauses, her inevitable laughter as she writes. I love the punctuated, “Ha!” which gives her readers permission to laugh along with her.

Yearning to share her joy, she picks up the phone to call me.

M-“You busy? I’ve just GOT to read you this part of a letter!”

The stories, many long forgotten events come alive once again as I hear my Mom reading her words back to me on the phone. 

M-"I can remember that EXACT day and what I was wearing!"

I learn the details of places I never visited, the phrases used by toddlers Scott and Carol that I can never hear except in my soul.  Stories told by my mother to her mother about my daughter.

Technology, if I may say so quite redundantly, has changed the landscape of communication forever. My phone can do what required at least 10 pieces of enormous equipment to complete even a decade ago. I love that I can communicate instantly with no effort to my bi-coastal nephew and nieces. Facebook keeps me connected with people I’d lost years ago. ( I’m still not quite sure that I want to know that they were at Target at 10:48 am on Tuesday. But I do.) I know that Hayley, in North Carolina loves me because she uses five colors of hearts and an emoji blowing me a kiss as her salutation. I know it’s ok to laugh AT her because she typed LOL while instant messaging. I can pick up the phone as soon as I gain enough composure to stop howling with laughter to tell Carol about Annie Beth’s latest escapade. Yet, with no record, I'm dependent on my memory to remind me of such moments. 

My mother’s gift request is both a gift to her and a gift to me.

To Carol.

To Hayley.

To possibilities of future Annie Beths and Spencers.

Words reminds us of who we are. Who we were. How we’ve changed. How we have NOT changed. Stories weave us together and help define family. I am delighted with the wisdom and courage of Mom’s gift request.

My handwriting is wretched. Seriously wretched. I will occasionally write one or two things for Mom, so that future generations will know that I did know how to use a ballpoint pen. They will then fully appreciate my choice to type and hit print….or save—particularly when cheaters aren’t always within grasp. (That’s just stupid. Even reading glasses don’t help with deciphering hieroglyphics.) I’ll mostly use this blog format.

I’m quite sure that’s why I started this blog to begin with--for me and for my family. I never intended other eyes to see this. But in the story telling, some of us have been connected to the power of what happens when we live out of honest, verbal places.

So much technology.

So little real connection.

I happen to believe that connection matters.

I am honored to be the daughter of Vae Rena Smith Hudgins, story teller extraordinaire, keeper of memory--cherished glimpses of life. She’s always championed me and encouraged me to keep writing. This next year, I’ll be dedicating so many of my blogs to you, Mom. I’ll tell the stories that have long been told, morphed as they are over time depending on the storyteller. I will tell ones from my own particular corner of living in the world as your daughter, as Memo’s granddaughter, as Annie Beth’s mother. The goal is not to win accolades from strangers or Facebook friends, it’s to honor you both now and in the future when I only have words to remember some interaction we had in the past. We aren’t born with instructions or money back guarantees. We do, though, have words. Words form stories which are the foundation of relationships. Words give direction, comfort, peace.  And Mom, we have The Word—Hope everlasting.

Happy Birthday Mom! I love you more with each passing year.

(Next blog---Christmas Trees Revisited)

Unexpected Public Detoxing

I love musical theater. Watching Leslie Ann Downs as Cinderella in Midland, Texas on our new colored television quite literally set the stage for a lifetime of plays, costumes, laughter, drama, and delight. It is likely that for forty four years, I've nurtured that passion so that I could some day overrule my then, bossy older sister/director and cast myself as Cinderella.

I'll tell you what, though, not every four year old ugly stepsister researched her role as thoroughly as I! The moment I heard my Dad with the socket wrench in the garage, I KNEW I'd found the necessary prop for my curtsy. (Only the devoted fans of that annual Sunday night airing will understand that reference.)

During college, one late night at our round kitchen table, Sarah and I were studying. I have no recollection of the topic--it certainly wasn't academic. It was more likely Camelot-like. The end of one particularly poignant sentence was the cue for music and one of us burst into a spontaneous life altering ballad. From that point on, we vowed to make our lives into musicals whenever possible. We called it Life is a Musical. When appropriate, with effortless thought, we were required to sing and dance to celebrate a moment or to solve the problem at hand.

Sarah was always, always more melodious. She could even rhyme on a dime. (Lame proof that I can still play?) Richard, my future husband played along and actually enjoyed it. His forte was instant iambic pentameter. One of his most memorable creations, used countless times over the years was,

(sung with a military two count)

"We......ellllllllllll, they laughed at Chris-to-pher Co----lum-buuuuus!
They laughed at David with a sling."

(Poetry police, don't go looking for the definition. It really isn't iambic pentameter, it just sounded, well, poetic.)

Whether genetic or by sheer force, my daughter understands and accepts the responsibility of living Life is a Musical.  Maybe it's because I sang "Stay Awake" from Mary Poppins every night as I rocked her to sleep? Perhaps purchasing season tickets to Casa Manana's children's theater each year watered the seed? Maybe it was the collection of dresses, shoes, hats, and props from a business put aside after her birth?

When she was cast as Madame in the sixth grade production of Aristocats, song and dance ensued.

I bought reserved tickets in advance, even purchased some for Richard and his guests for both nights. I've never been to a production at Briarhill Middle School. The stage functions primarily as a back drop to the cafeteria. I, rather famously, assumed that the reserved section would be roped off and we would select our seats.

For opening night, I purchased four reserved tickets for myself--we needed five. Dangit! My back-up plan was for me to sit in general admission. My guests were Mom, Dad, Carol aka former actor/director, and Emma, Annie Beth's closest cousin. We arrived early to ensure an excellent view in the reserved section.

Scene:  Briarhill Middle School.
Although a veteran teacher, the director has never done a large production at the beginning of the school year with 6th graders. 
Outdoor temperature somewhere in the 90's. 
It is two years past the jury trial divorce between Lori and Richard-former Life is a Musical partners. He still wears his wedding band. He rarely acknowledges her with eye contact or speech. 
Lori is wearing shorts and a thin, starched bright pink linen belted blouse. She is feeling anxious about her ticket accounting error. Her stomach is aflutter for Madame (aka Annie Beth). Lori,prone to co-dependency, is keenly aware of the inevitable awkwardness with her ex-husband and her family.

The ticket volunteer is not at the table. 
Richard is standing in the lobby beside the table. 
Lori's family passes-- eyes averting Richard's presence.

Lori: feeling more anxious leads family to the front of the stage. 
Lights--spotlight on all the reserved section--approximately 85 folding metal chairs. 
The spot grows smaller to highlight one row of chairs--approximately 12. 
The spot grows even smaller to highlight the name on 8 of the chairs--CLARK.

Cue orchestra. Orchestra members each play a note of their choice as loudly as possible and hold for 2 seconds---as if in slow motion.


I immediately went into triage mode. I'm only moderately to marginally skilled in this area. If you're bleeding or close to death, you probably won't die. But seek other help if you want to save a limb or be scar free. As for the row of Clark chairs, I knew that I needed to be the human equivalent to a concrete median. I decided that Carol would sit in the back.

With Richard still standing by the table, 

Mom, Dad, Emma, and Lori sit in four adjoining chairs.

Lori texts Carol: "Could this getting any worse?" 

As Lori is texting, Richard sits down in the chair directly next to her, leaving the other three available for his guests.



Cue orchestra. Repeat earlier segment. Hold for 3 seconds.




Lori texts Carol: "Sweating BULLETS!!"

Lori sees best friend. Stands and crosses stage right.

Carol texts back: "I know! I can see it running down your back!!"

Cue orchestra: first 20 measures of "Loathing" from Wicked. "what is this feeling? so sudden and new?....." etc.


I can sweat. Put me on an antidepressant and ratchet up anxiety and you get the equivalent of turning on a hose. I'm prone to hyperbole, I'll admit it. However, imagine several small hoses attached to my forehead, the base of my neck, and my lower back. Now adjust these to a low setting just slightly beyond constant dripping and you'll get a very accurate picture of what I looked like in the following seconds, minutes, yes, hour of my life.

House lights dim. 
Cue orchestra tuning.
The Aristocats begins.

I never could control the sweating--even with deep breathing and the thrill of seeing my only daughter's debut performance. I was grateful that the program doubled as a decent fan.  I was ever so grateful that I chose a top with absorbent fabric and a belt that collected what would have most likely ended up as a puddle on the floor. I was comforted that at my right hand and behind me were people who love me to the very core.  I am blessed beyond measure with a best friend who volunteered herself to arrange seating for the final performance.

I omitted the rhyming portion of Richard's original lyric earlier intentionally. It's particularly painful in this silly game made up one night in college.

We......ellllllllllll, they laughed at Chris-to-pher Co----lum-buuuuus!
They laughed at David with a sling.
They will laugh at ussssss
They may just cusssssssss
But we'll show them our wed--ding ring!

Not all musicals have happy endings. Stories resonant, though. Music transcends language. So much of life is tear-stained and redolent with the odors of yesterday's dinner. Tongues can assault or withhold much needed affirmations. Laughter is a powerful cleansing agent. We get to grow up and choose. I might want to pretend as a cathartic experiment; but, I don't want to be Cinderella anymore. I want to live my story well.

With music.

And dancing.

Aside from a great two line post on Facebook and the story telling ops for future dinner parties, was there value in that experience? When writing the score, I'd use every instrument available to orchestrate the final scene.

Scene: Lori's living room. 
Time 11:49 PM moments before Annie Beth's 12th birthday
Annie Beth's birthday guests/fellow cast members are all gone. Annie Beth is gazing at the Aristocats program.
Lori is gathering up Annie Beth's belongings and loading the car.
Lori is returning Annie Beth to Richard for his scheduled weekend time.

Annie Beth: "Mom. Can I tell you something?"

Lori (pausing mid stride) : "Sure"

Cue violins.

Annie Beth: "I know it was probably a mistake or somthin'....but I'm really glad you and Daddy sat next to each other on opening night. It made me happy to see y'all watching me together."

And scene.

PS. I'm grateful that I can afford to retire certain, barely worn garments. I'm also grateful Annie Beth doesn't read my blog.