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.

How Long is a Minute?

I have been to lots of funerals. In my career as a social worker, I worked almost exclusively with aging, frail adults. Funerals were a job hazard of sorts. Working in a Jewish facility allowed me to be a part of many of the beautiful traditions carried on for thousands of years among Jews. I went to several dozen Jewish services while we lived in Denver. I particularly love the mitzvah of leaving a stone of remembrance on the gravesite of the beloved--an Ebenezer.

I lost a beloved staff member to a sudden heart attack at work one day. Lucky was African American. His funeral was the loudest one I've ever attended. There were equal amounts of singing, wailing and laughing. There were funeral workers at the end of the pews of family members. Their primary job was to catch people who "fell out"--a term, I'd never heard before. When I saw someone "fall out", I realized there was no better way to express this form of grief.

I began reading obituaries during that period. On the rare occasion that I have a newspaper, I still read the obits. I enjoy knowing the highlights of a person's life. I relish stories. I'm fascinated by how those that are left behind choose to express their thoughts.

I have never, ever, ever heard someone mention their beloved's thighs.

"What I remember most about Grammy were her dimple-free thighs." Nope.

"I can only hope that if I'm a mother or a grandmother, I'll have thighs exactly like Memaw." Sniff. Sniff.

So, why in tar nation have I spent at LEAST a minute of every day of my life worried about my thighs???

And how I wish it was ONLY a minute a day. Just for fun, let's do the math with just a minute a day. I'll make it easy and use round numbers. I'll give myself 8 grace years and say I've only been concerned about thighs for 40 years. Thanks to Rent, I know that there are 525,600 minutes in every year.

I've spent a MINIMUM of 21,024,000 minutes loathing my thighs. TWENTY ONE MILLION, TWENTY FOUR THOUSAND MINUTES!!!

The title of my memoir could be: Was I More than my Thighs?

I'm done. I'm unwilling to waste valuable time focused on what, in the end, (pun intended) will return to dust and have no eternal value.

No. I'm not giving up working out. I am committed to do a better job managing my physical fitness. It matters both for me and for those who love me.

But, let's face it.....

I've got cellulite and stretch marks and scars and spider veins that are part of me now. They just are. That's all. If I measure my worth by what I consider my physical limitations, that would be like trying to measure the water in a pool with a yard stick.

If I put a chart down on paper with concentric circles, I KNOW that the people on the inner circles do not think to themselves, "You know, I think I'd like Lori better if she could slide easily into a size 8 pair of jeans." I seriously doubt if there are any people with whom I have contact that base their interaction with me on how much hail damage I have on my backside--even my trainers at the gym.

I've done crazy eating disordered living just to have small-ish thighs in my teen years and 20's--which, by the way I loathed then too.  I've spent more years than I can count saying, "Screw it. Pass the buttercream frosting." Now I'm just making it public that I'm not willing to spend one minute a day trying to have my sister's thighs. She didn't get the cellulite gene. (Curses upon her. wink.)

I did. So what?

I'm gonna honor that my legs are strong. They held me up when I wasn't eating enough to sustain a toddler, much less, a young adult. They helped me walk over 300 miles doing 5 back to back 60 mile 3 Day events to raise money in the fight against breast cancer. I honor the stretch marks under my belly that grew the greatest gift I've ever received. The scar on my thumb reminds me that it's a very bad idea to cut a block of frozen cheese with a regular dinner knife. I can't think of a great way to honor spider veins, cuz I just inherited them. Oddly enough, they don't bother me a bit.

I'm making a commitment to direct more minutes to expanding my compassion for others. I'm expanding my willingness to accept flaws in others--even flaws that hurt me from time to time. Minutes do matter. I'll think about minutes in terms of TREADMILL MINUTES!

Change is slow. I've invested too much time in the negatives of body loathing. But, minute by minute, I am working toward change.

And I happen to think that matters. I'm placing a stone on the gravesite of loathing my hips and thighs. It's there to honor my healthy legs that can run and lunge and skip--even if I'm forced to make unsavory noises to complete those tasks.

Learning Enough

I could point to lots of reasons I haven't consistently posted anything in months. All of them would be true. All are valid reasons. I write lots of posts in my mind and they never reach the page. I do write every day. Sometimes my writing is done through correspondence with friends. Sometimes writing is just for me in my journal. Today, however, my Inner Muse is writing. She is also saying, "Put it in print, Lori." 

My muse is kind-hearted and gentle. My inner critic is brutal. It would seem logical that I would follow the muse who speaks kindly and offers encouragement.

Call it conditioning.
Call it masochism.
Call it craziness.

I don't fully understand it either.

I respond most often to the Brutal Critic!

So, Brutal Critic you are banned from my world today. The voice to whom I'm responding is letting me know that there just might be a few others who'd like to hear this dust from my trails.

(For those that may be stuck on the page of "Good grief!! SHE IS CRAZY!".... The muse is not an audible voice. And I do know that I am not TRULY a Fairy Godmother--at least not one with magical powers. Wink.)

I never intended to be a public blogger. I'm just terribly unorganized and I thought blogspot would be easy to find. I'm never quite sure where I put my journal.
Or my pen.
Or my reading glasses.
I just got found. Then a few people asked for some more stuff, blah, blah, blog.


I wish Inner Muse was writing something funny--like when a friend at the gym pointed out that everyone could see the writing on my panties THROUGH MY SHORTS!

(I do love my orange and black striped panties that say Wicked AND glow in the dark, though--a Halloween happy from Jenny. Putting those on is the only time I'm willing to turn around and look in the mirror. I cackle every single time--full out belly laugh in the dark! It's so good to be known--which is really what I'm musing.)

I'm lonely. A lot. Not the kind of lonely that gets solved by a quick fix of chatting with someone at the grocery store. No. I'm talking about the yearning that craves the emotional intimacy of being known fully and still  loved completely. The loneliest place I've ever been was in my marriage and falsely believing that I didn't have an option to leave. One gift that I received during that time, though was that I began offering my ears and heart to others--even at the grocery store. I figured that if I was lonely and hurting and seeking connection, there might be a person or two in my path each day that might feel alone or isolated or trapped or desperate.

So I started experimenting. I had a demanding toddler at the time. Although I admit to loving a romantic story and cry when The Bachelor proposes each season. I'm mostly a realist. I can enjoy the romance; but, I know that life happens and people are people.

I do not enjoy failure.

I set my bar low. At minimum my daily goal was to look directly into people's eyes, particularly people in serving positions. (Been there. Always stunned me when I was invisible to people....."Ummmmmm....Standing right here!!")

My goal was to let them know without words that I really saw them. When coupled with a genuine smile and a thank you, guess what happened? Most people responded in kind. When a genuine question or a sincere comment was added, I discovered that people wanted to connect. The goal was not to be best buddies with every person I met. That's just stupid. No, I was trying to offer to others what I longed for--connection, to be seen. I was also searching for souls who might share my love and passions for life.

I didn't know at the time that I was also training myself to cherish the connected moments that did happen. My journals are full of now forgotten moments between me and people I've only seen once or  maybe weekly at my grocery store. (OK, I used to go to the store almost every day because I don't plan ahead very often. I knew and still do know the drive-through people the best. )

Fast forward to now. Having spent almost three years divorcing and another year or so trying to rebuild a different, new life for myself and my child, I've learned something about different kinds of loneliness. Decisions we make shift the landscape of our lives. Decisions others make can do the same. Those are just a couple of ways my life has been impacted. What I know is that I cannot control life and all it's circumstances. But I can choose how I respond!

I'm discovering, to my great surprise that those years of experimentation helped me then and NOW. I learned then that I really, really love people. The more I asked God to help me love others, the more I did. When I encountered prickly, snarly people instead of judging and reacting, I began privately wondering why a person would be so ugly?

(I'm that girl who sits and makes up elaborate stories about everything and everybody I see.)

Everyone has a story. Everyone. The more story I knew, or made up, the more I was able to connect and offer grace.

BUT....how in the world does that help me now? NOW when the chit chat and stories may warm someone else, but still leaves me alone?

The skills I honed helped me attract people who also want to be known and loved. I am blessed beyond measure with deep abiding friendships. I am learning, ever so slowly, to receive words and gifts they offer me to fill the void. I learned during those desolate years how to lean into the presence of God and allow Him to sustain me.

(I'd blog on that except I've already said more than I know. I haven't really a clue how that happened or how to replicate it in another life. I just know it happened. And still happens everyday.)

I'm not diminishing the importance of God's daily, intimate presence in my life. But, 'dammit'--sorry Mom and Dad, sometimes I want to hear a real voice, have a real hand holding mine. I am whiny and obstinate. I KNOW what's best for me at all times and that needs to be a person. In my all knowing formula, shouldn't that come in the form of a partner? A man?!

Guess what? That's just not happening! Can't explain why God doesn't know what's best for me. Irreverent wink.

He's helping me embrace all of the people and moments of genuine intimacy that are in my world daily as not simply a substitute, but ENOUGH.

Ridiculous first example...So when Georgia, Carol's dog that I really kind of hated decided I was the GREATEST PERSON ON THE PLANET EARTH every time she saw me or heard my voice---so much so that if I petted her she peed everywhere, I began accepting her affection and love for exactly what it was. A spirit lifter. I mean, is there a person who will jump three feet repeatedly, race around the yard running and barking, and pee on the ground when I simply touch him? NO! Gift received. (I love Georgia now. How could I NOT?)

When my sister from another mother Jenny buys me Wicked panties for Halloween or brings me Poise cooling wipes for hotflashes that she got free with a coupon, I am being known and loved. When Brenner, her youngest whom I've blogged about calls me and asks me to go swimming with him, I am wanted and desired. When my newest adopted family member, Mary insisted I spend Christmas with them, I was grafted into a new family. When I hear her daughter Lily screaming my name from the inside of their house as I park my truck, I embrace and accept that as passionate, unfettered love. When Patty called and asked if I would be Godmother to she and Carrie's unborn daughter, Charlotte, how could I mistake this as anything but deep, trusting, committed love? I am gaining another child and Annie Beth said, "I'm getting the sister I always wanted!" When Annie Beth shifted back into a place of wanting to snuggle beside me while we watch tv or play on our electronics, let's face it, I'm a weepin' mess!

What more could I ask for without being petulant?

Am I alone? No. Not really.
I asked.
I looked.
I received.

I am grateful.

An Embroidered Pocket: Sue Dickens

Tears have been flowing intermittently down my cheeks now for 12 hours or so. I found out last night that one of Annie Beth's favorite teachers died yesterday. As I write this I have no details about the circumstances. The specifics matter, of course; but, for what my heart feels it wouldn't make any difference. The truth is that I didn't know a lot about her daily life beyond school anyway.  The intersection of my life with hers, though is forever sealed in my heart.

I cry because I will never get to hug her again or read on Facebook about how much she's enjoying her 8:00 AM cup of coffee at her kitchen table during her retirement. She's outside of my earthly touch.

I have written some of these very words directly to her on many occasions. I'm so grateful that I lavishly appreciated her with words and gifts. She was a humble person and would have been slightly embarrassed by the attention she would receive from public applause. To honor her memory and encourage all of us to love well, I offer my words today.

There is a pocket in my heart that has Sue Dicken's name embroidered on it. This story is really not about me and my daughter. It's about Sue and the community in which I knew her, Highland Village Elementary. To fully appreciate why my Sue pocket is still tender and so important, my story is necessary.

I was the copy mom for the entire group of first grade teachers in 2009 when I filed for divorce in late April. I spent two afternoons a week at the school helping these marvelous women. (I also have pockets in my heart for Emily Heitzmann, Stahr Freedle, Donna Bailey, and Shana Murphy.) I spoke privately with Emily, Annie Beth's primary teacher. In addition, I met with the Principal, Sherry Wagner and the Vice Principal, Karen Wright.--both equally precious and amazing women. Annie Beth referred to them as The President and Vice President of the school. I never corrected her because I loved hearing it so much. I knew she'd eventually figure it out and those terms would be lost forever.

Karen's daughter Audrey and my daughter were special friends. Karen knew that Annie Beth needed just the right teacher for second grade. Karen was moving to Seattle before the next school year; but, through her own tears, shed for me, she assured me that they would carefully place her with the best suited teacher. Karen had taught fourth grade with Sue and knew her well--considered Sue a mentor and model teacher. Karen told me that Sue's loving, patient, and gentle spirit would be a perfect fit.

Just before school started, in order for me not to share a residence with my husband and still maintain joint custody, we agreed to nest. Nesting is legal jargon for this: the child lives in the house. The parents move in and out of the house on alternating weeks. I was a stay at home Mom stripped of my job every other week. The only time I could see Annie Beth on alternate weeks was at lunch on school days. We Skyped most nights after she returned from her sitter's house around 10:00 PM. (I write this with intention. Her bedtime was 9:00. I started the bedtime routine at 8:30 each night.) Important to note as well, my child has never been a cheerful morning person. She also had decided in first grade that she wanted long, beautiful hair like Audrey. Did I mention that Annie Beth is/was not a fan of brushing her hair? She is tender-headed and not afraid to loudly express her displeasure.

Sue Dickens was more than a teacher to my child. Sue partnered with me and loved Annie Beth as an extension of her family. She also nurtured us so tenderly and gently by allowing Annie Beth to come into the copy room each week for a few minutes so I could have one more chance to touch her.

Sue loved me through hugs. Lots of hugs. Very few words. Tears and hugs. My journal overflows with daily examples of how she loved us well during a turbulent time. During that year she also further instilled a love for words and writing within Annie Beth.

All this for one child and her family, in a class of 20. There is no doubt that our story is not dissimilar from so many others--years of classrooms full of children.

Tears flow anytime I think about this particular day. Annie Beth rarely called in the mornings before school. That day, I answered to hear a sobbing, sleep-deprived child begging not to go to school. The more I tried to be loving and logical, the more irrational she became. I was able to finally piece together that her hair was in such a rat's nest that she was embarrassed to go to school. Days of neglect will do that. I suggested that she put on a hat and go to school. That's all I could do. I emailed Sue to warn her.

That day when the other children were out of the classroom, Sue got a brush and tried her very best to gently and lovingly detangle my child's hair. I'll never forget her laughter, eyes crinkled together when she told me, "Lori, I had boys! I've never done girl hair! I tried, though."

That's the day her name became embroidered in my heart pocket. It was painful then. The needle pricking flesh of how my life's decision circumstances translated into pain within other people's lives. My mind's eye sees the threads as Annie Beth's hair plucked from the bristles of Sue's brush or ones from the square tiles of the classroom floor. They form a brown background and over the years those yellow highlights have turned more golden. Yesterday those strands were transformed into 24 carat gold. I believe with all my heart that one day when Sue and I are reunited face to face, I will give her these strands of perfect gold from my heart. She will in turn give them to our loving Heavenly Father. He will hug her and say, "Well done, my good and faithful servant."

I Hear You

I posted for Gay's blog today. Although only six when her mom died, Gay was expected to raise her then barely toddling sister. That sister, her only sibling is dying.


February 16, 2013

Dear Friends,

I just hung up the phone after a brief conversation with Gay. At "Hello", her voice weak and weary from uncertainty, travels, sleeplessness, I knew that this was a time to listen more than talk. Feeling the limitations  of technology, I said, "Oh, Gay, I wish I lived in Denver and could be there with you today." I even had the fleeting thought that I might hop a plane and make that happen, if only for 36 hours, most of which would be consumed in travel. I wanted to add the dimension of touch into my love and concern.

She said, "Oh honey, I do too. But in quiet moments I can hear your voice saying, 'I'm prayin' for y'all.' And I'm comforted."

It's made me ponder in yet another way about presence and how it manifests itself.

I'm clearly labeling this as Lori's best guess; but, what I heard was that her mind was hearing my actual voice saying those words. (Mostly because Gay would never eliminate a 'g' from the 'ing'. Much more, because she has probably never said, y'all except in quoting another.) I wouldn't know how to explain how this happens without lots of research and usage of a very boring quote from a textbook. I just know that, for good or bad, our mind can recreate the voice of another person. I'm convinced, out of experience, that it's repetition that plays most strongly in how our brain reproduces a voice.


Words and voices are powerful—great gifts when used in love.

I read an amazing quote this week:

Sometimes it is a great joy just to listen to someone we love talking  Vincent McNabb

It made me think immediately of the videos I watch constantly of my dear friend's 3 month old baby oohing and laughing. Hearing my four year old boyfriend say, "Mimi, I yub you." I save certain voice messages that are particularly special to me—so many from Gay. I listen to them regularly.

Savor the gift of voice, sound, presence.

Baste all your words with love. Choose wisely. Repeat essentials liberally.

Cherish moments.
Record memories.
Write down words.
Capture images.
In dark moments, frozen times of despair,
those memories,
                 recordings,
                             images,
                                       may be what comfort in inexplicable ways.


Please continue to pray for Gay and her family as they await Beth's departure from this life into the next.
Maranatha, ~lori

Just Swallow the Medicine (Expletive deleted)!!!

I'm glad my daughter places little value on knowing what happens in my inner world--particularly the dust I shake off here in my blog. It's not remotely interesting or important to her that I have feelings or thoughts or experiences outside the context of my relationship with her. She's eleven. Normal.  I'm in agreement with her that concern over my inner world is simply not her job. Based on the assumption that she will NOT read this, and with a gut feeling that I'm not alone in this world of parenting by myself, I'm taking the risk of being in trouble with her. 

Without her permission or knowledge, I'm learning about a side of myself that I'm not particularly fond of. I can't call it a blind side. I've known about it for a long time. Seeing it in another person and facing my reaction, that's where the story begins.

I've nominated myself for WMOTY so many times these last 3 weeks, I've made enough noise that the people are just gonna give it to me. The plaque on my trophy will read: 

Lori Clark 

Worst Mother of the Year

Before those of you want to rescue me out of my award, let me build some scenarios with you. Trust me, I earned my trophy.

I got the flu the day after Annie Beth came home for my portion of the Christmas holiday. I was miserable. By the time I connected the dots of my symptoms, it was too late for Tamiflu. When her throat got sore and she felt yucky, I took her into the clinic for a prescription. My mom was scheduled for her bilateral mastectomy the following Wednesday in Houston. Annie Beth would have to go to her father's house. I knew that would mean she would be lying around his office floor while he worked. The obscene price of $323.01 was no barrier to my decision to medicate her. This flu was nasty business and I didn't want her to experience what I felt. I wasn't willing to cancel my trip to Houston to be present with my Mom and Dad during a very serious and frightening time.

Annie Beth has a gag reflex that still alarms me. She hasn't learned to swallow a pill. She balks and resists ALL attempts to medicate her--even with the good tasting bubblegum Tylenol. I taste all her meds.

I've tasted some hideous medicines in my life, I can't think of one worse than Tamiflu. 

Let me also add....having been around lots of kids in my life, I know there are those kids who are docile, nearly angelic beings who need little more than snuggling and TLC on their road to recovery. I did not get that child. At all. 

When after the first hour she had diluted, spit out, and gagged on the first dose of this miracle medicine that would help her feel better and alleviate some of my guilt for leaving a sick child, I was irritated and angry. I white-knuckled it and offered her fake mercy/grace. I texted my sister who has successfully raised 4 kids without a single death or maiming, "how I can stay out of prison and still get her to take the medicine??!!!!" Carol-  "Put it in a milkshake or ice cream." BRILLIANT! I put on clothes and got her THREE kinds of ice cream to choose from. 

Let's hit the low points now. 

2 hours after the ice cream is melted.....

Both of our faces are puffy from angry tears.

She's heard the story I was saving for a tender teaching moment about the boy who died over Christmas from flu complications. "YOU COULD DIE!" ( shameful red face emoticon)

She's paid me $30.00 of her Christmas money for the ice cream dosage that was thrown at me. 

In total.....5 hours after we started, while I'm in a self appointed time out, I hear her gagging down the medicine. 

I place my ice cream container in the recycle bin.

Fast forward to the following Sunday...she's missed 5 days of school. She now has a double ear infection and pneumonia. 

Three oral meds:

Inhaler

Steroids

Antibiotic--twice daily 10 days. Kill me now, I thought.

Prednisone is the third worst medicine I've tasted.

Low points:

I quarantined myself to the back of the house.

The next morning when her symptoms were no better, she admitted she'd lied to me and had thrown the steroid down the sink. 

The urgent care center DOES charge to simply check your oxygen level with that stupid little machine.

Reality of IV, hospital stay, more missed school, NOT graduating from 5th grade! didn't matter to my child.

All she had to do was guzzle down two teaspoons of medicine.

TWICE DAILY for 10 days. 

While I was fuming again.....

On day 5, I finally had the sense to ask God what He thought of all of this.....

I really do want to be that Mom who loves well and learns. I want to offer that correct combination of truth and love. 

Here's what I really love about God, He often approaches me like Jesus did with His followers when He was here on earth. Like that time when they noticed how badly others were behaving? He responded with words so familiar to me:

Luke 6:42

New International Version (NIV)

⁴² How can you say to your brother, ‘Brother, let me take the speck out of your eye,’ when you yourself fail to see the plank in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the plank out of your eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother’s eye.

In my heart, I heard, "Lori, why are you avoiding what I've asked of you?"


I'm not gonna lie. I'm deleting some of the internal conversation I had with God regarding the question--most of it is not polite or could be labeled "Christian". It started like this.... "Weren't we talking about Annie Beth? She's the problem, you know."

I'll just cut to the good stuff.

I cannot control others. (although, I crave that power often.)  The only person I can control is Lori. It is true that I understand more than Annie Beth about many things. I know that we can avoid some negative outcomes with certain precautions and applied resources. She had done nothing to earn sickness--that just happened in this circumstance. She did, however, have control over the outcome.

I knew medicine would HEAL HER. My intent wasn't malice. My intent was for good and ultimately wholeness. It did require her, however, to experience something unpleasant, for a brief time. No promise of pain free treatment. The minimum requirement was to swallow. Simple for me because I had more perspective.

Fast forward a week.

I am being COMPLETELY HONEST HERE....as I'm typing this I'm waiting on Annie Beth to take her new antibiotic that was prescribed for a returned double ear infection. She knows that if she is running a fever tomorrow, as she is NOW, she will not be able to go to school on Monday. She is still making up work from the two weeks she missed previously. She will also miss honor choir after school---more motivation to take the medicine. I picked up the medicine at 12:30. It's 4:35. 

I can't force medicine down her throat. I'm taking a different approach because I can today. There's nothing that prevents me from staying with her at home this week. I'm more available and able to allow natural consequences to teach her this week. It will cause me pain also. She will not be alone in her pain if she continues to resist me. I am not omniscient, omnipresent, or perfect. I can, however, seek help from the One in my life whom I know to be all of those things. 

Those traits in Annie Beth that send me over the edge are my planks. With God's help, I'm making steps toward his request of me. If The Worst Mother of the Year can have even an ounce or two or unconditional love and concern for a stubborn, petulant, sick child, I cannot imagine how much God must love me!? My steps may be harder than my 11 year old's steps to health; however, I know also that my God wants me to grow and thrive. I see me stalling, making excuses, avoiding, thrashing, and being angry about each new step that will lead me out of a place that I don't want to be anyway! 

So I'm moving forward with the one person whom I have control. I'm also offering my child the chance to learn and grow, even if it's not my easiest option. I am so grateful I am not alone in my pursuits. I've surrounded myself with people of faith, love, integrity, and humor who walk alongside me daily. More, I know that God meets me each moment in ways that only He can. He is faithful even with stubborn, petulant 47 year old women.


PS. It's 6:04 and she's still standing in the kitchen staring at the 2 teaspoons of medicine. Her homework is done, the cats are fed.......     : /