He had already made significant points with his future mother-in-law – and, if you aren’t paying attention, that’s me – by previously stopping by my house to share his intentions, inquire as to my thoughts on his doing so, and receive my blessing to move forward. 

We actually had a lovely chat considering a few months ago I would have had to excuse myself to hyperventilate in the bathroom.  However, time has blessed us with positive changes, so on the night he chose to drop by, his mission  evoked a relaxed air of tender charm.  

You see, Mandy and Jack’s romance had an exceptionally rocky start.  She was young, just a summer, city intern with another year of her master’s studies to complete, and Jack, a few years older, wasn’t actively seeking the love of his life.  They began their relationship during “hanging out” situations, which hovered around mutual friends, the Chicago summer, social events, and serendipitous meetings.  However, by fall, as Mandy was moving back to the university, “dating” was the adjective friends were using to describe their status. 

During her final year of school, long distance and age differences – no, let’s not say age because each was twenty-something.  Instead, let me say stage, as in life-stage – differences triggered frustrations that neither knew how to handle.  Hot/cold, push/pull, fights/forgiveness, insecurity/comfort, confusion/clarity… the dichotomy of those days did not bode well and as her college graduation approached, I thought the whole chapter was coming to an explosive end. 

The night before her ceremony, as she was preparing to celebrate with me, Jack was angrily communicating with her via text on her cell phone.  Evidently, some time before, she had voiced reservations about their relationship and hadn’t invited him to come participate in an already complicated family event.  After all, her tight schedule was granting me inclusion during the Friday night and pre-ceremony festivities, while Lex was receiving the post Hallelujahs.  The ceremony, filled with thousands of university faces, would provide an easy segue venue for Mandy to say good-bye to me and locate her father via the use of her cell phone without the concern that Lex and I might chance any uncomfortable encounters. -  Dysfunctional families are a pain in the rear on any normal day, but special occasions have the potential for God knows what to happen if logistics aren’t in place! -  Confident we had everything arranged to go smoothly, I arrived for my shift psyched for some fun.  Then, Mandy began crying.  My heart fell.  Apparently, my children’s graduations were just not going to be joyous memories for me.

When my son, Sean, graduated from high school, Lex had crashed uninvited at my house, and my parents, thinking they could ease the situation by pretending we were all great friends, made the whole night practically – and literally – unbearable for me.  I still cringe when I think about it.

Next, came Sean’s college graduation two thousand miles away….no story to be told here because Lex had messed me over financially and I couldn’t afford to go. My memorabilia of that occasion display Lex  – and his second wife sticking her head into the picture – with Sean and Mandy.  Not something I choose to frame for my house.

Then, although I thought I had learned how to handle things by the time Mandy graduated from high school, Lex picked that time to announce he intended to break our financial agreement by shorting me 80% of what he had originally promised. Even though I wasn’t shocked by his broken word and despicable timing, I wasn’t prepared for how drastic the cut would be.  As I watched Mandy receive her high school diploma, my stomach was in knots wondering if I would have a home for her to return to after she left for college. 

So, batting zero for three, I was just sure that this fourth and final chance at a joyous academic celebration would be a winner!  Neither relatives nor Lex would be butting in to step on my heart.  I was confident that the pictures of this event would be frame worthy!!

Yet, more than two years later, I’ve yet to even see them!

 Jack’s anger and Mandy’s tears had us up until nearly 4:00 AM with a miserable 6:30 AM wake-up arranged so that the two of us, along with her housemates, could be showered and readied for a quick photo session before convoying our way to the arena.  Upon arising, the moist, spring morning air had transmogrified my hair into something akin to a Gilda Radner character –think blonde Roseanne Roseannadanna – and with bloodshot, deeply circled eyes we stood in her living room as the cameras snapped.

I was not happy with Jack.  

However, soon after graduation, upon her return to Chicago to begin a new job, Jack, regretting his torrent before grad day, repented, so she forgave him.

Hearing her lilting voice as she relayed this news, I became less resentful, but still wary of Jack.

Early summer brought cheerful reports, though, from Mandy, so I transitioned to being grateful that she had someone to protect her as she adjusted to her new role as young, adult, metro, career woman. Old wounds healed, and during these good times, I very much enjoyed Jack’s company as I assessed him to be a genuine, intelligent, considerate guy. I began understanding Mandy’s interest in him.

Then, one day that summer, as she happened to be visiting me, her cell phone sang – have you noticed that they don’t ring any more – and she reported that Jack had just found out his parents were separating after thirty years of marriage.   This was news he was not prepared to deal with.

Jack became unhappy with Jack. 

The next year was a roller coaster of calls from a tearful Mandy as they tried to navigate the muddy waters of life thrown off balance.  Jack had to replay his entire life in light of  disclosures he was learning about the backdrop of his childhood while simultaneously, as the eldest, he tried to emotionally support his shaken mother and siblings.

Mandy, having plenty in her life to draw from, wanted to help but couldn’t grasp why Jack was letting this morph him into a heap of despair…. Worse, Jack couldn’t grasp why himself.

 Hot/cold, push/pull, fights/forgiveness, insecurity/comfort, confusion/clarity… the dichotomy returned.  Some days, Mandy didn’t recognize her own bizarre reactions, and as I watched from a distance, I couldn’t understand why one of them didn’t alleviate the pressure by just calling it quits.

Finally, after a year of frustration, Jack did. He needed to withdraw, and by that time, Mandy was tired as well.  She let go, adjusted, and decided to move forward with her life.

In the meantime, Jack’s parents were working things out, so Jack used his time alone to culminate many months of introspective self-analysis. As he began reassembling the memories of his life in order to reclaim it, he discovered a transparency to his sense of self and within that clarity of vision he confidently identified one realization…

 He wanted Mandy back in his life. 

 Tempered with a strength generated by her own healing, she wasn’t going to jump off her wisdom ladder without the certainty solid ground lay below.  She still cared about Jack, but she had reclaimed her ability to care equally about herself.  Jack would have to work to win her back.

Accepting accountability for the final split, he spent several weeks patiently allowing her to be in touch with the pace of her own heart until she felt secure and safe to once again let him in. 

Skeptical, the news of their reunion wasn’t reason was me to high five anyone, but I told her I would support her choice with all my heart since only she could interpret what choice may be the best. 

Now, fast-forward one year later to Jack in my living room, discussing marriage… The year has been a good one for them.  They have both grown from their trials and a spirit of  committed partnership has developed which will carry them confidently into the next stage of their lives. 

So, what form does my gratitude take in all this?  Well, of course, I’m grateful my daughter is happy and my relationship with her future husband is becoming grounded in friendship, but I’ve gotten more than that from observing their story.

Witnessing these two young people maneuver through the varied terrain of their courtship has taught me a few lessons along the way about myself and the sacred space I might share once again with another. If they, in their youth, can overcome such obstacles, couldn’t I with my maturity do so with similar ease?  If they can self-reflect, forgive, accept accountability, and live in the perfect presence of unconditional love, couldn’t I once again?  If stymied communication can be re-channeled into an open flow of honesty, trust, and mutual adoration for them, couldn’t it once again be a truth in my life?

I’m grateful for their story, for within their chapter lies hope for those of us who question the possibility of combining tenderness, authenticity, and companionship for ourselves.  Their outcome makes me smile, and think, “Hmmm, maybe I, too, will find someone to celebrate and as a couple, we’ll join them.”

Five Thank Yous, Mandy and Jack.  As you rekindled your own love, you stirred the flames of possibility that it might also happen for me!

It feels a bit strange to have the desire to write something again after being away for about ten weeks.  I once asked my minister friend, Pat, how she managed to come up with a sermon every week.  She didn’t go into an in-depth analysis with her answer.  With a little shrug of her shoulders, she said something about having a lot of material to resource…  after all, the Bible is a pretty big book… Then, I piped in a comment on how it helps that her job demands that she take the time to write about her passions.  Mine, on the other hand, has me sitting most of the day at a PC completing corporate assignments relating only to the passion of receiving my paycheck.  When I get home, I just don’t want to sit at a desk any more.  Sometimes, even though my job provides me with a wonderful,  ergonomically designed chair, my butt actually feels sore from sitting all day on it!

Yet, I realize, that it’s OK not to write all of the time if you’re getting some time to think, feel, dream, meditate, or ponder.  Having the time and freedom to solely think is priceless.  That’s why I adore waking up unscheduled on the weekends.  As I open my eyes on my own time without an annoying alarm clock shocking me into reality, I don’t move until I’ve taken a few moments to simply muse.  I think about how great it is to wake up feeling good; How comfortable it is to sleep with the heat turned off because my old comforter is so thick and toasty around me.  I think about the dreams that I just had and what, if anything, they might be trying to tell me.  I think about the beautiful pictures of my daughter on my bedroom walls and how I really need to put them in some other room if I ever expect to have romance return to my bed again. -  I believe that was an AOL Feng Shui tip of the day I read once:  If you want a love life, your kids pictures belong in your family room, not your bedroom. -  I think about what weather will greet me on the other side of the closed blinds of my window and how nice having a leisurely breakfast is going to be…. Freedom. I often think about how great it is to have that moment of freedom to reflect.

That’s the gift the empty nest can bring.  Although I adored hearing my children’s voices and laughter in the morning when they were growing up in my home, time to reflect, to think, was at a premium.  How many parents have awakened to find a child staring down at them patiently anticipating the moment they will stir?  I certainly have.  As soon as your eyes flutter, they’re hopping on top of you bubbling with ideas about the day or complaints toward a sibling.  So, today, I have a choice.  I can smile and recall those happy memories back into existence, or I can languidly appreciate the silence of my winter morning while the snow softly falls outside…

Five Thank Yous, Freedom, the freedom to just think.

Yesterday, I met with a group I launched over a year ago when I found myself out of work.  I named it The Jobseekers Network, posted my brainchild online through Meetup.com, and put out ads in the local paper, library, church bulletins, and coffee house community boards.  

I was lonely.  I needed support.  The news media was quoting terrible unemployment statistics but all I could see in my neighborhood were people driving off to jobs.  Was I the only one without a paycheck?  

I made a little sign for a tabletop holder and on the first announced meeting day, I sat next to where I had it perched on a table at Starbucks.  Me, my sign, and a folder containing a few copies of my resume waited for 45 minutes.  No one showed.  

I didn’t care.  I felt like I had a purpose.  My purpose was to sit at Starbucks once a week in my moccasins until someone showed up in a pair to match. 

The next week, it happened. A couple of people did show up and shouting over the Starbucks’ ice grinder, we shared our backgrounds, our shock, our resumes, and what we had learned about job hunting during a depression…. We also managed to laugh. 

Every week, a new face arrived, and if a recruiter volunteered to come visit, a lot of new faces popped in.  Sometimes, they never returned, but others became regulars until they either found a job or, like in the case of one man with two decades of experience, went back to school to get the degree that had never been needed before. 

We were of various ages, backgrounds, sexes (well, only two variations there!), and fields.  But, what amazed me the most, was how educated, bright, experienced, and upstanding these people were.  How could they be floundering without work when the news seemed to weekly be broadcasting stories of corruption in business, congress, and churches?  Those guys were still working while we were stumping around job fairs and the temp agencies!  I was befuddled. 

Then, four months and many iced mochas later, I got hired. 

The weather was turning colder as I turned the group’s direction over to another unemployed Jobseeker member.  Once the group took off, I had always assumed it would continue whether I was around or not, but apparently the cold weather and my absence took its toll.  Since the new director also found an exciting new position, we announced that we’d disband for the winter and after the thaw, reassess whether anyone out there still needed us.  We organized under a LinkedIn group and every now and then a new name or face would ask permission to join.  

The thaw happened and the summer rolled in with its roadside stands vending green vegetables that, before I knew it, had morphed into pumpkins and mums.  I had been too occupied with my new job and my personal life to think about others still out there hunting down work. 

Suddenly, I was deeply motivated to arrange another meeting.  Not only because I had given my word and I’m not one to take that lightly, but an urgency poked at my conscience. Do it! Do it! … So, I did. 

The group was small but one attendee, the former director who had taken over for me, shocked us by announcing that the timing of our gathering couldn’t have been more synchronistic for, after a short eight months at his new job, his company decided to close this city’s locations.  He was, once again, back on the unemployment roster seeking others in his moccasins. 

He told us how much we had helped him the time before, how much the support of the group had meant to him, and how amazed he had been to receive my notice just when he needed us to reappear. 

Hmmm… Somehow that doesn’t feel like a coincidence to me.  I can remember so many times during my life when another in matching moccasins appeared just when I needed understanding the most. 

For instance, when my marriage was falling apart, I attended a party where I ran into a sorority sister I hadn’t seen for a while.  As we shared the tidbits of our lives that night, her smiling face literally drained white and slack jawed when I told her about my challenges with Lex.  She, too, was in the middle of a marital crisis with an emotionally and physically abusive husband, and the stages of our subsequent dissolutions improbably mirrored each other.  

I don’t know what I would have done without her.  She not only knew exactly what my moccasins felt like, she also knew the dangerous terrain I had to travel and how precious the cargo of my children weighed upon my heart.  Calling her, meeting with her, sharing with her, laughing with her, crying with her, yelling out my anger with her… Knowing I could count on her to understand was priceless. 

During the past decade, we’ve only managed to connect with each other once a year if that.  We’ve changed our well-worn footwear and now she seeks those who understand mother-of-the-bride issues and bouncing grandchildren.  

Isn’t that how it works though?  We’re not only designed to find people to support us during the painful times but the joyful ones as well. 

When I was getting married, Lex and I were always among other betrothed couples happily chatting about the plans for our future.  Each time I was lumbering about pregnant, I couldn’t believe how many other pregnant women crossed my path.  I wasn’t sure if the world was prepared for that many strollers to hit the sidewalks at the same time, but once I had my children, the swelled bellies disappeared and struggling parents came out of nowhere. 

Yes, I’ve been lonely at times.  I have felt singled out in my situation and understood why once even Jesus asked God if he’d been forsaken.  But, those moments have been few and erased because of evidence that during times of isolation, I’m there by my own choosing.  One request, one prayer, one phone call, one trip out the door can change everything.  Support is always present.  Someone, somewhere is walking two moons in my moccasins. 

To the people of my life who have seen me through the worst, the best, and the crazy, to the strangers who unknowingly have spoken a word or done a deed that presented me with messages of hope or signs of direction, and to the unseen presence whose love can always light up any void of isolation… Five Thank Yous for wearing my shoes and, at times, carrying me.

As with most things, this perception was seeded during my childhood, planted first by my experiences at the county fairs. I remember walking the beaten path of the midway, holding a parent’s hand as I was dragged stumbling along the subtle bumps and ruts of the ground caused by the equipment used to set up the game tents and rides. Since I wasn’t watching where I was going I tripped a lot.  How could I survey the ground for obstacles when I was agog by the kaleidoscope of sights, sounds, and colors above me? Oh, and the smells! Cotton candy, candied apples, caramel corn…. Ironically, the only thing I really liked was the one delicacy that contributed nothing to the olfactory ambiance, the snow cones!  Until I became an age too prissy to enjoy its color residue, my favorite was the blue snow cone.  I have no idea what flavor the color was trying to mimic…blueberry, maybe… I just know that I liked the taste, temperature, and the testament to my choice that was left blue on my lips, tongue, cheek, hands, and probably T-shirt.  Cotton Candy was sticky pretty, but a blue snow cone was the bomb! 

Haloed by the spinning neon of the midway rides above them, I was also fascinated by the faces of the carnies.  About every three yards one of them would yell at my dad through an unshaven, chewing tobacco stained mouth in an attempt to hook him into trying to win my sister and me an elusive stuffed animal.  

Dads, I noticed, rarely got hooked by those taunting calls to glory.  I was in my early teen years when I discovered the probable cause of their stoic resistance. A generation before, during their own teen years, those dads had already experienced championship sucker status by winning stuffed animals for the teenage girls who stood around like modern day Maid Marions waiting for a knight to be victorious in a joust with a balloon on a dart board.  From thirteen to sixteen I collected enough of those prizes to pile and spill over the top of an old lavender painted, standup piano that was tucked in the corner of my bedroom.  Among the zoo of those adorable, stuffed, polyester faces, my favorite was a long, pink snake about ten inches in circumference and five feet long.  The Lancelot who gave it to me was a red-headed, guard on the basketball team who had won so many prizes that summer nearly every girl who knew him had a trophy in her room bearing his name.  Well, at least, mine had his name. I christened all of my animals with the name of the knight who had been their champion. Yet, as hard as those teenage boys tried to be my midway hero, their efforts paled next to my dad’s who had already trumped them before I officially had reached my teen years – and he didn’t even have to get close to a dunk tank. 

I was twelve years old the summer The Beatles made their first North American tour through 25 cities. One of the cities on the roster was Indianapolis and the venue booked for the honor was the Indiana State Fair Coliseum.  What a coup for a midwestern city surrounded by cornfields!  

That summer, my best friend, Dee Dee, and I were having our first tween celebrity crushes.  The Barbies we once enjoyed with such enthusiasm were now stored in the closet as we stopped spending our babysitting money on Barbie fashions – in Dee Dee’s case, egg money, too, since she lived on a farm – and began investing in records, Teen magazines, and Beatle comic books.  

When my dad decided to drive up to the state fair, he offered to take Dee Dee and I with him. Bewildered by our over-the-top shrieks and screams, he had to ask why we were so excited by a two-hour drive for yet another Ferris wheel.  Of course we educated him as to the importance of revering the state fair’s hallowed ground now that it was slated to host The Beatles.  However, without tickets to the concert, Dee Dee and I could only hope to sleuth out their whereabouts and maybe catch a glimpse of Paul.  We both adored Paul.  

In the car, my dad endured two hours of tween-age girl talk nearly all of which was punctuated by facts and lyrics in relation to the Fab Four.  He couldn’t even escape them by turning on the radio!  The stations were capitalizing on the British invasion by playing all of the Beatle’s hits intermingled with other artists from the UK.  My father was always a patient man, but he must have wanted to kiss the parking lot grass when he was finally free of us and our purses full of Bonne Bell. 

Old enough and responsible enough for the two of us to be set free for a short time, my dad’s instructions were to meet him later at a fair administration building at a specified hour.  Of course, Dee Dee and I left a trail of dust as we shot off first to the midway. 

While quickly blowing our small fortunes on the Scrambler, Tilt-a-Whirl, and various other machines designed to take us to the puke point and back, we were always imagining a possible sighting of one of the band. Was that Ringo under that Sombrero? Did Paul just slip into the Fun House? Were they disguised as maintenance workers so they could be moved undiscovered into the coliseum through the Hog Barn?  We peaked around corners and took advantage of the Ferris Wheel’s stop at the top to survey the scene for any unusual activity that might be going on under our hawkish surveillance. Of course, we found nothing but our own creative imaginations, but just knowing the Fab Four was close by sent subtle vibrations right through our madras tennis shoes. Something great was going to happen.  We just knew it! 

With no more cash, when our Midway time was up, we beat my dad to our rendezvous point.  As I recall, this particular admin building wasn’t much more than a wooden, converted general store.  Dee Dee and I didn’t go in.  We hung around the front porch of the building studying any truck that had a trailer big enough for four British musicians.  Only once did we break away from the spot to run around the building and check trash cans after we saw a garbage truck pulling up…just in case the trash cans might contain the boys hiding in there.  As soon as we got within five feet of the cans, the smell and the flies buzzing around told us they weren’t. 

Back on the porch, watching for my dad to walk up and greet us, we were surprised when, having just exited the building’s front door, he tapped us on our backs.     He always had a big smile on his face so we didn’t suspect anything out of the ordinary as we jerked around to find him wearing his usual happy demeanor.  Assuming we’d be trailing around with that smile for another couple of hours until it was time to leave, we were prepared to be herded off the porch toward a display of farm implements or a clogging demonstration.  Instead, he reached into his pocket and began telling us what he had been doing inside. “ You know, I’m acquainted with some of the people that run the fair so I was inside visiting with them and I mentioned how much you girls love The Beatles.  One of the guys I know opened a drawer and said he had a couple of tickets left that no one was using, so if I wanted to buy them I could.”  Dee Dee and I were holding our breath wondering if this narrative could be going in the direction we thought it might be going.  We noticed my dad was trying to dig something out of his shirt pocket as he continued, “ His tickets were for seats behind the stage but since you can still see the show…”  Then, with genuine nonchalance, unaware we were turning blue, he finally extracted two stiff pieces of paper from his pocket while saying, “Sooooo, I bought them for you …”   Whatever he said after that was lost in the piercing screams of two tweenage girls who had just been told they were going to see The Beatles.  

The concert was early and about to start so my dad hustled us to the Coliseum.  After doing his best to get us to focus on the time and place where we were to meet up with him at the concert’s end, he trusted us to enter inside with the rest of the mob.  

I have no memory of the walk to our seats, but I do remember that when we found our spots, we were ecstatic to discover we were sitting right by the press box stuffed with photographers and news cameramen.  We were in a perfect position to watch them scrambling for position to capture the “IT” shot of the day which added to the excitement of just being there. 

I haven’t a clue if an opening act even appeared that afternoon. We were surrounded by other girls about our age and busied ourselves getting to know them in between finding things to giggle or scream about. 

Being mostly female, the crowd was already screaming at a low decibel when a local DJ took the stage to introduce the Fab Four. He began with a plea, “ One minute, OK? Just one quick second.”  

Oh, man, we thought.  Who’s this guy standing between us and Paul? 

“Thanks a million for being such a great crowd.”  

We were a great crowd considering the damage we could do to this turkey if he didn’t make the introduction pretty darn fast. 

“ I, I didn’t come up through the Frank Sinatra age.  I, I think Frank is one of the greatest.  I missed the Sinatra era.”  

Was this guy really going to go on about Sinatra at a Beatles concert?  We were dying! 

“ I was right in the middle of the Elvis Presley era,” 

 ELVIS?!  Oh, please!  We don’t care! 

 “ But I have never in my life seen anything like you-know-who.  On behalf of the State Fair Board and the good guys at WIFE, may I present… THE BEATLES!!!”  That’s when repressed throats went full throttle and the screams became truly deafening.  

The Beatles took the stage and even though our seats were behind them, we thought we had lucked into some of the best in the house.  We had no obstructions to our view and were very close to them.  As they walked onto the stage grinning they made sure to turn around to wave to those of us in the back – press included, of course – and the smile I remember the most was Ringo’s.  Big, bright, and genuine, that smile burst from the stage as he flipped around greeting the crowd.  His silky hair bounced around as he took his place at the drums, and I decided that I might have to rethink my marriage plans to Paul.  However, McCartney didn’t let us down.  His friendly, energetic gait matched the charm of his grin as he turned to us in the back and stole my heart all over again with one quick wave of his hand.  George and John, more serious about gearing up with their instruments, imbedded themselves into a visual memory that I can still recall today.  John, like the dad of the group, seemed to be the one directing the action. George, to the benefit of the audience in the rear, stood back a bit, almost shy of the crowd, focused on his strings. 

As we screamed in joyful abandonment with the others present for this event, I turned to Dee Dee to grab her hands for a jump-up-and-down but found them unavailable.  She was wiping away tears that she could neither explain nor control.  “I can’t believe we’re here,” was all she could say.  “ I can’t believe I’m seeing them.” 

Yes, tractors may have been on display right outside, but in the presence of The Beatles, the farms seemed far away. 

One of the girls next to us had binoculars.  Unfortunately, they were hanging around the poor girl’s neck.  After having them grabbed by her friends to the point of choking her a few times, she generously passed them around so we could get a close up view of the musicians’ faces when they turned our way.  

The boys in the press box didn’t let us down with their antics either.  Scrambling for film, lights, and placement while they snapped away every frame they had, they seemed to be enjoying themselves as much as the audience.  Several times, Dee Dee and I were subjects for one photographer who seemed drawn to us.  Whether we were ever in anything published, I don’t know.  Doesn’t matter, that budding actress in my tween heart was thrilled to have an official camera pointed my way and I did my best to give that man every emotion I thought he might want.  He smiled so big at me and so often that I felt I succeeded.  Of course, even then I knew he just thought me a silly little girl that was an easy subject within reach, but I didn’t care.  While he took his photos I could pretend I was walking the red carpet with Paul waiting for me up ahead. 

I’m not sure how many songs they played – at the very least ten, but probably more.  The songs weren’t that long back then… an average of three minutes I suppose.  So when the concert let out, it was still light outside and we were earlier than my dad had anticipated. 

The crowd disbursed and Dee Dee and I still had some time before my dad was to pick us up.  We fell back into our sleuth mode and began brainstorming about some of the ways the guys might get secretly transported out of there.  We decided to walk around the coliseum in case we could catch them at a rear door.  A lovely woman in dress and heels wearing a press pass saw us and asked us if we had seen the concert.  She began strolling with us making notes in her notepad as we squealed out our critique of the show.  She must have been enjoying us because she told us she would be attending the Beatles press conference soon and asked if we’d like her to see if she could get us in.  Thinking aloud while she jotted notes on her pad, she mumbled something about giving her feature a nice slant if she could observe us. 

Why did cell phones have to take so long to be invented?!  I took one look at my Cinderella Timex and knew we’d have to decline.  I explained that my father was picking us up very soon and we’d best get back to the front of the building as expected.  She graciously tried to lessen our disappointment by saying that getting us admitted was kind of a log shot anyway.  Then, wished us well as we rushed back just in time to meet my dad who was at that moment driving up to get us. 

Dee Dee and I rushed him.  We threw ourselves into the front seat, unable to hold back a simultaneous, vivacious play-by-play of how amazing everything had been.  I don’t know if we actually ever mouthed the words ‘Thank You’ to him, but now that I have the experience of being a parent, I know that when your child is gushing about the awesomeness of something you’ve done for them, you just interpret that as another way of expressing gratitude.  My father seemed well pleased. 

Today, he loves being described as my hero of the hour whenever I talk about the occasion, and since entertainment history has made any Beatles concert a significant event, he knows that the gesture of those tickets left an impact reaching far beyond that one afternoon.  After all, whenever a conversation turns into a competitive what-was-your-first-concert, I can always go ‘for the win’.

As for Dee Dee, just one week ago I saw her at a mutual friend’s bridal luncheon.  I asked her how much she loved me, but before she could come up with a joking retort, I answered for her, “You love me a lot!” Then I handed her a copy of a CD that I had gotten from a friend of a friend who had somehow gotten his hands on a recording of that very same State Fair Beatles concert…..Again, Dee Dee cried. 

So, how many Five Thank Yous can I give here?  

Five Thank Yous to the State Fair for snow cones, magical moments, teenage boys with their stuffed animals, and The Beatles… Five Thank Yous to The Beatles for invading my country just when my little girl’s heart was trying on a woman’s beat… Five Thank Yous to Dee Dee for sharing and understanding the significance of our moment… and, finally, Five Thank Yous to my dad, not only for that generous gesture, but for the uncountable ways you’ve been my hero. May this one moment just serve as a symbol for all the rest.  I love you.

Granted, toward the end of August during the first couple of speechless weeks, I was busy.  I took a joy ride to Chicago and had a wonderful visit with Mandy rousting about her new neighborhood, Old Town.  The weather was sunny, people were full of Saturday smiles and a large number of those grins were crowded about the sidewalk cafes squeezing out the last days of summer.  After all, residents of the Windy City, survivors of the bitter, icy, snow encased streets of winter, appreciate the final, warm, sunny days of the season like none other.  

We had lunch outdoors at a local hotspot, spent the afternoon and early evening running around the shops, and finally, collapsed for a while at her new digs to just do some girl chatting. The night ended in the soft breeze and candlelight of an Italian restaurant’s outdoor garden while we munched on salad and shared a carafe of Chianti (or was it a red? We batted the decision around so many times I’ve now forgotten which we chose to enjoy!) – It’s not like we needed something to encourage more girl talk. Mandy has the genetic gift of conversation via both branches of her family. 

The next morning after we brunched at a popular breakfast haunt – and vowed to make my next visit less about food – we went to the Bucktown Art Fair.  Once again, only people-who-like people bumped shoulders among the white tents of the talented artisans.  Much like a Renaissance gathering, the only things a time traveler would miss from that period would be horses, flowing robes – thank God! It was around 90 city degrees – and the lutes. … I do believe we had some rock music playing somewhere though. 

By the time I managed the drive back to my own house in my small-town village, I had the mood.  My September mood. 

I don’t know if it was Mandy, the art fair, or just me, but it came a little early.  Usually, I don’t feel it until the temperature drops about ten degrees, but this year it tiptoed in around Labor Day and just settled. 

My September mood doesn’t wane morose, in fact, I can be fairly happy and active, but my five senses react as if they’ve been on a starvation diet and I have to feed them.  Smells, tastes, textures, and memories flood my energy field forcing me to take time to absorb creation rather than produce anything myself.  

September has always held the excitement of new beginnings for me. I was born in September, in the sign of Libra. Definitely, that was a beginning!  Then, of course, my childhood school days, unlike these poor kids today sweltering out registration in the middle of August, began every year the day after Labor Day in September. 

If I could capture my September mood in a series of pictures, I’d have to start with the photograph from my mother’s Ideals magazine collection.  When I was very young, she only subscribed a year or two to Ideals, an inspirational magazine of poetry and stories accompanied by beautiful illustrations, which meant I had several years to read and reread the few issues we had received. One autumn issue began with a poem printed on a full-page photograph of two children walking away from the camera down a country dirt road.  It’s obvious from the clothes, lunchbox, and apple they were either going to or coming from school.  Approximately six years old, the little girl and boy perpetually hold hands as they walk under a tunnel of trees.  Sunlight filters through the open branches still green from summer, but the scattering of a few yellow leaves on the road allude to the wink of fall. 

I used to stare at that picture, completely ignoring the poetry – I haven’t a clue today what it said – projecting all of my emotions surrounding the first days of school into those children.  The freedom to become one with the beauty of nature around them was about to be replaced by tardy bells and institutional walls, but their clasped hands symbolized the excitement of reuniting with friends lost during the summer and the possibility of a special crush that might test those very friendships.  The photographer was smart to place the children walking away, faceless at a distance. Undistracted by the little girl’s face, I could connect to her heart, and every year in September, as I thumbed through a well-worn Ideals magazine to re-bond with that picture, I knew her heart was my own. 

The past few days, on the walking trails in my town, I could smell my September mood.  While I was taking my every-other-day speed walk through the city parks, I noticed an abundance of butterflies and goldfinches dancing around me like I was Snow White in the woods of a Disney film.  As I was literally speaking to a butterfly darting right past my shoulder – at the time, being the only one on the trail, I could take such crazy-lady liberties – the sweet aroma of fall leaves dominated my senses, encouraging me to breathe it in until my lungs could hold no more.  Like a hallucinatory agent, the scent of the trail transported me back to my elementary school days and the long walks home in the late autumn afternoon, the weather still warm, but like in the Ideals picture, the leaves just starting to carpet the sidewalks in gold. If I kicked them, the fragrance would rise, so I entertained myself often by stirring up this pleasure.  The situation presented me with conflicting emotions as a child.  The trees seemed to be giving me a delightful gift, but at a cost that said good-bye.  Even though I knew spring would bring it all back again, winters seemed like a lifetime to me when I was a kid.  

So, here I am, smelling, remembering, my nerves tingling with September.  I’m serious about the tingling.  I feel like a canine who’s sensing a change in the weather but hasn’t figured out the implications quite yet. Will it be a gentle breeze or a heavy rain blessing the ground with moisture?  I feel change might be on its way, the vibe ringing positive. 

So, to the month that gave me life and to the emotions that coax me to revel in it, Five Thank Yous, my September mood.

”Honey, I think I’ll finally step outside to smoke that cigar I got when our neighbor’s son was born.”

 “ What?!  Wait!  Isn’t he like… thirty?”

“ Yeah, I thought I better enjoy it before it gets too old”

Isn’t that why it’s great to be around kids?  They give you a reason to publicly do all of the childish things you would be judged for doing on your own! 

So, Five thank yous to all of the excuses that free us from our adult programming and let us play with the child within! I hope you enjoy my story… 

Breathe the Moon by Christy Slater 

The night was quiet. Up and down the streets of the neighborhood the houses twinkled like stars as the lights in the windows were turned on and off, on and off. 

In one of the yards, a rabbit stood looking at the sky.  Two smaller rabbits hopped up to her side, then, looked up to see if they could find what held her gaze. 

“Momma,” said one of the small rabbits, “Why are you looking at the sky?” 

“Are you counting stars, Momma?” asked the second little rabbit. 

Without moving her eyes away from the sky, the mother rabbit spoke to her children.  “I’m looking at the moon,” she said.  “Look at how big and bright it is tonight.  The Big Ones living in the houses call it a ‘full moon’.  Come closer to me and I will teach you how to breathe the moon.” 

The little rabbits moved so close to their mother they could feel her warm fur.

“You can breathe the moon, Momma?  How did you learn to do that?” asked one. 

Momma rabbit sweetly looked down at her children. “One night, I heard a great voice teaching another how to do it, so now, I can teach you.  Look up at the moon.” 

The rabbits did as they were told, but even though their faces were looking up, their eyes moved to look back at their mother.  She laughed a little.  “Keep looking at the moon, now.  Not at me, O.K.?” 

“O.K.” said the rabbits in soft whispers. 

“Now, close your eyes almost shut… but not all the way.”  She could see the little rabbits trying this out.  

“Little Man,” she said to one, “close your mouth.  Your mouth doesn’t need to be open in order to close your eyes.”  The other little rabbit began to giggle. 

“Shhh, Little Lady,” said Momma rabbit, “back to what I was telling you.” 

“But Momma, how will we breathe if our mouths are closed?” asked the giggler. 

“You breathe the moon through your nose… Now faces up, look at the moon through eyes nearly shut, close your mouths, and I’ll help you see the moon come in through your nose.” 

The little rabbits became quiet again, looked back up at the moon, almost closed their eyes, and completely closed their mouths. 

“Now watch the moon and breathe in deeply through your nose.  You’ll see the light of the moon come right to you.” 

She could hear them taking in deep breaths and saw they were watching the moon.  “That’s it.  Breathe the moon, Little Man.  Breathe the moon, Little Lady.” 

As the little rabbits breathed in the night, they saw streaks of moonlight coming right up to their noses.  The light seemed to enter into their bodies and make them brighter… shinier. 

“Momma!” said Little Lady.  “I saw the moon reaching out to me!  I could see the light I was breathing in!  Did I light up?”  Her brother was still taking big breaths. 

“Did you see it, Little Man?” the mother asked.  Little Man stopped and smiled.  “I saw it, Momma.  I breathed the moon.” 

“Did he light up?” asked Little Lady. 

“Well, what do you think?” Momma asked. 

“I think I did!  But I don’t think Little Man did!” 

Momma smiled, “I didn’t see either of you light up like the lightning bugs at night, but whenever I breathe the moon, I feel like… deep inside myself…  I must be glowing … at least, for that moment.” 

“Who was it, Momma? “ asked the brother rabbit.  “Who was the great voice you heard that told you how to breathe the moon?” 

“Was it the moon that told you, Momma?  Does the moon talk?” asked Little Lady. 

“I was very small when I heard the voice in the night.  The moon was full and the weather was warm.  I was almost asleep in our burrow nest so I only got to hear the voice.  I didn’t see it.  The voice said, ‘Breathe the moon, little lady.  Breathe the moon, little man.” 

“Just like you said it to us!” said a pleased Little Lady as she bounced up and down making her ears flop in a joyful dance. 

“That’s right,” said Momma.  “Try it one more time… Breathe the moon, Little Lady.  Breathe the moon, Little Man.” 

They did, and when they were finished, Momma and her two little rabbits hopped back to their nest. 

The yard was quiet once again and filled with the bright light of the full moon. 

Moments later, the door of the house opened and one of the Big Ones walked out with two little ones beside her.  It was a mother with her son and daughter. 

“Wow,” said the daughter, “it’s so big and beautiful.” 

“It will be easy to fill up with the moon tonight!” said the son. 

“Yes, it’s a wonderful night for a full moon!” agreed the mother. 

The three of them stood together in the yard looking up at the moon. 

“OK. Let’s do it then,” said the mother putting her arms around her son and daughter.

In what must have sounded like a great voice to all of the animals asleep in the night, she said… 

“Breathe the moon, Little Lady.  Breathe the moon, Little Man.”

I love the fireworks from St. Al’s.  For me to enjoy them, no crowds, parking, shoes, or even street clothes are necessary.  From my front porch, the horizontal roofline of a house across the street forms the bottom of a sky frame that’s defined on each side by the neighbor’s tall, flanking trees. Through this border, I can see the fireworks from St. Al’s perfectly.  

I almost missed them last night!  I had taken a late bike ride in the thick summer heat and needed to soak away the salty sweat in a lukewarm shower.  As I slipped into a cotton nightgown I heard the first BOOM!  At first, I thought it was thunder coming from a predicted evening storm, but as I brushed my hair into a ponytail, the second Boom jarred my memory of the event. 

My brain flashed, “St. Al’s!!” and I rushed to the darkened porch to drink in the first visual of an effervescent, sparkling pink, champagne sky. 

I can’t imagine how I could have enjoyed the moment more.  As the promise of a rain greeted me with a breezy caress the sweet scent of shower gel mingled with the aroma of fabric softener from my nightgown.   Stretching my arms as I plopped down on the porch chair, the good feeling of owning such a clean body actually prompted me to sniff my armpit!  Now, how often does a person want to do that?!  I propped my bare feet on the little table in front of me and surveyed a silent, darkened neighborhood void of the usual lovers and dog walkers strolling by on the sidewalk.  Like me, perhaps sitting in the dark of an upstairs room or perched on a backyard lounge chair, they were all smugly enjoying this geographical advantage to the church venue.   

Every now and then, as if Zeus was directing the production, distant lightning would strike across the sky in unison to the twinkling, parasol shapes of color.  

I thought, “Wow, small town living at its best…No city lights washing out the sky… no traffic or extraneous noise to drown out the crackling sound effects…. I feel like I’m having my own private, VIP show.”  

When the fireworks ended, I rose up from my chair to turn and walk a mere three steps back into the air conditioning of my home, a smile on my face, my feet still barefoot on the floor.  

The experience jogged sensory memories of summer nights during my teen years when I didn’t appreciate the little advantages a tiny burg offers a dreamer.    

The small town I now live in is not the same one as the small town within which I grew up, but the summer sky holds the same Neptune effect when I wander out after sundown… I love that my neighbors can’t see me.  Shadowed by the shapes of the night, it’s a private moment between my spirit, heaven, and nature. 

Sometimes, I study the stars.  Sometimes, I have long talks with God.  Sometimes, I just breathe the Moon.  

(Did you know you can do that? Did you know you can breathe the Moon?  I wrote a children’s story about it -Another one as yet unpublished! – Perhaps, just for fun, I’ll share it in the next post.) 

During my teen years, I mostly talked to God during my summer visits with the night.  On clear, summer evenings, bored and full of typical, teen angst, I would wander into the darkness of the backyard and stretch out on the lawn to stare into the stars.  The sky with its depth of mystery reflected the spiritual infinity of my soul.  On those evenings, I felt more at home supine on the dewy clover than I did inside the house lit by its human domestic activity. 

My mother could be seen through the kitchen window at work at the sink, so sure of her purpose, comfortable with the elemental touch of soap, ceramic, and hot water.  I took comfort seeing her there so confident of her place in the moment’s cosmos.  

As I switched my gaze from the window, to the stars, and then back to the house, that structure dissolved into something almost foreign.  I felt like a sailor floating upon the sea of grass feeling as if I had long been absent from my home due to traveling many faraway places.  Before walking through the door and announcing my return, I was momentarily paused at anchor to ponder how everything used to be and how it might be when I go back. The home I once knew still had the appeal of steadfast familiarity, but I have changed.  Will they know me?

Descriptions of out-of-body, near-death experiences sound very similar.  The spirit hovers above its body recognizing it as its own, feeling a warmth of gratitude knowing the shell had once provided shelter. Yet, the spirit is now emotionally unattached as the body, once very important, becomes a distant vision like a landmark receding into the horizon behind a traveler moving upon his way. 

That’s how I saw my home.  I held it with deep affection, but wondered if I would ever really again fit in upon my return…. All this within fifteen minutes of strolling out the back door into the moonlight! 

During one of my meditative evenings, my mother looked up from her dishwashing to see me out under the stars.  Drying her hands as she walked to the back door, she then opened it to use her southern drawl to challenge my sanity, “ Christy!!???  What are you doing out there?”  

With the typical verbosity of a teen I replied, “Nothing.” Then returned to the sky. 

Mom guffawed over her shoulder to anyone in the vicinity who had a mind to listen, “She’s just lying out there in the dark!” Unspoken was an implied ‘silly girl’ as she shook her head with a chuckle and went back to the common sense of her chore.  To her credit, she gave me my privacy and never challenged me again about those periods of contemplation.  I suppose she remembered taking time to dream when she was a teen. 

Whether she guessed I was talking to God, I don’t know, and if you’re wondering if the conversation was one-sided, you’ll be relieved to know I didn’t hear any voices.  However, I felt a presence beyond myself, and after experiencing those evening sessions, I always felt I perceived who I was with a little more clarity even if, ironically, I seemed more mysterious to others. 

Joyfully for me, my son Sean shares this love of stargazing.  Many nights we’ve stretched out on the grass or sand under the summer sky to share our wonder about what is or might be.   The darker the night, the brighter the heavens and the more gifts we find ourselves given.  The greatest gift being a bond forged between two souls which reaches beyond that of a mother and a son. 

So, Five Thank Yous, Summer Night Skies, for your beauty, your wonder, and especially your messages whispered through the stars.  I’ve been listening.

Christy! … Christy, Christy, Bo, Bristy, Bonana, Fanna, Fo, Fristy, Fee, Fy, Mo, Mristy … Christy!

 Other than that one exception, I’ve always found it rather pleasing.      

It’s a blessing to like your name.  Dweezil Zappa didn’t like his.  According to his sister, Moon Zappa, he despised his name so much he began telling everyone to call him Rick.  Unfortunately, they liked to tease him by calling him “Rick the Dick” so he eventually resigned himself to a return to Dweezil.  I bet he had to endure “Dweezil the Weasel” after that.  (To be fair to Frank, it’s my understanding that Ian is the name on the birth certificate and Dweezil was just an anointed nickname.) 

I’m also grateful that I didn’t have the challenge of an uncool, family inherited name.  When I was in college, I dated a guy named Mike.  He introduced himself as Mike.  His friends all called him Mike.  Then, about three months after we started dating I found out his actual name was Verl, just like his father’s.  A girl dating someone “Mike” had gone to high school with unearthed this breaking news and passed it along to me.  According to her, he had tolerated his name all the way through high school, but during a party soon after graduation, he stood up, got everyone’s attention and announced, “From this day forward, I want everyone to call me MIKE.”  His friends were supportive, or didn’t care enough to argue, so they immediately dropped the Verl for the Mike.  

After finding that out, I stopped dating him.  Every time I looked at him, I could only think of one thing,  “Your name is Verl.”  It wasn’t that I couldn’t take the name.  What I couldn’t take was that during the entire time we were dating everyone knew that he had lived eighteen years of his life as Verl while I didn’t.  I felt betrayed.  I began wondering what else he might be hiding.  I dropped Mike-Verl like a slimed dog toy and ran.  So, to Shakespeare, who said, “That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” I retort, “ Well, not if that other name is Verl.”“ 

Returning to the subject of celebrity names, of course, everyone talks about Demi Moore and Bruce Willis’ choice of offspring monikers: Rumer, Scout, and Tallulah Belle. To be honest, I always thought Rumer and Scout were sort of cute. But, poor Tallulah!  She probably wishes for a nickname like Dweezil!  

On the other hand, maybe she doesn’t.  She may love her name as much as I love mine. 

I once read that our little souls hover around our parents before our birth whispering our chosen name in their ears.  Do you think Tallulah Belle did that?  Did she really hover around Demi and Bruce whispering, “ Guys, wouldn’t it be a hoot for the press if you named me Tallulah Belle? I’d love growing up with that challenge!”  If so, I thank God that I didn’t request such a public image horror. 

I like Christy, the nickname version of my formal name, Christina, which means “spiritual seeker”.  That’s apropos.  I’ve always been interested in spiritual ideas, metaphysics, the whys and the reasons.  So much so that many years ago during a counseling session I was described as being addicted to reasons … Hey, better than being addicted to crack, right?

I wonder how other Christy’s feel about their name.  I know another Christy – spelled with an “ie” at the end rather than a “y”.  When we talk on the phone we begin, “Hi! Christy? It’s Christie!” “Oh, Hi! Yes, Christie, it is Christy!”  Every time, we always take a second to giggle.  I thought we reacted that way because we both tend to be gigglers, but then the daughter of a friend of mine, whose name is Christy, called me the other day to extend an invitation to a party for her mother.  The same darn thing happened when I answered the phone. “Is this Christy? This is Christy,” (giggles). 

So, do Bob’s do that? Do Bob’s get on the phone and say, “Bob! My man! This is Bob!” “Yeah, Bob, this is Bob.” (giggle)  How about Bill’s, Jim’s, or Joe’s?  “Yo, Joe! It’s Joe!”(giggle) 

Maybe, guys just skirt the issue.  Maybe, that’s why they always call each other Man, Dude, Bro…  Or, there I go again.  Maybe, I’m just digging for another reason to explain something…Oh! Speaking of, I just thought of another reason to like my name! 

I like my name because it sounds fine in any accent.  Some names sound horrible when treated with different inflection.  Take the name Brian for example.  I don’t know anyone in the south named Brian.  That’s because in the south Brian is pronounced to sound like a plea for fiber, “Braaaaaan”.  If your name is Brian stay north of the Kentucky state border.  Yet, conversely, a name like Billy Bob or Bobby Lee sounds really cute in a southern drawl.  Move those guys to New York and how quickly they must become Bill and Bob. 

Yes, my name is fine in any accent, even the Hispanic version, Creesty, with the trilled R is pretty cool. 

On the subject of Christina, however, I’m somewhat conflicted.  While Tina or Tina Babe was my mother’s call when she was being particularly nurturing to me, Christina was always my “in trouble” name. I associate it to feelings of fight or flight from my youth.  The sound of  “CHRISTINA!”  sent my heart into a racing thump as adrenaline shot through my limbs.  I knew hard times were a comin’ when I heard that shout.  “What! What’d I do?” I’d answer from as far away as possible. 

However, as an adult, with distance between the days of  in-trouble Christina and the days of needing-a-legal-signature Christina, I became accustomed to the formal version of my name and periodically began wearing it.  I had Christina printed on all of my checks.  I did a little photography when Sean was a toddler and signed the prints with Christina.  I used Christina on children stories that were written.  

Even after all of that, I can’t say I’ve completely embraced the name.  However, I have made friends with it. Good thing, too.  In this day of corporate IT departments which set up accounts in large companies using information provided to them by human resources, we’re becoming a more formal world. For instance, currently, my company email address contains the formal version of my name.  Since many of the people only connect with me via that type of communication, I’m constantly getting greeted online with “Hi, Christina!”  I created a standard signature of Christy to go along with all of my return emails but that rarely changes behavior.  On the infrequent occasion I cross paths with these coworkers in person, they’ll continue to dub me Christina unmindful to the fact my team members are only calling me Christy.   So, I am becoming Christina more and more – feeling every bit like a promoted, corporate ranch hand that must now start wearing a tie.   

Ahhh, an epiphany of a reason just came into my mind.  …. Maybe the fact I like my name is the reason I never remember anyone else’s! 

I’ve got to hand it to Lex on this one.  He was great at remembering names.  Sometimes, I’d stumble on a childhood friend’s name and he’d be right there to fill in the blank.  Pretty impressive considering he didn’t grow up with me!  He could remember a name just through our conversations.  I’m bad at them though.  Going back to the epiphany, I think that’s because I like my name.  Since I’m not out shopping for a new one, I don’t pay any attention to others!  I can relate this to my car interests.  When I get within a year or two of needing a car, I really begin paying attention to the ones people are driving.  I can tell you which neighbor is behind the wheel of which auto.  But, as soon as I make the purchase, bye-bye to that part of my brain that’s a CarMax.  I’ll know nothing about the wheels around me until the four underneath me go flat again. 

However, that’s only the situation in brief passings.   I do believe I should try to honor the names of the people around me.  I try to pronounce them correctly, spell them correctly, and use them appropriately.  I may have to ask what that is a few times in the initial phase of the relationship, but I always let them know that I’m trying.  After all, before coming to earth, their soul went to a lot of trouble floating around their parents’ ears to get that desired name.  A good reason must exist for us to do that … I wonder what it is… 

So, Five Thank Yous to my name, the little soul who whispered it, and to the parents who listened.  I’m grateful it’s mine for whatever the reason.

Margot’s teen years were the days of Beach Blanket Bingo movies, Beach Boy hits, and Elvis gyrating on the screen in Viva Las Vegas, Hawaii, the Army and wherever else they could stick him without changing anything in those scripts but the geography. 

She was prom queen, basketball queen, fair queen, and still the other girls didn’t hate her.  Her goofy attempts to make people laugh won them over before resentment could sink in. 

As her little sister, I tried to follow the same protocol the Disney stories depicted for younger siblings.  According to those feature writers, I was supposed to be bratty, annoying, jealous, and secretly resentful -  You know, like Jan Brady when she scorched her infamous, “Marsha, Marsha, Marsha!” – but in public, I was to pretend to be supportive and sweet. However, I somehow ended up behaving the opposite…  not the bratty part, I had that down…  I mean, I voiced resentment, while in truth, I felt privileged to be her sister. 

I explored this a bit while writing a children’s story about a little girl’s day with her big sister.  I titled the story “Magic Margot” and although the story is fiction based on some fact (and still unpublished, darn it!)  I believe it captures the essence of our relationship during those initial, formative years.  In that story, the little sister tries to establish equality with her older one, but keeps falling short due to a lack of matching experience.  Just like I did, the little sister in the story fights this frustration, while at the same time, feels intriguingly drawn toward the older sibling whose years of savvy make her fun to be around.  

I can discern the very moment when my perspective changed from a narcissistic toddler, seeing Margot as just another blob moving around in my world, to a little girl relating to a big sister. 

I was probably about three or maybe four, which would make Margot eight or nine.  We were standing in front of a merchandiser’s display of paper doll, punch-out books arranged at a kid’s eye level when Margot spied the diamond of the bunch, a thick, shiny new addition to the store’s every day stock.  This was not any ordinary paper doll book full of flimsy outlines of little girls in their spanky pants underwear.  This book enticed us with the promise of a paper doll, her paper wardrobe, and her house! 

As Margot flipped the pages printed on heavy, glossy card stock, she pointed out to me the dotted outlines of the furniture and described how it included directions for punching out and assembling. She further educated me on how the other pages of the book would serve as backdrops for the various rooms once the furniture was put together.   Wow, this book housed one lucky paper doll! 

When we finally broke from the stupor crafted by the book’s enchantment, I looked up at Margot to see what her brain’s vast experience would direct her to do next. Would she lose interest? Put it back? Toss it aside?  

She did none of those things.  She turned it over to look at its back and pointed out the price to me…one dollar.  I didn’t know what one-dollar meant.  Margot did.  She knew it was more than we had. 

“I’ve got a quarter,” she softly told me in a tone of conspiracy.  “You don’t have anything.  I’ll have to save the rest so, some day, we can have this book.”  

We.  She definitely said “we”.  Margot had a plan and once it successfully unfolds, she’s sharing the bounty of this strategic scheme with me … and I hadn’t even thrown a tantrum.  

Every other day or so, Margot would magically come up with money.  How she did it, I don’t even today have a clue.  Maybe she did some little chore like taking out the trash or helping with the dishes.  Maybe she just spaced out her requests for a nickel here and there in such a way our parents wouldn’t feel tapped too often and too deeply.  She may have just plain found it on the ground.  I don’t know, but somehow she’d appear with another coin to show me.  She’d pull me into our shared bedroom, pull out a knotted handkerchief, which vaulted the loot, and explain to me the differences between the collected coins.  She’d tell me how much they amounted to and how much more she’d have to get before we could possess the bliss of the beautiful book. 

Funny, it never occurred to either of us that another little girl somewhere might be saving up for the exact purchase, and like a secret competitor planted by the producer’s in The Amazing Race, she could beat us to the goal within ten seconds of our own arrival.  But, none of that kind of thinking for us!  Margot and I were confident that what we desired would be waiting for us when we were ready. 

And, it was.  One auspicious day, Margot called me into the bedroom to announce she finally had enough money!  She opened up the knots in the handkerchief and added the quarter she had just procured through, due to the large amount, some chore I assumed must have been very unsavory.  Perhaps, it had involved cleaning up cat poop!  Was the book worth it?  Evidently, to her it was. 

I had been learning about the value of the coins through these little sessions with my sister – You won’t be surprised to learn that Margot eventually became a teacher.  The question is, how did I not become an accountant?! – This time, as Margot totaled up the money, the coins added up to ONE DOLLAR! 

 “We have it.  We have the money.  I’ll ask Daddy if he can take me to the store so I can get the book.”  She said this completely void of fanfare or joyous jumping with glee.  She had completed her goal and was now to be rewarded at the end of the mission. 

Wow, I was impressed.  My big sister had just showed me how to use desire to plan, save, and purchase, and on top of that, she was letting me, a freeloader, enjoy the windfall with her! 

 Sometime later, maybe a day, maybe two, I’m not sure, I woke from a nap to find Margot entering our bedroom with a package.  She gestured me to the floor, pulled out the One Dollar book, and threw the paper sack behind her.  We spent the rest of that afternoon in an imaginary land of carpentry and architecture as we punched out the furniture and made a home for the storybook doll.  Margot guided me in the simpler crafting of tables and bed while she handled more complicated projects like couches and chairs.  

I don’t remember much about that paper doll house beyond that day.  I’m sure it traveled our own house from room to room until landing outside during an ill-fated storm – this I conclude because my mother always claimed torrential downpours to be the reason we’d find our toys in the trash after they had mysteriously disappeared.  Utilizing her southern accent for dramatic effect, she’d lecture,  ”Why, you left it outside!  It rained during the night, so, now it’s ruined!”  … But, obviously, how we played with it isn’t as important to me now as how it symbolizes the day I became aware of my relationship to Margot. 

Of course, over the years, our gap in ages caused some strife.  I still remember waking up one morning to find that the fingernails on only my right hand had been painted bright pink. Margot tried to convince me that I had gotten up during the night and in an unconscious sleepwalking state had done it to myself.  I didn’t buy it.  I knew by her sly smile that she had done it and was trying to fool me into wondering what other creepy, crazy things I was capable of doing by the light of the moon.  So, later, I got even with her.  When our parents had friends over, I grabbed her most secretive keepsake box, which she had graffitied with the names of all the boys in her class that she thought worthy of her love, and passed it around the crowd… Told you I had the bratty thing down…. She was, of course, humiliated, but I never again found any of my body appendages decorated while I slept.  

Yet, no matter the silly, bizarre things we did to each other during our youth, my heart always travels back to the time of the paper doll house, which serves as the foundation for my connection to her.  She had been so unconditional, so generous, and so attentive to me that the impact of the impression I formed of her at that time would never be swayed by any of the sibling pranking, teasing, tattling, or arguing that followed.  

So I must say five thank yous to that paper doll house and of course, five thank yous to Margot, whose core love for her little sister taught me that the meaning of big sister is mentor, teacher, magician, and friend.

Preparing for the trip was nearly as complicated as any military maneuver.  Between notifying the newspaper boy, the milk man, the mail man, and any other man who held most of the jobs in those days, we had to shop for summer shorts and swimsuits, gather together any clothes my sister had outgrown, then I had outgrown, to give to younger cousins, and eat up all of the food stored in the fridge.  Planning to be away for nearly a month, every stitch of our wardrobe had to be washed for packing and my mom ordered us to aide her as she cleaned every inch of the house, a ritual I could never comprehend since I knew she’d just do it all over again as soon as we got back home…  I questioned her about that once and she could only explain that the thought of coming home to a house that hadn’t been cleaned disturbed her.  I equated it with the old “never leave home unless you’re wearing clean underwear just in case you get in a wreck” syndrome.  I think my mom feared that some neighbor might have to break into our home, desperate for a cup of sugar perhaps, and it was imperative that they find her home spotless.  Lord knows, they weren’t going to find any sugar because it had been eaten along with the leftovers.  I suppose, too, if suspicious activity was reported, she wanted the place to look nice for the cops. Goodness knows, no one was going to write her up for lack of tidiness! 

Finally, with the car packed, house cleaned, and cooler contents ready for ice to be added at the last possible moment, we headed for bed early to prepare for the 700-mile trip to southern Mississippi departing at the crack of dawn.  

Next to Christmas Eve, getting into bed early in order to make the morning come faster was never more embraced by two children.  My sister and I loved our visits to Grandmother’s!   

Listing all of the experiences, characters, and sensory memories of those Dixie summers would be impossible in one short mini-essay.  So, today, I’m just sharing one. 

When we arrived late in the evening, driving into the parking space next to the house, my grandmother could always be seen through the kitchen window, working at her sink, her white hair turned gold by the light bulb shining above her.  She’d look up as the headlights signaled our approach and would disappear, we knew, to reappear at the back door anxious to give us hugs and comment on our growth – in my case, additional comments sizing up my weight.  Until I was a teen, the word “plump” was usually included in the catalog of more complimentary adjectives such as sweet, pretty, taller, and full-of-sugar, which I actually was after a day of snacking on candy from the cooler.  No wonder plump had to be called out. 

Visits to Grandmother’s would not induce a change to that condition either.  After hugs, kisses and exclamations of “I’ll Swaaaaan!” – Don’t ask me what that means or where the expression originated.  I could sooner explain “Holy Mackerel” even though I have no ties with the sea. -  Grandmother’s first act as hostess would be to offer us pound cake or peach cobbler.  If the Jillian Michaels of today had visited my mother’s childhood farm, she’d want to bomb it, but not until she’d tasted the pound cake. 

Even though I was growing up in one of Mellencamps’ small towns, I felt like such a city girl when we were on that red dirt farm.  My grandmother had a few chickens and cows, which I stepped genteelly around in order to avoid their droppings of various types and sizes. 

 Of all the farm animals, my favorite was the cow.  Who wouldn’t love something with eyes so beautiful and a disposition so languid?  Plus, they produced the cream – wonderful, organic, pure, grass-fed cow cream.  

One taste of that stuff and I was learning how to milk the cow.  

My grandmother milked them every day for her family’s self-sustaining dairy products.  She made fabulous butter, chilled the milk for drinking (City girl had a hard time with that.  I was used to the grocery store brands of pasteurized chalk water.), oh, and did I mention the cream?  

One summer, when I was approximately eight or nine years old, I was particularly drawn to the allure of the sights and sounds of that farm.  I could hear my grandmother getting up at sunrise while everyone else snoozed in their beds, so I jumped up to join her tagging along like her shadow for the day.  

How can I convey the sensory experience of that morning? The farm was on a ridge with Grandmother’s kitchen window facing east.  No wonder she got up early every morning!  The first thing she did was make coffee while watching the sun climb in the sky over pine trees that sloped gently down a hill into the nearest city six miles away. Man, I loved that view!  I can’t tell you how many times I wanted to take a wild run and propel myself into flight over the pinewood treetops toward the sun.  At night, with the sun in the other direction, the sky would reflect shades of orange and pink that tugged at my romantic heart when I was a teen full of wanderlust and dreams.    I still equate that kitchen view to a magic concoction meant to vivify any soul gazing into it.   

Adding to this visual aubade was the smell of breakfast punctuated by coffee.  Sausage, bacon, pancakes, eggs, toast, cereal… whatever we wanted…. And I wanted coffee. Coffee with cream. 

 Being a stimulant, coffee was not offered to children in the north. Tea was acceptable, coffee a no-no.   Grandmothers live by different rules.  On that first morning, when I asked for coffee, coffee was granted…  I think we have Grandmothers in our lives to program the receiving part of our brain.  “Ask and ye shall receive” was never more practiced by a child than in the presence of a grandmother – at least in the presence of mine. 

“I’m giving this to you under one condition,” she said as she swirled that cream into the black coffee making it look like a miniature rendition of the Milky Way – from that day forward, I always assumed the astronomers who coined that title for our universe must have been drinking coffee with fresh cream – “ You have to tell your mother about the coffee… after you leave.” 

After I leave? Sure, I could handle that!  I nodded my acceptance of the deal in lieu of a handshake since I was carefully managing a two-handed maneuver of the saucer and steaming cup I’d just been handed to the kitchen table.  Grandmother gave me a spoon so I could stir the Milky Way into a gourmet, caramel-colored coffee delight. Then, I took my first sip.  

I suppose my mother wondered at my energy level every morning of that summer’s visit, and wondered even more why I crashed every afternoon having given up naptime years before.   No matter, she’d find out soon enough.  I was an honorable child.  I had every intention of keeping my word to my Grandmother. (And actually did a few weeks later when we were on the way home.) 

Those mornings continued non-stop that standout summer.  I learned the secret to making butter with an electric mixer, filtering fresh cow milk through clean cheesecloth into glass mixing bowls, which were then covered by a large dinner plate to let the cream rise to the top.  I learned how to sing Mairzy Doats and Three Little Fishies… Boop Boop Dittem Dattem Wattem, Shooooo!… and helped chase Old Bess, the cow, back into the barn when she got out, twice. I chatted with my Grandmother about whatever fell out of our heads or our hearts as we sipped our creamy coffee and munched on buttered toast. I learned she had been proposed to by a dentist but turned him down to marry my grandfather and live in the country.  The dentist, indignant at her decision, was heard to say, “Guess she’d rather run barefoot than live in style.”  Stupid dentist, of course, she would.  So would I…. As a matter of fact, I’m not wearing shoes, socks, or showing any sense of style as I’m writing this! 

No, not true.  Like me, my Grandmother enjoyed style to whatever her life afforded her and she would put on shoes for propriety or when necessary for safe perambulating (Come on! I just learned that word and was itching to use it!).  Style is a personal choice and my grandmother chose what was best for her.  

She lived into her nineties and died ready for a sip of her milk, which accompanied a sandwich.  I didn’t make it to her funeral.  Divorced by that time, the role of working, single mom proved too much for traveling that far, but I stepped outside after I got the call and thought about that summer.  It was the only one I really spent focusing on her life and sharing a daily bonding.  I felt like I knew her, and the part of her that I reflected.  

I’m not a grandmother, but if I ever become one, nearby is an organic dairy with delicious milk products.  I just know that one morning, when it’s just the two of us, my grandchild and me, I’ll brew up the coffee and I’ll say, “ You can have this on one condition… you tell your mother after you leave.” 

For your love, as rich and pure as your cream, and the wisdom imparted over those sunrise coffees, five thank yous Darling Grandmother, I hope you’re running barefoot in heaven!