The Truth in the Cover

 

I miss my mom. Sunday is going to be so very hard. Harder than Christmas. Harder than my birthday. The obligatory mother/daughter pictures are going up on Facebook and, for a second, I thought about just updating my profile picture to Carrie and Debbie and calling it a day, but that ignores the fact that I AM still here and I DO have two beautiful little beings I call mine. So, I started looking through last year's Mother's Day pictures. In May of 2016, I feared it would be Mom's last. I was in deep denial, but deep down, I knew what was coming. She felt really well then and I hoped beyond hope, but, still, my heart pumped with fear.

And I desperately needed pictures of us all. One last time.
 

My children were not cooperating, especially Sadie, who has no time for the camera. I just wanted a picture of the four of us. Just one. I needed it. What if this was the last chance?
 

In looking for a cover picture for Facebook, I found this one. It tells the true story of the four of us. Not of Mom and I because we are, as she said, "connected by a heartstring that wraps the moon and back." But the four of us. There is now a chasm that will divide us into eternity.

Charlotte is Mom's. I make no excuses or qualms about it. Mum and Papa pretty much raised her from the time she was born until she went to Kindergarten. Charlotte stayed in Elizabeth City 4 days a week sometimes. I was a part time mommy. We got to be part time parents with date nights! And Mom wanted it that way. She taught Charlotte ABCs and took her to Preschool while we worked and knew that all was right with the world.

But Sadie. Sadie doesn't get Mum. She doesn't get to be hers. She gets me. I am her play school. I am her sick days. I had to slap back into the real world with most moms and mom. And I am not angry about that fact. I embrace it. 

I am fortunate in that I have a mother-in-law to "grandmaw" Sadie and a babysitter who is beyond wonderful to help us while we are at work. And all that Sadie will know is that she has loving parents, and many grandparents who love her.

But it's what she is missing, what we are all missing. MY mother. HER extraordinary being. I will feel that emptiness every time I pick up the phone to call Mom and tell her Sadie counted to ten or that Charlotte got to say the pledge on the morning announcements.   

And the future. I'm not ready to think too far yet.

But what I fear the most on this Mother's Day, when all is said and done, is that even Charlotte won't remember her enough. Sadie won't at all. They still talk about her fondly and I can only hope they they don't stop. I know I won't stop. And hopefully they will remember how she made them feel. Spoiled.  And loved beyond space and time.

Popcorn with Jesus: Part Two

 

Imagine this sweet child with a hot mess of popcorn massacre all over those perfectly edged bangs.

One of the more prolific memories of my life is the one where I bit my tongue off.

 

I don't know whether I actually remember it or if, because I have heard it a million times, I think I remember  it. I was probably only three or four, but I've heard this story so many times, it's like I was there...

 

My dad always got one of those giant popcorn tins from my Uncle Jack every Christmas. The ones with the three sections: one with caramel covered popcorn, one with cheese covered popcorn, and one with buttered popcorn. I don't know if Grease was on again and I needed to dance like Sandy in painted on black lycra, or if Michael Jackson had just told me it was "Thriller  Night," but I wanted to dance on top of that popcorn tin. Mom, of course, had told Daddy not to let me get on the tin as I was clumsy and it was small, but since she was in the other room and he thought it was hilarious, I, of course, got up on that tin and danced like Michael Jackson at Rydell High.

 

Then I slipped.

Blood went everywhere.

There were blood curdling screams.

 

Maybe it was the curdling (not sure exactly what that is), but Mom came running in, grabbed my face with both her hands, wrenched opened my mouth and gasped. All she saw were pieces of a gnarled up tongue covered in blood. Frantically, she scavenged the floor searching for the other piece of tongue I had bitten off. Scowling at my father, she screamed to get me in the car so they could hurry to the hospital.

 

"But... the tongue!" My dad stood agape, pointing at the floor. 

 

My teenage brother Brooks was in the shower while the popcorn tin dance party was going on, so all he heard was a muffled, "Call Grandma! We have to take Keeley to the hospital!" through the running water.

 

They loaded me up into the Green Bronco and sped toward Albemarle Hospital. It was only about 5 miles from the house, but Daddy was going so fast that the blue lights were soon behind him.
After explaining that his daughter had bitten off her tongue to the very sympathetic cop, we received a police escort to the hospital like we were royalty or the president. It was quite the production up Road Street onto 17 North. 

 

Mom had been holding a rag over my mouth to soak up the blood, and I'm sure I was somewhere between pain and shock, but about the time we pulled into the emergency room loop, I leaned over and looked at my mom and said, "What's going on?"

 

Now, everyone knows you can't talk without a tongue, so I imagine Mom and Daddy were somewhere between relief and embarrassment at this point because they still had to physically get out of the car, thank the cop, and tell the doctor waiting for us with a gurney that those bloody popcorn kernels in my mouth were what appeared to be gnarled tongue bits...so sorry...

 

So, when Sadie said Mum and Grandaddy were in heaven with Jesus eating popcorn the other night, the fact that I had somehow suppressed this memory must have had them throwing angelic popcorn at my head.

This kid is ready to hand jive or moonwalk on a Sit-N-Spin or a popcorn tin!  

 

Popcorn with Jesus

For years there have been signs. Grandma played the organ for me after she died. Francine showed up on fiery angel wings at the beach. And to this day, Daddy talks to me through this Melissa and Doug toy. Seriously. You know, the ones that when you put the animal back in its shape hole it makes an animal noise back at you. Yes, that annoying thing. Well, after Daddy died, this toy meowed, barked and growled at me whenever I walked by. And no one had been touching it for hours. Whenever I would get neighed at, after I had a mini-heart attack, I always said, "Hey, Daddy." I know, sounds insane and a bit of a stretch. Like stepping on a Lego and seeing God, but I even told myself I was crazy and put the thing in the garage to take to Goodwill. Well, that toy randomly started meowing at me from under a load of other clothes a few days ago, and I'm not trying to mess with the universe at this time, so I dug through about six bags of clothes, shoes, games, and crap until that damn cat stopped meowing at me. 

Popcorn and Raisinets, that was our secret treat. Anytime Daddy and I would go to the movies, we got popcorn and Raisinets and mixed them together in the popcorn bucket. The salty popcorn perfectly paired with the melting chocolate and chewy raisins. We always ate that and drank a giant "Suicide" or a little of every single soft drink: Sprite, Coke, Dr. Pepper, whatever was in the drink line-up, we got. So, popcorn was essential on all Daddy/Daughter movie dates, but also on Sunday nights when I had my standing date at my dad's house. Sunday was our special night and Daddy would pop popcorn and drench it in butter that had been melted in the microwave. I realize this sounds like we were just fatties with heart attacks right around the bend, but hot butter and "suicides" aside, we were relatively healthy humans. I speak of popcorn because this evening, while putting Sadie to sleep, that animal toy cock-a-doodle-doo'ed at me and I said, "Say hello to Granddaddy." She did, then she grabbed my face and said, "Are you sad, Mommy?" I told her yes, I missed Mum and my daddy, her granddaddy whom she has never met. She just sighed and said, "But they're eating popcorn and they have popcorn in their teeth." Then she talked about how Jesus was with Mum. Now, I have never told Sadie anything about my dad and popcorn, nor have we eaten any popcorn at any point recently, but she sure saw my daddy eating some. And apparently with Mum and with Jesus. I mean, I can get behind that image, my parents...together...eating popcorn...with Jesus.

Lady in Red

My mother never wore red. She said it looked terrible on her, but in my dreams she has worn it twice in two of my most vivid dreams of her.

For awhile after she died, I begged God to let her talk to me and cussed Him that He wouldn't give her back to me. Just something, anything, a sign or a dream. But nothing. Sometimes I'd just be alone in my car yelling at her that she hadn't sent me a message yet. Angry, sobbing screams that Heaven had better hear.

But then, finally, I had this very long convoluted dream where she and Jim ended up picking me up from somewhere or other (this was a common occurrence as Mom ALWAYS picked me up when I had been out on the town).  Anyway, at the end of the dream she came walking up to me in this red shirt smiling from ear to ear and hugged me. I FINALLY got to hug my mama. And she was so happy and looked so beautiful. Her long, wavy, dyed Judy hair, jeans, high wedges (as she hated being short), and a bright red top.

Then, about a week ago, I had this dream where she was, yet again, wearing a red top and jeans, but this time she was dancing and laughing. On the front porch of her house. On what looked like diamonds and pearls. But she just kept telling me to get off the phone and dance with her. Why the hell I was on the phone instead of dancing with my mama is beyond me. There is a deep psychological issue there, I'm sure, but the vivacious dancing and laughter and happiness was so palpable that I felt it when I woke up. And yet again, I felt and knew she was so happy. And anyone who knew her knew she was a wonderful dancer and loved doing it!

As an English teacher, I love teaching archetypes and so did she. Red is an archetype for passion and love. So I guess her message is pretty clear.

But my message to that lady in red is that she was so wrong about looking terrible in red. She has never looked better.

Growls and Giggles

I never had a sister. I don't remember especially wanting one actually. I vaguely recall being slightly bummed when I found out Beau would be a boy instead of a girl, but that disappointment quickly disapated since I very much liked being queen bee.

So when I say I have no frame of reference in which to deal with the craziness that is my two girl children, I mean it in more ways than one. I never had a sister, so that squealing and picking relationship is one that I have no idea how to wage war against. The warriors are out maneuvering me. Also, my brothers and I are ten years apart so there was never any of the squealery or jealousy or tattling that goes on in this particular seige. My step brother and I are the same age, but other than silly fart jokes, elbows in the backseat, and a general mope-face glare at each other from when we were fourteen until about nineteen, we were delightful together. So...no idea.

As wonderful and inspiring as my mother was, she had little advice for me in this battle as she was the mom to two children who were neither the same sex nor anywhere close to the same age. And as crazy as they are around me in an effort to gain MY attention, they were little gremlins for her attention as the one who won Mum got the end all be all of the spoils of war!

Sadie is almost three and Charlotte is six. This past year they have fought 80% of the time they breathed, but things are starting to change. They are starting to play together. And the friendship that is emerging is one that makes me understand the value of sisterhood. Charlotte and Sadie will share this journey as they grow, carrying all of us with them in their collective memory.

Every hug and sweet moment just warms my heart, and I will continue to hold my breath until the giggles outweigh the growls.

Hitting Home

I love cemeteries. Seems strange, but true. They're so peaceful and beautiful to me. I used to love to go out to Westlawn and turn all the flowers and flower pots back over that had fallen down. When I lived in the mountains, they had this yearly celebration called "decoration" where all the families would come to the cemetery where their spouses, parents, grandparents and great grandparents were buried in order to put new flowers on all the graves at the same time. It was a magnificent, colorful, poetic place.

A few weeks ago Mom's stone marker finally was put in, so last weekend we went to see it. She and my grandmother were both cremated as they "didn't need anyone seeing them" in that state. I fully agree as seeing my father "in that state" was just God awful. So, my Aunt Debby, Brooks, and I got Mom a plaque to go right next to Grandma's in our family's burial plot out at Westlawn. Yeah...we're high falootin'. We have a whole spread. Crazy Uncle Henry, my Great Great Grandfather Trannie (yes, that was his name), his wife Annie and her daughter Susie (both of whom he married). It's a whole thing. Don't judge me. You have a crazy family too.

Anyway,  we went out to see the stone. It's exactly what we wanted. And it solidifies her death, which is just gut wrenching. Seeing her birthday and her death date made it real and tangible, and I would have lost it in that moment, but then my Sadie took off. She ran around 50 other graves, almost into the gravel road while I screamed for her to stop. Through Joneses and McPhersons, Jollies and Stallings, Listers and Cranks, I chased her. I'm so sorry for stepping on so many people's graves. In the past, they felt it, I suppose.

We eventually made it over to Daddy's grave. And that makes me want to crumble too, but I was with my people at a happy place, so I was ok. My daddy loved the poem "Do not stand at my grave and weep. I am not there, I do not sleep." This is why I love those "resting" places. Those that we love are not there, but sweet memories are. They do not sleep.

"Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die."

Yeah...about that

Ok, so it's February. I have blogged once, run twice, and gone to church thrice, but who's judging? I would be judgy about anyone using "thrice" in a sentence in 2017, but I have to even out the cussing with the fancy talk somehow. So the New Years Resolutions have gone down like a drunk girl on Spring Break. I HAVE done a better job on the 4th resolution in that I try to put my damn phone up once in awhile and actually put feet (and butt) on the ground and play with my kids. Today we walked 2.5 miles through some woods. Then Charlotte and I went and got our nails done with some delightful people at the salon. I mean, who doesn't like hanging out and telling disgusting inspirational birthing stories with complete strangers? There is nothing that brings rando women together like discussing popping out babies with all the colorful language that acompanies the pain, rips, tears and stitches that these sweet children gave us. God bless.

Look at this artistic picture. She was about to run away from us into the nature behind her, but it sure looks pretty.