Praise the Lord!

Meagan and Greg in 1982--our first year in Reidsville, NC.

Her exact words were "Praise the Lord--we have an ice maker!"

Who can blame the delivery guy for raising his eyebrows at me and asking where we went to church.

We'd lived in North Carolina for five years by then, so you might think that I was used to that question. But since we'd left the tiny town of Reidsville (pronounced Rades-vull) for the thriving metropolis of Greensboro, it hadn't come up quite as often. For that first year, though, whew! I wasn't sure what to think...

I was charmed by "Southerners" from our first neighborly contact. Now the folks in Michigan are fine, friendly folks, but we'd grown up with them. They were family. Being in North Carolina--at least for the first little while--felt like being "company."

Our neighbors were lovely. They didn't waste any time in making us feel welcome, bringing cookies and proffering dinner invitations. And they were eager to suggest preschools, realtors, doctors and shopping outlets (the likes of which Michigan hadn't seen at the time.) They told us where we could pick strawberries, go running, play tennis or swim in a pool. (The YMCA had it all, including new friends with common interests). And churches. They all invited us to their churches--even the guys who helped us wheel our groceries out to the car. They'd ask, "Have y'all found a church yet? I go to......You should come this Sunday." I was not bothered by the question--just surprised that it was one of the first things that people offered. I was charmed.

Soon, though, it started to feel like we didn't quite fit our new place. We would never be them. It was probably our own fault, but we had a vague feeling that we were other. We realized what we'd been missing the night we made the half-hour drive to Greensboro for dinner and a movie. Bigger city, more people, more kinds of people. Yankees!

Thirty-two years later Greensboro is still home. It's where our son was born, where both kids grew up and where we've made lifelong friends. There are plenty of charming Southerners here--some of my best friends, in fact. But lots of other people from lots of other places. We like it here.

But we liked Reidsville, too. I was taken back there the day we got our new refrigerator.

I had kept Meagan home from school, planning to drive her there when I went to work. We would both be a little late, in order to accommodate the morning delivery. The guy was prompt and efficient. And he had one of those "country" accents that I love. He explained all the things I would need to know about our new appliance, including--opening the freezer door--Ta-Daaa--the ice maker. (I swear there was a fanfare.)

That was when Meagan delivered her line...

"Praise the Lord--we have an ice maker!"

I like to think the man was praying for our heathen souls as got into his van and drove away.

On the Train from Prague: A Guest Blog

This was written by My Awesome Friend Sue Fannin, as she travels around Europe with her husband, Mike...

I'm going to start out by saying that I will not do this story justice.

On the train ride home today from Prague, we sat down in the section (each car has approximately 15 or so sections that can seat 8 and the door can close). There were already two other people in there, a younger guy from Arizona just traveling around and a young woman who didn't speak at all.

After the second stop a very young couple joined us. Both very nicely dressed, her in a pretty lace dress and heels and he had on a suit without a tie. After about 10 minutes the young man in the suit started sweating. Shortly thereafter he sprayed himself with cologne, shortly after that he took off his suit coat, and his shirt was nearly halfway wet with sweat. Within about five more minutes his entire shirt was dripping wet. He stood in the hallway for quite sometime to cool off. I felt so bad for him, ya know, us ladies of a certain age, been there done that! Eventually his girlfriend started getting overheated also, so left to go to the water closet and sprayed herself with cologne also. In my mind they were a young couple in love running away from parents who didn't want them together. The perspiration was nerves. I don't know their story but I do like mine.

The guy from Arizona got off, then the single woman and finally the young couple and Mike and I were alone...for about 4 minutes. Next thing we know four Czech women come in and sit down, they were laughing and enjoying their adventure. They were younger than us but not by much, they were with some teenagers that were spread out in other sections of our car. The ladies didn't speak English and of course to say we aren't fluent in Czech is an understatement. Mike and I are saying hello and trying to communicate, next thing we know the woman sitting next to Mike offers us a drink from her bottle (see picture) and we say no, no. A moment later another woman pulls out 2 shot glasses and they fill them and again offer them to us. Not to appear rude, I took a shot and drank it (Josh Poole, you would have been so proud of me!), man that shit had a kick that burned like crazy. Mike followed suit and next thing we know the women are giving us the bottle as a gift, after refilling it from their water bottle. Mike said that it was Plum Brandy, I don't know about that but the rest of the train ride was great! What a wonderful country!!!


What I take away from this story: (1) Plum Brandy is the universal language of friendship, and (2) sweating profusely causes people to make up stories about you. Thanks, Sue--enjoy the rest of your trip!

Promptly

So I am still compulsively trying to write my way through the hundreds of prompts in my Escaping Into The Open book. I find most of them ridiculous, yet still, I persist. Compulsively.

This morning, after describing a feather, a diamond bracelet and a note that I had supposedly found in an old jewelry box in the back of a closet, I decided I might as well come up with my own list of prompts. Here you go...

1. You are creeping around your neighbor's house in the middle of the night, peering into their windows. Describe what you see.

2. Use these three words in a paragraph: crisp, bacon and delicious.

3. You are visiting a friend. When she leaves the room, her dog starts licking your legs. What do you do?

4. You are visiting a different friend. When she leaves the room, her husband starts licking your legs. What do you do?

5. As a joke, you fill your husband's car with water balloons. Describe what you think is going to happen when he leaves for work in the morning.

6. Describe the sandwich you are eating without using real words.

7. Write a story or poem using these words: octogenarian, buckshot and chimpanzee.

8. You are shopping for underwear when a woman asks you to hold her purse open so she can fill it with packages of socks and panties. You suspect that she has no intention of paying for these items. What do you do?

9. You go to a Halloween party disguised as your favorite piece of furniture. What are you wearing?

10. Use these three words in a paragraph: basket, percent and deplorable.

There. That should be enough to get you started.

You Probably Had To Be There

After my sister, Melissa, had her kids, the logistics of traveling from Michigan to North Carolina seemed insurmountable. Our time together was mostly crammed into a few days every summer, when we would travel north. But she managed a few trips. One was in 2003, when she and Alex and Avery packed an enormous amount of stuff into my dad's red van and let him drive them through the mountains to Greensboro.

Her memories of that road trip are not what I want to share here.

I have a memory from that visit that still makes me laugh out loud, even though it will probably seem ridiculous to you. But that's one of the best parts about having a sister--sharing laughter that no one else can understand.

One evening we went to Target. I'm sure we had a good reason, and it wasn't that Target, as wonderful as it is, was one of the top tourist attractions in our town.

Have you ever gotten the giggles when you're in the store--you know, when the laughter itself is a drug that you just can't quit? Well, we were walking through the aisles, cracking ourselves up over everything we saw. Buzzing through "Women's Shoes," I spotted two pairs of identical white rubber slides--the kind you just slide your feet into. They were like flipflops without the thing between the toes. Instead, they had a wide band over the instep. The bands on these slides were clear plastic. They were ridiculous and they were awesome. "Look," I said. "We need these!"

Once we got home, we couldn't wait to model our new shoes. We both had the same idea...How funny it would be if we tripped around the house with the elastic thread holding them together still attached. We were hysterical, and our laughter was entirely appropriate. "I'm going to keep the elastic on mine forever!" we declared.

And we did. For a while. A short time later, as we sat in the kitchen playing games with the kids, Missy got a pair of scissors, crawled under the table and cut the elastic between my feet. We laughed until we both had tears. I'm sure the kids had no idea what was so funny, but they were delighted to see us enjoying ourselves so immensely. It was a moment I never want to forget. I wish I had a picture of those crazy shoes. I wish I'd kept the shoes. I'm thankful that I've kept the memory.

For a Little While

With my sister, Melissa, 1991.



At least we had you for a little while,

Like Max said about his balloon when it floated up into the clouds.

Remember? He always had such a good attitude.

Karen and I were talking this morning about how much we all still miss you--

Especially today, on your birthday.

A friend recently told me that your loved ones don't show up in your dreams until you're through mourning them.

I believe that's true. Neither Karen nor I have dreamed of you. It still hurts too much to know you're not here.

Life goes on, and there are plenty of things that bring us joy.

But saying "At least we had her for a little while," doesn't ring true.

You're not a balloon. You're our sister--our baby sister--and no amount of time with you is enough.

When I woke up today, I thought I might write a blog that wouldn't make me cry, but I can't.

I have many memories of you that make laugh. Most of them, in fact.

As we all confessed after you died--you were everybody's favorite.

You were the smartest, strongest, most tenacious kid Mom and Dad had--and by far the funniest (well, except for maybe Jason)!

But I can't get the the funniness out of my head and put it somewhere where it can be read by others.

Instead, I just hear a small voice inside saying, She should still be here.

Forgive us if this is not the way we're supposed to feel.

I haven't got it in me to say "I know she's in a better place now," although I'm trying.

Well, I can say it--I have said it.

I just can't feel it. Not yet.

Happy Birthday, Missy. We love you forever.

Woebegone: An Acrostic Poem For Our Time

Wracked with anxiety,

Only seeing the negative aspects of the world in which she lives,

Everything has the power to steal her serenity.

Because she gets her news from right-slanting media outlets--Fox News--

Eventually, she comes to believe all signs are pointing to The End.

Going into hiding to escape her terrifying "reality,"

Overcome with hopelessness, she turns to The Hallmark Channel, saying it helps.

Not really, though.

Evidence is in the way her hand trembles as she pours the wine.

My Untold Story

Since last week. the media has been rife with stories of sexual assault victims coming forth with information that is sure to be--finally--the beginning of the end for a certain presidential candidate. Amidst speculation as to why these women waited until just a few weeks before the election to tell their stories (some of the incidents took place more than a decade ago), there have been accusations that their stories must be false, since they didn't share them immediately. It was infuriating to hear the candidate say that these were "horrible, horrible lies," and claim that "Believe me--she would be not be my first choice." As if victims were required to meet certain standards of beauty.

Why did they wait? Why didn't they rush to tell their stories? Surely someone who has been shamefully mistreated by a powerful celebrity should be eager to defend herself against accusations that she's a liar--and worse.

It got me to thinking...

While nothing as horrible as Donald Trump has ever happened to me, I do have a story about a creepy incident that took place 45 years ago. I hardly ever think about it anymore, but when I do, the images in my mind are as vivid as when it first happened. The only other person who knows is My Awesome Husband Greg, who was My Awesome Boyfriend at the time. The reason we never told anyone else was that we were ashamed of our shared naivete.

I was 18, and I was asked if I would like to do some modeling for a photographer that Greg had met through the college theater group he was in. Flattered, I said yes. I was to bring my own clothes, but was given guidelines--mostly casual, sporty clothes, including a bathing suit, and one nice dress. Greg dropped me off at the guy's studio. The photographer said he would drive me to the theater when we were done.

Sounds like the makings of a cheap horror movie now, doesn't it?

My shyness made me awkward, and although no one else was there, I was unable to relax in front of the camera. I could tell the guy was pissed, but he stuck it out. I felt sorry for him because I was wasting his time. I wanted nothing more than for Greg to pop in and say, "Hey, I just happened to be in the neighborhood..."

Finally, we were finished. The room where I had been changing was a tiny cubbyhole at one end of the studio, but at least it had a door that locked. As I was buttoning my blouse, getting ready to leave, I heard a noise. Looking up, I noticed, just above my head, a knothole the size of an eye--with an eye in it! Always a quick thinker with a ready remark, I said, "Hey--get away from there!" He moved away from the peephole and I packed my things in my tote bag, wondering what I should do or say next. Wanting to be prepared, I kept one of my wooden clogs in my hand,in case I needed a weapon.

Not a word was said on the way to the theater. (I'm sure he was intimidated by my wooden shoe.) I told Greg, who was furious, and felt responsible because he had arranged the "shoot." I felt dirty and stupid and wanted my mom and dad to never find out.

Through the years, I've thought of many alternate endings for my story, none of them as anticlimactic as the actual one. As it is, my embarrassment is nothing compared to the shame and humiliation those women must have felt--and still feel. I understand why they would hesitate to share their stories. I am grateful that they have shared them, and hope they feel proud of themselves, and will not be further shamed by that predator/bully.

I still cringe when I remember that day, but I entertained myself by writing about it. Thank you for "listening."

School Bus

'Tis the season of the bus.

I hear them every morning. The first one stops in front of my house at 5:45 to pick up Jordyn. Hearing the lumbering yellow machine screech to a stop--apparently squeaky brakes are standard equipment--its engine idling loudly, seeing the red warning lights come on and watching Jordyn disappear into its dark interior takes me back...

When I was older, I looked forward to the social opportunities being a bus kid afforded me. The chance to really experience the changing of the Michigan seasons as we awaited its arrival, sometimes excruciatingly. The thrill of being entertained by the kids who thrived on entertaining--like my son, who was suspended from riding for a week when he was in first grade because the kids laughed when he jumped up out of his seat with every bump. He enjoyed their laughter so much, he couldn't stop, even when the driver told him to knock it off. Yes, I would have been one of the ones laughing.

But in the beginning, my stomach churned with anxiety as I said goodbye to my family and climbed aboard that big yellow monster. I'm sure I saw myself as a sort of "bus pioneer," forging a trail for my younger siblings, who, in a couple of years, would be able to ride fearlessly because of my presence.

Back then, all grades rode together, first through twelfth, and I was enormously intimidated by the "big kids," who seemed so large and in charge. I don't know what I thought they would do to me, a nearly invisible first-grader, but my fear was real. Mom appointed one of the older boys in the neighborhood to be my guardian bus angel. Thankfully, he was there the day I needed him.

That afternoon I was riding quietly in my seat, being the quintessential rule-follower, when a boy behind me decided to place his chewed up wad of bubble gum right on top of my pony tail. Feeling something, I put my hand up, and came away with a sticky pink mess stringing from my fingers. Billy had seen it happen, and he sprang into action on my behalf. Other kids were laughing, but Super Bill (as I like to imagine him now, his shiny blue cape flapping in the breeze from the open windows) yanked the clod out of his seat and hit him right in the face. Amazingly, the bus driver acted like he hadn't seen a thing in that big rearview mirror he was always looking into.

When I got home, our elderly babysitter took it upon herself to cut the chunk out of my hair with Mom's sewing scissors, leaving me with a patch of short prickly stubble right in the middle of my head. Mom probably had to buy new scissors. I don't remember if the thug ever rode the bus again. My hair grew back, of course, and I grew up and out of my fears. I take comfort in knowing that while many things have changed since my youth, school buses are are still much the same.

Words

The candidate is both offensive and defensive.

He is reactionary and cautionary,

Reprehensible and indefensible,

Obstreperous and obtuse.

He is vainglorious, vituperative, volatile and vengeful.

We must not allow him to also become victorious.

Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep

I know I've mentioned here before the book I have by Elizabeth Berg that contains 30-some pages of writing prompts, and that being the compulsive person that I am, I had assigned myself the task of completing each of them, no matter how ridiculous I found the topic--for example, the one that suggested that if I am a woman, I should write about what it's like to have a small penis...

I've been faithful to my assignment for the better part of a year now. I've filled an entire spiral-bound notebook and half of another with handwriting that my husband claims looks like "Old English." I don't know what that is, exactly, but I think it means my writing is difficult to read. That has made me fearless about leaving my notebook on the table; no one will be able to read what I've scrawled there, so I can write openly. Which, by the way, is the title of the book--Escaping Into The Open.

At first glance, I thought today's prompt was another silly one: You are a 14-year-old leaving a will. What do you leave to whom? Just wanting to get it over with so I could move onto other things like Netflix and facebook, I pictured myself when I was 14. In the spirit of silliness with which I had read the prompt, I began with the words of the children's prayer...

Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I die before I wake...

I thought of what I had to bequeath at 14, and decided to leave all of my clothes to my sister, Karen, and my jewelry and hair accessories to Bev. I gave them permission to share with each other. That seemed fair to me. I had lots of clothes, but few things they would actually want. The only jewelry I remember owning at that age was a ring that had been made from either a nut or bolt--the thing that fits around a screw to keep it secure--and dozens of pairs of flowery little earrings that I had purchased with my allowance at a dollar a pair.

I entrusted my precious Madame Alexander doll to Melissa because Bev and Karen had set out to destroy her--the doll, not Melissa--years earlier by dropping her from the top bunk and hammering her face with a red wooden pencil. That left only Mark--Jason wouldn't become one of us for another five years. Although I don't remember any specifically, I'm sure I must have had some stuffed animals I could leave my little brother.

But wait--something for Mom and Dad!

Mom could have all the stuff I'd written, because she always made me feel like she was proud of me. But she was to let Dad read it whenever he wanted to. Dad, of course, got all my books, because he was the one who read to us the most when we were little.

I ended the assignment by saying that I really hoped I wouldn't die in my sleep, but that I would live for a long time to come so that I would have better stuff to leave them.

Well, I have indeed lived for a long time to come. But I have the same things now that I had then--different clothes, of course, and more jewelry. But I still have the handmade ring. I have stuffed animals now, but they're from my mom's collection of teddy bears. And I still have that Madam Alexander Cissy doll with the cracked leg and the red-spotted face. Somewhere there is even a box of stories and paragraphs and essays that I wrote in school.

Among my most cherished belongings are six volumes of an eight-volume set of books that belonged to my father when he was a child. The series is called "Book Trails," and they have wonderful embossed red covers and crisp, illustrated pages.

We called them the "poem books," because that's what Dad loved to read the most.

It's not fun thinking about wills at any age, but sometimes it's good to take stock of what we have, and realize why certain things--especially old things--have come to mean so much to us.

Sixty-Four!

I'd be lying if I said that I remembered all of my birthdays. I just know there have been 64 of them because I've been keeping track, and a look in the mirror is all the affirmation I need to know that each one happened. Undoubtedly they were all fun and made me feel special, perhaps some more than others. A few were more memorable...

My fifth birthday dawned without my having a clue about what day it was. The sun was shining and it was warm enough to play outside if we put on our sweaters. That's what we were about to do with Aunt Fran and Uncle Joe, who had come for the day. But as we opened the door, there were Grandpa and Grandma. I didn't know they were coming! Grandpa handed me a wrapped package and said "Put this with the other ones."

Other ones? What other ones?!

Aunt Fran quickly whisked my present away and gave Grandpa a hard look. Then she carried the package into Mom and Dad's room and placed it on the bed, which was already heaped to the ceiling with "other ones."

Okay, maybe my mind has rewritten some of that. But I doubt there's anyone who can--or will--argue with me. I can still feel my excitement as I realized what was going on. I wasn't quick about it; it took several other "unexpected" arrivals, with more gifts and birthday wishes before I dared to hope. Mom had decided on a surprise party, not out of any desire to make my day even more special, but rather, because she knew that once I got a hint that my birthday was near--even if it was still six weeks away--she would not have a single peaceful moment. Not while I was awake, anyway.

My life has been rich with birthdays and celebrations--my own and the ones I've shared with people I love. My mind is loaded with memories of happy times. I want to hold on to all the ones I still have--the memories--but trust that if I misplace them, it will be because I needed to make room for new ones.

The Story of a Friendship as Remembered by Me

We've been friends for nearly 30 years--almost half my lifetime. She's not my oldest friend (three years and three days younger than I am), but she's been a steady and stabilizing influence in my life since I've known her. She makes me want to be a better person.

We met when our children were very young. I liked her immediately. She exuded warmth, and true southern charm. We were at the home of another close friend, and we talked about everything that night as the kids played. Well, some of them played. My son was still a baby on my lap. That evening was probably one of my first ventures back into a social life since he'd been born, and I'm sure my conversational contributions were anything but scintillating. It didn't matter. I felt very comfortable, among friends. I clearly remember feeling that I had made a new friend that night.

We met for lunch when my son was three...I was ready to get out of the house again, and she had a part-time opening in the insurance office where she worked. We talked and ate Chinese food, and she told me I was hired. That was where it really began.

I was her assistant, and I looked forward to the days I would work. We had limitless conversations, and with almost every sentence, we discovered something else we had in common. Crafts and shopping, country music--all music--dancing, books, movies, talking...always the talking. We learned about each others' families and life experiences. We began going places together with our husbands and kids. Everything was fun. We played cards and drank wine. We belonged to the same swim and tennis club, and spent lazy Sunday afternoons beside the pool, watching the kids enjoy the water. We went to the parties together and took trips to the beach, families included.

One day at the pool, we happened to look up at the tennis courts. She said, "You know, they give lessons for adults." So in our mid-thirties, we took up the sport of tennis. It might be more accurate to say that tennis took over our lives. We started together. After one lesson, we signed up for a court--unfortunately, a court which happened to be between two other courts. With no idea of how the game was actually played, with no concern for whether or not there were rules of etiquette, we ran around that court, hitting balls wherever we could, running onto the adjacent courts to retrieve them, laughing and talking the entire time. (Someone may have given us a lesson in court etiquette that day.)

We were very obsessive dedicated "sportsmen." We took lessons, became regular participants in "Ladies' Night," and eventually joined the Gate City league. Given a choice, we were always partners. I played forehand, she played backhand. We said that it felt like sleeping on our own sides of the bed.

We had much in common, yet there were some differences. She is level-headed and clear-thinking, organized, comfortable in any social situation. I am the opposite of all those things. Keeping score in tennis was always a challenge for me (although I liked to joke that, because of my ADD, I not only knew the score of the game I was playing, but the scores on the courts on either side of me as well). One day, we were playing a Gate City match at another club. For some reason, the game was interrupted during a tie-breaker, and when we picked up again, I was the one who remembered the score; I was certain of it.

I am rarely certain of anything, but when I am, I will get ugly defending my correctness...

A player on the other team disagreed with me, so I argued with her. She had the audacity to argue back. Both of us seemed to think that whoever argued the loudest would win. Embarrassed, my friend finally said, "All right now, let's calm down." The player on the other team immediately turned on her, fake-drawling "Oh, you sweet southern thang!" (Did I mention that our opponent was a Yankee, like me?)

I really don't remember how the game ended; I'm sure it would be safe to say we lost. But we have laughed together over the "sweet Southern thang" line for years.

Looking back, it's hard for me to wrap my head around the changes that have occurred in both of our lives. I'm thankful that my memories are still there for me to take out and enjoy. Hopefully, we will make more memories together. We are both grandmothers now. Thirty years ago, I don't think we could have imagined that this day would come.

Today is her birthday. This post is my way of telling her how much she means to me, because I'm afraid I've been guilty of taking this treasured friendship for granted over the years. I've always known she was there for me, and I hope she knows that I will always be there for her. I like to think that if she needed anything, I'd somehow be able to provide it for her. Today is her birthday, and in a few days, it will be mine. I hope we can celebrate together with lunch and a glass of wine.

Happy birthday, Leslie. I love you forever!