Karma Karma Karma Karma Karma Chameleon

This was originally posted on 02/14/09

Let me preface this with a little explanation. My sister is mean. Yes, it’s that simple. As a child, she was constantly torturing my brother and me; throwing spiders on us, putting crickets in our beds, catching frogs and chasing us with them. I can even recall an incident with a dead snake and a box. Eventually, my brother grew up and learned to ignore her, but to this day, I am still frightened by small creeping critters.

Now to preface the next part of the story-

As you all know, my great-grandmother hasn’t been doing very well lately. As such, my sister has been staying with her at night. Mostly to make sure she’s eating regularly and to see that she doesn’t fall. Since my grandmother has been ill, there has been a flurry of activity going through her house.

It’s an ordinary house, really; 2-bedrooms, hardwood floors, plaster walls and a kitchen booth with corner windows behind it that overlook the lawn. You know the kind of house I mean; something straight out of the 1950’s. The kitchen table is the same one that countless people have eaten from for the last 60 years- both complete strangers and family alike. In fact, it’s the same table that they purchased when they moved into the house. The house has seen so much activity over the years, that if the walls could talk, they’d have some incredible tales to tell.

But up till just a few months ago, the house had no toys strewn over the living room floor, no pop-guns on top of the refrigerator, no errant shoes hiding under the bed… it was very orderly because the kids weren’t there regularly enough to make those messes and because my grandmother lived there alone.

Well… a few days ago, I was sitting in the booth chatting and I noticed a large, very realistic, toy lizard on the table made of some sort of soft squishy silicone-like plastic. It’s brown about 8-10 inches in length. Even though I’m not sure who purchased it for them, it obviously belongs to one of my children.

I have no idea what got into me, really I don’t; but as I eyed the lizard, inspiration suddenly struck. With a devilish grin, I picked it up, took him into the spare bedroom where my sister has been sleeping and put him under the covers. The bed sits on the left wall of the room and I assumed she’d been getting into bed from the side closest to the door. It’s the side I’d get in if I were staying there. So I pulled the sheets back and put the lizard just under where the pillows would be. That way, the lump it would make wouldn’t be so conspicuous.

As I did it, I pictured in my head the scene: she’d be in her pajamas with a book tucked under one arm, pull back the blankets, and WHOA! She’d be startled, let out a little yelp as she jumped sky-high and then she’d quickly realize it was my kid’s toy lizard. She’d laugh to herself thinking the children had put it there. At any rate, it would make her smile. I came home that night proud of myself that I’d finally gotten her back for the years of critter-torture I’d suffered at her hands.

I called later that night after I was sure she’d already gotten into bed and innocently asked how she was doing. She laughed and asked me which child had “done it”? I laughed a little and asked her what she meant and she began to explain what had actually happened.

It was eerily similar to the scene I’d pictured, but I never could have predicted one little detail- she didn’t get into bed on the side I’d put the lizard. She gets into bed on the opposite side. So by the time she noticed the lizard in bed with her, she was snuggled down reading her book. /snickers

She said she glanced over and all she could see was about 6 inches of brown tail near her arm. She threw the covers back, jumped out of bed, and was down the hall nearly to the bathroom before she realized that she’d have to deal with the lizard herself. /giggles

She actually hit her toe on the dresser in her haste to get out of the bedroom, but she didn’t notice it until she got back into bed much later. Talk about your delayed reaction! /snorts

The only thing that would have been more perfect is if the lizard had fallen down behind the bed so that when she went back into the bedroom, she couldn’t find it. /smirks

As she was relating the story to me, I was laughing so hard I had tears streaming down my face. My stomach muscles were on fire from the laughter. I couldn’t stop laughing. I nearly hurt myself laughing so hard. When I finally did catch my breath and was able to speak coherently, I claimed credit for the deed. She said she couldn’t believe it was me! She said she’d had the fleeting thought that it was me, but quickly dismissed it because it didn’t seem like something I’d do.

As I told the kids about it later, they cackled with glee. Then they started coming up with more ideas to scare Aunt Marcee. Through guffaws of laughter, Daniel remembered that we have a large remote-controlled tarantula and thought it would be hilarious if we put it at the foot of her bed so that she’d feel it with her toes before she actually saw it. Personally, I think the idea has merit. /wicked grin

While I was telling Daniel, I noticed that Christopher had a very contemplative look on his little face. Then his eyes twinkled and he innocently asked, “Mommy, can you help me catch a snake?” /breaks into uncontrollable laughter

Lordy, where DO they get these ideas? /looks around innocently

Smiles and Sea Glass Beaches

Tonight the world is a little dimmer but the sky is a lot brighter. Today I learned of the loss of my very dear friend, Lisa Meeks.

I have always believed that we don’t meet people by accident; some people are meant to cross our paths for a reason. Sometimes it’s to teach us a lesson; good or bad. And sometimes there are people we meet who are truly a blessing in our lives. People who spread sunshine and happiness wherever they go. People whose inner light shines so very bright that it’s contagious and you cannot help but smile.

That was Lisa to me.

I met Lisa at Amelia Community Theater a few years ago. She was in the show, “Seven Year Itch” with my son, Christopher. Sometimes someone comes into your life that you instantly know you will be friends with and that’s how it was when I met Lisa. She smiled that million megawatt smile that lit up her whole face and introduced herself to me. She had the thickest Georgia accent I have ever heard in my life! It reminded me of a huskier version of Dixie Carter’s voice.

The next season, Lisa and I were in A Streetcar Named Desire together at the theater. She wore a vintage beaded cap and long black gown and looked absolutely stunning.

I remember it being the first time I noticed that she was struggling. Her hands were shaking and I could tell she was in pain. I sat with her until I was sure we didn’t need to call an ambulance. That was before I knew that it was something she dealt with quite a bit of the time, she just rarely showed it.

Later on, she was diagnosed with Huntington’s and suffered from Dystonia as well as Dyskinesia, and Chorea. Sometimes she would say, “Diane is visiting again! Damn that Dystonia Diane!” Like everything else, Lisa took the disease in stride and never let it get her down.

If you’re not familiar with Huntington’s, please look it up. In Lisa’s words, “it’s a terrible, debilitating disease that robs you of the ability to walk, talk, eat, and think. It truly eats you alive.”

Through the pain and even in the midst of a Dystonic storm when she could barely speak, she would still smile. She stayed positive and was encouraged that one day there would be a cure for Huntington’s.

She often spoke about a special place here on Amelia Island that she loved to visit to get sea glass to make jewelry with. She said it was a secret place and said one day we needed to go to the beach so she could show me. I detest the beach because of the sand but I wish now that I had said to hell with the sand and gone with her.

Even so, I’m positive there is a beach full of sea glass somewhere in heaven, with a secret little spot reserved just for Lisa.

When her disease progressed, Lisa moved back home to Georgia to be near family so I didn’t get to see her nearly often enough but our messages were almost always the same- “I miss your smile! Love you!”

Lisa loved with all her heart and made sure her friends knew she loved us. She was a breast cancer survivor and sent monthly reminders to all the ladies in her circle of friends, reminding us not to let cancer “steal second base.”

Lisa told me once, “Courage is fear that has said its prayers.” She was indeed a truly courageous woman. She said her prayers, she fought the good fight, and kept her faith.

One of her last posts on Facebook was this:

“Good morning, world! Make it count… Peace.”

Lisa always found a reason to smile.

She didn’t let Huntington’s or anything else get her down. Lisa was truly an inspiration to those of us who were blessed to know her, always reminding us to make every day count.

Just yesterday I found out she’d been admitted to the hospital again so I sent her a message to let her know that I was thinking of her and sending my love. She responded that she would see me next time she was well enough to make the trip down to Florida. I guess we’ll have to wait until we meet on that great sea glass beach in heaven instead.

I sure will miss this smile.

Rest in peace my sweet friend.

The Peace of the Bathroom

Some people bake, some people knit, some people run... I write. It's what I do instead of stabbing people.

I was working on a story several months ago that I got stuck on. I had the basic outline, I just couldn't figure out which direction I wanted to go so I put it down for a bit and moved on to something else.

I woke up this morning thinking about that one story and suddenly knew exactly where it should go. So I decided to bounce it off of Dan. I explained the whys, wheres, hows, and let him give me feedback. He was stoked. He said he really liked it and couldn't wait for me to finish it.

He gets really excited when I mention a story that I may have an ending to because I am notorious for starting one and never finishing it. I have what I jokingly call "OCED" or Obsessive Compulsive Editing Disorder. I can't seem to write a chapter and leave it be- I must go back and edit the bajeebus out of it.

Anyhow, I made a pot of coffee, grabbed my laptop, and settled down in the living room.

Dan turned on baseball and I thought, "Oh good, it's baseball; I can write with baseball on in the background." Then he flipped to recorded episodes of Jeopardy. I kinda half-heartedly watched some of it while I was re-reading what I'd already written. Five episodes of Jeopardy later, he asked if I would mind rehearsing his show with him.

I replied, "No I don't mind, but can I do it later?"
He said, "But I really need to get this memorized."
I said, perhaps a bit more abruptly than I intended, "I thought you wanted me to write! Do you or do you not want me to get this done? I thought you were excited about me possibly finishing something?"

He apologized and turned off the TV. Every few minutes, he would laugh and show me something he found on Facebook or ask if I'd heard of something that happened recently.

This is what happens when I go on a field trip with my kids and he doesn't see me for an entire day. It's good to know he misses me.

Finally, I got up and said I was headed to the bathroom. I'm currently sitting here with my laptop, typing this. No, I didn't need to actually use the facilities, I'm just sitting here. I'm fairly sure it's the only room of the house in which I can sit quietly and not be disturbed.

Meanwhile, I have exactly three new sentences written on the story that I saw so clearly in my head this morning. Three.

/sigh I haven't even killed off the main character yet.

Am I the only one who's ever wondered if a recliner would fit in their bathroom?

Vida Paraiso

The following is a dream I had a few weeks ago. I wrote most of it the moment I woke up, even before coffee. Then I went back later and filled in small details. I usually keep my dreams to myself because they're typically pretty silly, but this one was so very real to me that I woke up with tears streaming down my face and it took me a few seconds to realize where I was- in my own bed. For a brief moment, I could still feel the cool breeze and smell the salty air.
I've only shared this with a few others because it is about my Mama and it is personal. Not a day goes by that I don't think of her and miss her terribly. But I also believe that wherever she is right now, she's having more fun than she's had in years and I cannot begrudge her that, no matter how much my heart aches for her.

(I'm not much for dream interpretation; I usually just take them as they come. So when Ricky Ricardo appears out of nowhere, chalk it up to my brain being silly and please don't judge. :) )
__________________________________

“Come with me!” Mama said, grabbing my hand and pulling me towards the bow.
The ship’s ready to leave port and I know she wants to watch the people shouting “bon voyage” and throwing colored paper streamers like something from an old-time movie.
Her excitement is contagious and I giggle as I allow her to push me up to the railing. Next to us are Elizabeth and Aunt Kat, already waving as the ship begins moving away from the dock.
“Who are you waving at?” I asked Elizabeth.
Elizabeth smiled and replied, “Does it matter? They all wave back. Try it and see!”
I look at the crowd of nameless faces and begin waving and blowing kisses at the air like a haughty celebrity bidding adoring fans adieu. Several people I’d likely never see again blew kisses back at me.
The wind picks up as the enormous ship moves down the channel, blowing our skirts and nearly stealing our matching sun hats. Glancing over at Mama and Aunt Kat, I think, probably for the millionth time, how much they look alike and yet so different.
One has long red hair, tied up in a bun on top of her head; the other, shoulder-length brown hair. Both have a hint of well-earned grays at the temple. They both strongly resemble their mother.
As I catch Elizabeth’s eye, I see that she, too, has been watching them. Without her saying, I know she is thinking the same as I.
A male voice interrupts my thoughts. “Ladies, would you care for a Bon Voyage cocktail?” I glance over at the handsome young man in a crisp sailor’s uniform with a tray in his hands and it occurs to me that he could be a young Ricky Ricardo. His thick accent is melodic and I half-way expect him to break out into a rendition of “Babaloo.”
“Our special tonight is ‘Vida Paraíso’,” he informs us. “It’s a lovely tropical fruit concoction with rum and coconut. You will love it.”
“’Vida Paraíso’?” I ask.
“It means ‘Paradise Life’,” He replies with a twinkle in his eye.
We burst into laughter at the translation, remembering a time when several of us drove vehicles with one of the many “Life” stickers on the back.
“Yes, uh…” I glance at the young man’s name tag, “Balthazar, we’ll each have a ‘Vida Paraíso’, please.”
“’Balthazar’?” Mama interrupts. “Like one of the three Wise Men?”
He nods and gives Mama a slight, regal bow. “The same, Senora.”
Though I know it’s incredibly rude of me, I cannot help myself. “I thought you were Persian!”
“Sometimes I am,” Balthazar smiles enigmatically and then winks at me, “Today, I am Ricky Ricardo.”
As he disappears to get our drinks, Elizabeth links arms with mine and begins walking towards a miraculously empty table with four chairs.
Mama and Aunt Kat follow and before long, we’re simply enjoying each other’s company, chattering away about everything and nothing.
Brilliant rays of gold, pink, purple, and orange paint the cloudless sky as we watch the sun dipping slowly into the sea to the west. Behind us, delicately shimmering blue begins creeping across the sky.
“What’s it like…” I begin but have to pause to clear the sudden lump in my throat. “What’s it like at the port where the ship stops?”
“It’s indescribably beautiful,” Mama tells me. “Think of the most beautiful place you’ve ever been- times a billion- and it’s even better than that.”
I’m speechless for a moment, trying to comprehend what she’s telling me.
“What do you do there?” I ask when I find my voice again.
Mama grins and shrugs, “Anything we want! Yesterday, we played on a tire swing and picked buttercups. Then Kat made a pot of Seven Minute frosting and we ate the whole thing.”
Caught up in her happy mood, I laugh as I find myself remembering a time when we made ourselves sick by eating an entire pot of Seven Minute frosting.
My heart smiles as I imagine Mama and Aunt Kat playing on a tire swing and picking buttercups like the little girls they once were.
“Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight…” Elizabeth sings softly. “I wish I may, I wish I might,” Mama and I join in. “Have the wish I wish tonight,” we all finish the rhyme together.
“What did you wish?” Aunt Kat asks.
“Oh no!” Elizabeth says in a mock-serious tone, wagging her forefinger back and forth. “If I tell, it won’t come true.”
Balthazar returns with four brown coconut cups with bright pink paper umbrellas skewered through pineapple sticking out of the top. “Compliments of the Captain,” he says with a dramatic flourish as he places them on our table.
We each lift the little coconut cups and toast. “To before,” I say, though not sure why I chose that word.
My companions seem to understand. “To before,” they repeat in unison and we sip our fruity rum cocktails.
Mama puts her cup down, reaches over and grasps my hand, tenderly squeezing. “It will be again, love; one day. It’s just not time yet.”
“It’s peaceful here, don’t you think?” Aunt Kat asks quietly.
A comfortable silence descends as we watch the very last sliver of fiery sunshine slip below the waves. Slowly, the gold, pink, and orange give way to crimson, purple, and finally, a deep jewel-toned blue.
Millions of stars begin to glitter above us, peeking out from their daytime hiding places.
The deck is nearly empty now; only a few whispering couples linger on, taking advantage of the ample shadows and the rhythmic sway of the ship.
Reaching over, Mama pulls off my hat, freeing my long auburn hair to blow in the breeze. “It’s time, my girl.” Her tone is wistful and I know she wishes I didn’t have to go.
“I know, Mama. Just a few minutes more? Please?”
Standing, Mama pulls me to my feet and into her arms for a long hug. She’s strong; much more so than I remember. The last time I hugged her when she could hug me back, she felt so frail and weak, and I hugged carefully so I wouldn’t hurt her. She’s so strong now that I hold on tightly.
“You don’t have your oxygen tank!” I suddenly realize, shocked that I haven’t noticed before now.
“Nope!” I can feel the rise and fall of her shoulders as she sucks in a deep easy breath and then lets it out. “I don’t need it here.”
I stand there inhaling her precious scent, knowing there is none other like it in the world.
Looking over, I see Elizabeth and Aunt Kat are in a similar embrace. “There’s no need for tears here,” Aunt Kat says, “you can come back again tomorrow and the day after if you’d like.”
“And the day after that too,” Mama adds and then she pulls back, tucking an errant strand of hair behind my ear. “I am so proud of you! Never doubt that,” she says with a slight squeeze of my hands, “Make sure you kiss those boys and your Daddy for me. I miss them all so much!”
When I promise I that will, she lets go reluctantly, steps back, and I know that it’s time for me to go.
“We’ll be right here,” Aunt Kat says in a slightly echoing voice.
Elizabeth reaches for my hand, gripping it tightly, and the two of us begin to slowly ascend, as though a breeze has scooped us up.
As we drift away, Mama and Aunt Kat hold hands and wave at us. The thought comes to me that they’ve never looked more beautiful, happier, or more at peace than they do at that moment. There's no pain, no regret, no hurt, and no anger between them; only two sisters reunited once again.
We watch them fading into the distance, becoming smaller as we rise higher, until they’re nearly out of sight.
“I love you, Mama!” I call.
“I love you, too,” her voice little more than a whisper, “I’ll always love you.”

July 26, 2014

The following is the eulogy that I delivered at Mama's funeral in July. I've been working on a blog of my memories of her as well as my thoughts on the weeks leading up to her passing. I have a feeling it'll be a while before I post it because I can't work on it every day. Not because I don't have time; rather because it's a bit like stabbing myself in the chest with a steak knife every time I open the file.

Everyone keeps asking if I'm okay. I don't know why really but my first inclination is to lie through my teeth and say, "I'm doing great!" Instead, I tell the truth. I nod and say, "I'm hanging in there; one day at a time," because it really is day-to-day for me.

When I speak to my Dad, sister, and brother, I know I am not the only one.

There are days I miss Mama so much that it hurts to breathe. My cousin likened losing a parent to losing a tooth; the wound eventually stops bleeding, but the hole remains forever. A friend told me that it never does get better, it just becomes manageable. I'm patiently awaiting the day I can see her picture and smile rather than cry.

Thank you, God, for giving me family and friends who understand that there isn't a time limit on grief. Friends who know exactly how I feel and seem to know just when to call or text. I have some of the best friends on the planet and I'm so very thankful they're mine.

-CC

___________________________________________
July 26, 2014

I cannot guarantee that I won’t cry, but I will do my best not to. I wish we had time today for me to tell you all about just how amazing my Mama was, but if I did, we’d be sitting here all day long.

As I sat writing this in the early hours this morning, I debated what I’d say. I wondered how’d I’d be able to convey to you all just how special Mama was in just a few minutes. As I thought about it, I realized that so many of you already know the kind of person she was.

I cannot tell you just how many calls, texts, emails, messages, and the like that I have received this week of people telling me how sweet and wonderful she was. I heard dozens of stories that began with, “Oh, I remember this one time…” And they all ended with, “Your Mama was so sweet. She will be missed.” And they are so right. Mama will be missed more than I can begin to describe. But I take comfort in the fact that I will see her again one day. Because I know today that my Mama is in heaven. I know that because she knew that was where she was going when she took her last breath.

Last week at the hospital, the doctors had her in an induced coma and on a ventilator because her lungs were failing her. On Thursday, they were able to bring her out of the coma for a little while. I guess she could tell by our faces that we were worried because while she was still on the ventilator and couldn’t speak, she started motioning with her hand like she wanted to write something. So we got her some paper and a pen. Her hands were still shaky from the medicine but she managed to write, “God will save me.”

Even while she was struggling to breathe, she was steadfast and secure in the knowledge that God had her back and she didn’t want us to worry about her.

She even called the chaplain’s office and asked to see a priest that she’d gotten to know and really liked. He came down and talked to her. He also delivered Last Rites to her when the time came. I’m still not sure if he even realized that we’re not Catholic. I guess when you find someone who loves to talk about the Lord as much as you do, it doesn’t much matter which church you attend.

Just a few days later, when the time came to turn off the ventilator for the last time, Mama didn’t struggle nor fight. We were told to expect that she would but Mama simply slipped quietly away. It was the most peaceful thing I’ve ever witnessed in my life. I believe she was seeing her Savior at that moment.

Mama had the faith of Daniel in the lion’s den and she was stronger than anyone I’ve ever known. She used to say, “A woman is like a teabag; you never know how strong she is until you put her in hot water.” It took strength and courage to go through what she did and do it with grace and with dignity.

As you all know, Mama had Pulmonary Fibrosis for which she received a double-lung transplant. I know it seems like it might not be the time nor the place, but I would truly be remiss if I didn’t mention the donor who gave us three and a half more precious years with Mama. For us, that time has been a gift and a blessing.

The day Mama got her new lungs I began praying daily for the donor’s family. Perhaps she was someone’s sister, wife, or mother- we may never know, but God knows.

If I could speak to them today, I’d want them to know that to us, their daughter wasn’t some faceless stranger who happened to be an organ donor. She was a very real part of our lives.

I’d want them to know that their daughter’s lungs went to a woman who was a beloved wife, mother, sister, aunt, and adored grandmother. She was courageous. She was feisty and didn’t back down when she knew she was right. She was loving and kind. She had an inner well of determination the likes of which I’ve never seen in another person. And she loved her family with the ferocity of a mama bear.

Time is a very precious thing; especially when you know you have so little of it.

In the last three and a half years, Mama was able to see her son marry the love of his life and become a step-father to two amazing kids that Mama loved just like her own.

She had more time for her other two grandchildren to get to know her better.

Mama got to spend three and a half more years with the love of her life. She often said he might be aggravating, but he’s MINE and I love him and that’s all there is to it.

Two years ago, Mama gave me a Mother’s Day card that I will never forget. It was one she’d made, which made it all the more special, and it said, “You’ve become the wonderful mother I always knew you would be. I am so proud of you.” I cannot describe just how much that meant to me. It made me realize that she is my yardstick. She’s the measure by which I judge motherhood.

Now was she perfect? Nope. Was she always patient? Nope.

But she made me realize that it’s ok to not be a perfect mother.

Just love your children with all your heart and the rest will come together. I know that Mama loved all of us more than anything.


Except maybe Barney, her little dog. He was a source of pure joy for her.

You know, I believe that in heaven, life goes on; you’re just in a perfect, more peaceful, more beautiful place than you’ve ever been before. You’re happier and healthier. The skies are always the perfect shade of blue; you know the shade I mean- so blue it almost hurts your eyes. There isn’t a schedule to abide and dishes wash themselves.

I can well imagine Mama walking on the beach with her sisters and her mother and they’re laughing and carrying on.






She’s happy and breathing easy. I think she’d say, “Don’t miss me too much. The view is nice and I’m doing just fine.”

God speed, Mama.

Pumpkin Spice Syrup

I love pumpkin spice anything. No, really, I do. I'd eat a piece of cardboard if it had pumpkin spice smeared on it.

My very favorite local coffee shop, Montego Bay Coffee, closed its doors about a year ago and I still miss them.
(see: Where Everybody Knows Your Name)

I used to look forward to the September day when Pumpkin Spice Lattes were put back on the menu and would often be their "taste tester" in the days before the annual release. I was a regular customer and usually dropped by several times a week. However, during PSL season it wasn't uncommon for me to drink one there in the shop while I chatted & read the newspaper, and then get another one for the road too.

The following recipe is similar to Montego Bay's recipe for Pumpkin Spice syrup. While it's not exactly the same, it's better than Starbucks has ever even thought about being. And it contains actual pumpkin, which is not the case at Starbucks. I'm not sure exactly how much to use, though. I suppose that is up to you and your individual love for pumpkin spice. I personally use several tablespoons (roughly two shots) in a 24 ounce latte made with several shots of espresso and steamed milk with plenty of foam.

1 ½ cups white sugar
1 heaping tablespoon brown sugar
1 cup water
3 heaping tablespoons canned pumpkin (not pumpkin pie mix)
2 tablespoons pumpkin pie spice
1 tablespoon ground cinnamon
Splash of vanilla

In small saucepan, stir together sugars and water. Cook until sugar is dissolved (do not boil). Beat in pumpkin, pumpkin pie spice, and vanilla with whisk. Cook 5 minutes longer. Mix should be bubbly but do not allow to come to a full boil. Remove from heat. Allow to cool completely and pour syrup into bottle, jar or storage container. Store in refrigerator.

NOTES-

I prefer my latte with bits of spice and pumpkin in it so I don’t strain my syrup. If you prefer yours smooth, make sure you strain the syrup well before you put it into a storage container. Use cheesecloth or a mesh strainer while the syrup is still hot.

Mixture will be bubbly but do not allow it to boil. I recommend constantly stirring after you add the pumpkin so it does not stick to the pan.

It's Not Defeat if you let Them Win

I wore a black dress to Mama's funeral and decided I needed black pantyhose to go with it. Considering it's July in Florida, which means it's hotter than Hell's hinges outside, I really don't know what I was thinking besides the fact that I've always been told ladies are supposed to wear them with dresses.

For the record, I hate pantyhose. Doesn't matter if I'm skinny or fat, I always struggle putting them on. Always have.

Anyway, that morning, I grabbed a pair and as I sat down to put them on, I muttered, "I'm about to do battle, boys."

Daniel asked, "Battle? With who?"

Me: "With these pantyhose."

Daniel: "With...(blinks in disbelief) pantyhose??"

Me: "I know they're an inanimate object but you'd never know it considering the fight they put up when I attempt to put them on. You've got to get them on straight, without bunching or twisting, and you've gotta get them up without tearing a hole in them, which is really difficult to do."

Daniel: "Oh. I see."

Me: "You know, it's not really a battle so much as it is a war. I'm waging war on these pantyhose."

Daniel (bemused): "War, eh? Okay..." (he sits down to watch the spectacle)

Christopher: (hasn't said a word, just watching in amusement)

Me: (struggling... a few choice words are uttered... curse inventor of pantyhose... :screech: ... 15 sweaty minutes later I throw them across the room)

Daniel (smirking): "So... who won?"

Me: "Smarty pants. You should try putting on a pair some time!"

Daniel (snickering): "Yeah, after watching that, I'll pass. You got your butt kicked, Mom. I'm pretty sure you lost the battle and the war."

Can't You Just Pick Another One?

I wish I knew how to tell a long story short but I don't, so here goes...

I've learned that much like the phrase, "beauty is in the eye of the beholder", so is individual taste in furniture. Personally, I'm usually fairly traditional when it comes to furniture. I like classic, timeless, comfortable, functional pieces with gentle curves and clean lines. I do not like furniture that is overly ornate, super modern, dated, or anything with the word "contemporary" attached to it.

Dan, however, does like the contemporary style. Having said that, we managed to find a bed that we both like. (More like I absolutely LOVED it and he could live with it, but that is beside the point.) That bed is turning out to be quite the ordeal it seems.

Reader's Digest condensed version:

Went furniture shopping last year to get an idea of what we wanted.
Dozens of stores and many hours scouring the internet later, I found the bed I wanted.
Bed purchased in Feb.
Found out they're discontinuing the style, so had to take delivery immediately or not get it at all.
Bed delivered, but support beam is broken and has to go back.
Called the store. they can get me another one but it'll be March 17 before it's available.
Me: "The bed is being discontinued, are you absolutely, positively CERTAIN you can get me THAT bed?? Because if you can't, I want the broken one and I will have it fixed at my own expense."
Them: "Yes, Ma'am. We are *certain* we can get you one that isn't broken, it will just take several weeks."

...I wait...

Builders give us a closing date.
I called the store.
"I'm sorry, Ma'am, but that bed has been discontinued."
Me: "I realize it was discontinued but you told me that MINE would be available."
Them: "I'm not sure who told you that, but that bed was discontinued in February."
Me: "I *KNOW* it was discontinued... (explain when I purchased it, explain it was broken, explain I offered to take the broken one, explain that they promised me a new one... explain, explain, explain...)
Them: "They probably threw the broken one out or sold it 'As-Is' in the clearance outlet."
Me: "What about the floor model? It was the right size, just bring me that one."
Them: "Sorry, the floor model was sold last week."
Me: "So basically what you're telling me is that not only do you not have my bed there in your store, you can't get my bed, and the only two options I had of actually obtaining that bed have been sold out from under me, all the while you have in your possession well over a thousand dollars of MY money and I *still* don't have my damned bed?? Is that what you're saying to me right now?"
Them: "I'm not the manager who promised you this bed. Let me see if I can get you an update, I'll call you back."

Me: ...fuming...blood pressure rising...temper flaring...

Customer service lady called me back. Clearly, the managers didn't want to deal with me. "I'm sorry ma'am, the bed isn't available but we can give you a store credit. Can't you just pick a different one?"

Can't I just pick a different one?? CAN'T I JUST PICK A DIFFERENT ONE?? Did you really just ask me that?

It was an innocent question, really, and I know she didn't realize she was dealing with someone whose stress level is already exceeding the limits of their medication, but it was the proverbial last straw.
I told her no. NO, I *can't* just pick another one, I don't want ANOTHER one, I want THAT one. Doesn't she realize that I've picked out side tables, fixtures, and other furniture based on the colors of THAT bed? Does she really think "I'm sorry" is good enough? They have been jerking me around for the last two months and I've had enough. Second, if they can't produce THAT bed, I damned sure don't want a "store credit" because they will be giving me my money back in the form of cold hard cash.

I had a few other choice comments about their business practices and ethics. I also may have mentioned the BBB, the consequences of fraud, rip-offs, and how I'd personally lead the charge to make certain none of my friends, relatives, friends of friends, cousins of friends, cousins of friends of friends, strangers or anyone else I come in contact with ever purchased so much as a potted plant from their place of business again. I also may have questioned their parentage and the collective amount of brain cells they have between them and a few other rather colorful metaphors, but I can't recall exactly.

I'm usually a very flexible person... I can compromise... I can be reasonable... until I can't be. Once I've had enough, you might as well be hitting a brick wall because there is nothing that can be said or done to make me change my mind.

I am reminded of that scene from "Top Gun" where the Air Boss is in Viper's office screaming about the fly-by. "Two of your snot-nose jockeys did a fly-by on my tower at over 400 KNOTS! I want somebody's butt, I want it now, I've HAD IT!" That was me yesterday, minus the spilled coffee.

Anyway, once I was done with my rant, and believe me, *I* would not have wanted to be on the other end of that, she calmly told me that she'd get in touch with the manager who was working on it and have her call me this morning.

No one called. I really didn't expect them to since their customer service up to this point has been less than stellar, to say the least. So I called them instead. The manager who promised me the bed couldn't be bothered to come to the phone.

Instead, Carolyn, the poor woman who is probably paid minimum wage to answer the phone and deal with irate people like me, informed me, "They will have your bed for you on April 1st. I have no idea how they intend to get it because my computer says it's unavailable, but my manager says they'll have it."

I asked, "Is it THAT bed? The style I purchased? In the right color and size?"

Carolyn: "Yes ma'am, as far as I know, it's the one you ordered..."

Me: "Because I will still take the broken one if it isn't sold and have it fixed at my own expense. I will come get it RIGHT NOW as a matter of fact. I can be there in an hour."

Carolyn: "No, ma'am, that won't be necessary. Your bed will be delivered on April 1st."

I'm not holding my breath.

Dearest and Best

“The more things change, the more they stay the same”, isn’t that the old saying?

It’s hard to believe today marks a year since Grandma Helen went Home, but it does. It's been a long year of many, many changes- some wonderful, some not so much.

This past year, she’s seen a few of our family join her there. Even though there are supposed to be no tears in Heaven, knowing her as I do, she cried anyway. She’d have said, “What are you doing here? You’re not supposed to be here yet!” and then welcomed them with open arms and offered them a cup of coffee- as was her way.

I believe life goes on after death; you’re just in a perfect, more peaceful, more beautiful place. You’re happier and healthier. There isn’t a schedule to abide and dishes wash themselves.

I can well imagine Grandma sitting at a table in a cozy, vanilla and lemon Pledge-scented kitchen with lace-trimmed white curtains. There’s a slight, cool breeze fluttering the curtains through the open windows. Past the panes you can see the cloudless sky is the most brilliant shade of cerulean blue. You know the shade I mean- so blue your eyes can barely adjust.

In my mind’s eye, she’s with Grandpa Thomas, still asking questions… after all; she had twenty-four years of catching up to do!

I imagine she’s probably already been visiting with Jesus and her Mama & Daddy and all the rest of the family who’ve also passed on. There are far too many to name without certainly missing a few, but I am grateful I was blessed to have known quite a few of them too. Many were like her: the last of their kind- the “greatest generation.”

Over this past year, I've found myself thinking of her at the funniest times. As a child, I remember watching her do dishes countless times. When she walked away from the kitchen sink, she’d sorta lightly smack her hand on the edge to fling off the water so she didn’t trail it on the floor. A few months ago, I caught myself unconsciously doing the very same thing. It was a sweet reminder that while she may not be with me in person, she’s certainly still here in spirit.

As many of you know, the week prior to her death, our family was erroneously informed that she’d died. What a surreal experience!

“I’m sorry to inform you- she’s passed on.”

…(a few hours later)…

“Wait a sec, she’s right here. My bad.”

Blessed with a funny “roll-with-it” sense of humor, I believe Grandma would have laughed at the terrible mistake.

I think that is perhaps what I miss the most- her laughter; her easy, gentle way of taking life as it came and finding a reason to smile. If she couldn’t make you smile too, she would give you a slice of something magically delicious that would make you forget your troubles for a bit.

Whoever she’s catching up with today, whatever she’s doing… I am certain there’s something amazing cooking on the stove, a pan of Congo Squares on the table, and a blueberry cream pie in the fridge.

I find it altogether fitting and proper that she went Home on All Saints Day. A quick Google search defines a Saint as, “someone who is holy, virtuous, and typically regarded as being in Heaven after death.” I think that pretty much says it all.

Today, on this All Saints Day, I thank God for sharing one of His dearest and best with us for a time.

I miss you, Grandma. You’re never too far from my thoughts.

Mrs. Wells' Pumpkin Cake

Those who know me best know I adore anything pumpkin. I'd probably eat cardboard if it were smeared with pumpkin. That being said, I love Starbucks pumpkin loaf, but I detest going to Starbucks to get it. (I also don't care for paying nearly $4.00 for it either, but that's another story!) I needed a close replica of their recipe since I'm about one drive-thru away from having to take out a loan in order to support my pumpkin loaf habit.
The original recipe (which was the precursor to the following one) came from a lady named Mrs. Wells, who was the Home Ec teacher at West Nassau High School for many years. I believe it may have actually come from her mother. Anyway, I took her recipe, added cream cheese, played around with some of the spices, added frosting, removed the nuts, etc... long story short- this is my personal variation of Mrs. Wells' pumpkin cake. In my opinion, this cake is actually better than Starbucks. It's richer, denser, more moist... aww heck, it's just plain scrumptious! However, props still go to Mrs. Wells. I never knew her, but her cake will forever be a family favorite of ours.

Pumpkin Cake with Cream Cheese Frosting

1 cup (two sticks) unsalted butter, softened
3 cups granulated sugar
4 oz. cream cheese (softened)
3 eggs
1 lb* can solid-pack pumpkin (NOT pie filling mix!)
1 t. vanilla
3 cups sifted flour
3 t. pumpkin pie spice
1 c chopped nuts (optional)
1 c raisins (optional)
½ c roasted pumpkin seeds (optional- see notes)

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease and flour a Bundt or tube pan. Set aside.

In a mixing bowl, sift together flour with cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, (and nuts/raisins, if desired), set aside.

In a large bowl, mix butter, sugar, and cream cheese until fluffy. Stir in pumpkin, eggs, and vanilla until blended. Add flour, a cup at a time, to the pumpkin mixture. Using the lowest setting on your mixer, mix ingredients until just blended. Do not over-stir!

If you’re adding nuts or raisins, fold in carefully using a wooden spoon. Pour mixture into the prepared pan and bake in a 350 degree oven for 1 hour. After one hour, check doneness using a toothpick or butter knife. If it’s not done, bake 10-15 additional minutes or until tester comes out clean.

Allow to cool completely and frost with cream cheese frosting. (Recipe follows) Store loosely covered in the refrigerator.

NOTES:

-*Be sure you’re using the large can of solid-pack pumpkin and NOT pie filling mix. The recipe will not turn out if you use pie filling mix instead of pumpkin.
-I use the Libby’s brand name of pumpkin, but I’m sure any brand will do. The can actually says that its 29 ounces, which is 1 lb + 13 ozs- that’s the can you want to use.
-Blend the ingredients just until they’re incorporated. Over-stirring will cause the end result to have a weird spongy texture.
-I rarely use nuts or raisins in this cake because my family doesn’t like them. It turns out amazing without using either.
-For fun variety, you can omit the frosting and gently press chopped pumpkin seeds into the top of the cake after you’ve turned it out onto a plate. Or you can frost the cake as usual and then sprinkle pumpkin seeds on top. Either way is delicious.
-Or if you don't care for cream cheese frosting, sprinkle the top generously with powdered sugar. This is how my Mama prefers to make hers.



Cream Cheese Frosting

1/2 stick (1/4 cup) unsalted butter (softened)
4 oz cream cheese (softened)
2 cups powdered sugar
1/2 t. vanilla (see notes)

Using a mixer, blend the butter and cream cheese until combined. Add the powdered sugar and vanilla and beat until the mixture is light and fluffy- approximately 10 minutes. The frosting will become a thicker and fluffier the longer you beat it.

NOTES:

-I use a stand mixer for this recipe.
-I use additional powdered sugar if I need it to be stiffer.
-Do not be tempted to use additional vanilla, milk, or water because the frosting will be thin and drizzly.
-Store frosted food in the refrigerator as this frosting is perishable.

Junk drawers, Ebay, & Trash Bags- OH MY!

Those who know me best know that I am NOT the queen of organization. Not even a little bit. I always have fabulous intentions about organizing, really I do; but I either 1- don't keep up with it, or 2- get the stuff (plastic box, drawer compartmentalizer, shelf, shoebox, etc) to organize but never actually implement it.
This leaves me in somewhat of a dilemma when it comes to packing for the move.
I've long since given up the "you need to hang on to those cute jeans because some day your butt will fit into them again" pipe dream. So I'm already in the process of doing a clothes purge. Some will be going to folks who can use them, some to consignment stores/Goodwill. Got that part covered.
Books- We're keeping them. It's what we do. We're book people.
It's the rest of the stuff that is posing a problem. I can't figure out what to do with it all.
The hoarder in me who has a slight Pinterest addiction says, "You will repurpose that cracked picture frame, thereby saving it from the landfill to which it's most certainly otherwise bound."
Yeah... I have a box FULL of stuff that somehow made it to the "Repurposeable" category instead of the curb. When I put it there, I had really good intentions of actually doing whatever it was I thought I could do with it, but that box has been filling up for oh, I don't know, 9 years or so. Pretty sure said picture frame is in the bottom of it. SMH
The you-might-need-that-one-day side of me is screaming that I absolutely cannot throw away the power cord from the cell phone I owed 14 years ago. The fact that I still own the cell phone is beside the point. Not really sure what to do with it either.
The frugal, don't-want-to-be-wasteful side says, "Somewhere out there is a person who needs all these plastic containers that got warped in the dishwasher, sippy cups that are missing lids, and various doo-dads in the junk drawer; I can't just toss them! Post on Freecycle that it's at the curb. *Someone* will come get it all, right?"
Then there's the I'm-far-too-busy-for-this-nonsense part of me that is yelling, "Toss all of that crap in the trash and pray the garbage man picks it all up!"
Then there's the other stuff. You know what stuff I mean... the milk frother/smoothie maker/frappe mixer contraption thingamajig that I was given 7 years ago at some Christmas party, used it once, decided it was a pain in the butt to clean, and stuck it on a shelf in the garage. Pretty sure it has all the parts. There's nothing wrong with it. I simply don't want it anymore. And what about that As Seen On TV Slap Chop that seemed like such a great idea? I may have used it twice. Once to chop nuts because Vince said "You're gonna love chopping his [sic] nuts", and the other time to chop celery for egg salad. Yardsale? Donation to a local charity that supports cats?
What about the 19 bottles of red nail polish that I bought on sale because they were only a dime a bottle? But there's really no way I can possibly use 19 bottles of red nail polish before the polish gets thick and gross. So what do you do with them? I refuse to fill up my new house with that junk. And I do not have a burning desire to pack it all up and schlepp it over to the new house either.
This is my inner struggle, ya'll. And I know it's totally a First World kinda problem. There are poor people the world over who'd love for this to be their only problem. I get it, really I do, but that is a subject for another blog entirely.
Do you round up the 7 discs for that computer program you used twice in 2001 and try to Ebay it?
Do you put the bed frame that's been in the garage for 2 years on Craig's List or think twice abt Craig's List because it's a teeny bit creepy?
And what abt those purses that are dusty because they've been in storage that were super nice and pretty darn expensive at the time, but are now old and out of date? Do I take the time to clean them and stick 'em on Ebay, Virtual Yardsale, (actual) yardsale, or in a consignment shop? Because I know the guilt I would feel over simply tossing them in the trash would be far worse than the guilt I felt for paying THAT much for a purse to begin with.
This is where the argument for a swap meet comes to mind. "Hey, I can simply avoid a yardsale, Ebay, Craig's List, Virtual Yardsale, or consignment shop disaster, and have a swap meet at my house. I mean, really, who doesn't love a swap meet? It's fun and free! I'll put all my stuff in the living room, invite some friends to bring their stuff over, pop open a bottle or wine or three, and we'll all swap our stuff. Sounds like a fabulous plan!!"
Then reality smacks me in the face with that annoying little fact about swap meets: True, you get rid of your crap. But you end up stuck with someone else's crap in the process.
Do you sort out the junk drawer; tossing the old batteries & empty Tic Tac containers, but keeping the random coins & the nifty little tape dispenser that fits over your hand because you'll need it at Christmas? Then putting the refillable air freshener thingy & the sunglasses with the tiny scratch on the lens into a yardsale box but separating the washers & screws and the attachments for the gadget you no longer own into a Freecycle box because "someone might be missing *that* one particular piece" and you'll be "doing them a favor" by giving it away? Because right now, I'm considering dumping the whole drawer into the trash and calling it a day.
Any suggestions would be helpful and appreciated because right now, I feel like I'm drowning in my house.

Manic Monday

Things that are annoying me today:

It’s Monday. Again.

*Someone* cleaned out my car and removed all of the pens, hair clips, Scrunchies, my nametag, a coupon for a free smoothie, and a receipt I was saving to return something. They left a card table and folding chairs in the trunk that rattle like a freight train. But I can’t complain about it because they were doing something nice for me by cleaning out my car.

I broke two fingernails down into the quick.

People who out-tragedy every single thing you say. No matter how bad yours is, theirs is always worse.

I have a really annoying song stuck in my head.

Miley “Ratchet” Cyrus is the headline on every single media outlet today.

Took off my wedding band yesterday to clean it and forgot to retrieve it from the container of jewelry cleaner this morning. Feeling strangely naked without it.

People who type in all caps EVEN WHEN THEY’RE NOT SHOUTING.

People who think they know more than you do no matter the subject.


Things that I’m thankful for today:

My kiddos. Always.

Dan slept in.

Copious amounts of espresso.

I woke up on the right side of the grass.

USB plugs in my car.

Spotify.

My MIL is getting the kids from school today.

One of my co-workers is buying us lunch from Callahan BBQ. I have some pretty darn awesome co-workers.

One of them snuck up and scared me which made me laugh. He didn’t catch me singing to myself.

My friends who appreciate my bizarre sense of humor.

The day is almost over.

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

Well, I finally set foot in a Starbucks again after having largely avoided the chain for the last few years. As many of you know, my beloved local coffee shop, Montego Bay, closed their doors after being in my community for over five years.

It wasn’t just the coffee Montego Bay sold; it was the atmosphere they provided. It was a unique experience as far as coffee shops go.

It was a feel-good sorta place. At any given time, you might walk in and hear Ozzy Osbourne blasting over the speakers. Or Jimmy Buffett. Or George Strait. You just never knew what you’d hear, but there was always some sort of music playing.

It had a very relaxing, beachy feel to it. There was an overhang above the counter that made you feel as though you were walking up to a cabana bar on the beach. They had a swirling painting hanging over the Simonelli Espresso machine reminiscent of the many cerulean shades of the Caribbean. Heck, even the walls were painted a soothing Bahama blue.

The first time I walked in, I was greeted by a Val Kilmer lookalike named Blair. He was wearing a do-rag to hold back his long hair and I immediately liked him. He asked what I wanted and I said I wasn’t sure. He told me to describe what I wanted and he’d make it for me. I told him I usually order a caramel macchiato at Starbucks. So that’s what he made me. Only, this was far better than anything Starbucks has ever even thought about making.

I liked Montego Bay so much that I have a window decal on my car advertising for them. I liked the fact that on mornings when I was makeup-less, had not yet brushed my teeth, and was wearing pajamas when I dropped off the kids, I could still swing by MBC and they didn’t judge. When I’d be out & about shopping or whatever, Dan knew that I’d very likely stop by MBC and spend at least an hour.

Montego Bay Coffee was one of my happy places and I miss it terribly. I didn’t realize just how much I miss it though, until I walked into Starbucks yesterday.

(Don’t judge. I was running late and didn’t have time to make a latte at home.)

The first thing I noticed is that no one greeted me when I came through the door. No one seemed genuinely glad to see me, nor did they call me by name. There was no barstool to sit on and have a chat with the person behind the counter.

There was no music, only the din of chatter.

The next thing I noticed is I had to tell them what I wanted.

Yeah, I know, I know… the folks at Montego Bay had me spoiled a tad because I was a regular. But that’s not the point. I liked the fact that the moment they saw my car pull up, they started my caramel macchiato with half the syrup and extra froth. By the time I walked in, they were putting my coffee into my hand and asking what else they could get me.

The ordering experience at Starbucks was nothing of the sort. It made me a feel a little like cattle being rounded up to wait my turn at being put through the chute.

When my turn came, I said, “I want a Venti Caramel Macchiato with half the syrup, please.”

The teenage girl at the cash register just stared at me like I had lobsters coming out of my ears. She said, “Could you please repeat that?”

So I did. Slowly.

She asked, “You mean you want light syrup?”

I replied, “No. I want *half* the syrup you normally put in a latte.”

She said, “Are you sure you don’t want sugar-free syrup?”

I found myself wondering for the umpteenth time: Why, oh, why is it always me who gets the most clueless/rude/smartass/obnoxious/dumb/boneheaded employee a company has to offer?

It was my turn to give her a blank stare. I replied, “No, I don’t want sugar-free syrup…”

“Are you sure?” She interrupted. “Because that’s what people usually mean when they order ‘light’ syrup.”

As the increasing line of caffeine-deprived customers behind me let out a collective huff of aggravation, I mustered my remaining patience and replied, “Yes, I’m quite sure I don’t mean sugar-free. I want a caramel macchiato with two pumps of regular syrup. Just two, just regular, not sugar-free syrup. Please.”

I could almost see the light bulb come on over her head as clarity hit her.

“Oh!! Why didn’t you just say that?” She asked this as if I’d been speaking Greek the whole time.

“See, when you order coffee,” she explained as if I was a latte virgin, “There are codes and terms you have to use. ‘Light’ refers to sugar-free, not two pumps of flavoring.”

“Ah, I see.” I replied. I didn’t bother to point out to her that I never said the word “light” to begin with.

Then she asked my name so she could put it on the side of the cup. I said, “It’s Cari; C-A-R-I.”

With a confused look, she glanced down at my debit card in her hands and said, “But that’s not how it’s spelled on your card.”

She was right, of course. C-A-R-I isn’t the legal spelling of my name; however, it IS the spelling I’ve gone by since I was a kid.

Instead of attempting to explain this to the girl who had by now wasted many more minutes of my time than I wanted to give her, I replied, “You’re right, I misspelled my name. Just put it the same way it appears on the card.”

The sarcasm was completely lost on her.

After I finally got my Venti caramel macchiato (with the legal spelling of my name on the side of the cup and half the syrup, tyvm), I got in my car and took a sip. It was woefully inadequate.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Great coffee is a lot like great sex. If all you’ve ever had is average sex, then you accept it. But the moment you have amazing sex, your mind is blown. Suddenly, everything else seems pedestrian in comparison. Coffee is a lot like that for people who love coffee.

Montego Bay served velvety smooth, roasted-to-perfection coffee, prepared ANY way you could dream up. Starbucks serves coffee-flavored water with steamed milk and syrup. Yeah, it’ll do in a pinch when I’m desperate for caffeine and there isn’t a McDonald’s in sight. But it doesn’t, and never will, be able to hold a candle to Montego Bay Coffee.

I guess all of this just boils down to the fact that I miss my Montego Bay. I miss amazing coffee. I miss the breakfast burritos and the cinnamon rolls with homemade icing. I miss looking forward to the September day when Pumpkin Spice Lattes (made with real pumpkin and a secret blend of spices) would come back. I miss Holly Jolly Mochas. I miss the sight of Rooster the Red Roaster spinning around. I miss the smell of freshly roasted coffee. I miss hearing The White Stripes blasting from the speakers to help me kick-start my morning. I miss Blair, Hannah, Michaela, Morgan, Kerri, Talia, Bonnie, and the multitude of other regulars like me who’d come in on any given morning. I miss the friendship and camaraderie that comes along with being a regular at an establishment.

I miss going where everybody knew my name.

Opening Pandora's... Closet?

"You have enemies? Good. That means you've stood up for something, sometime in your life.” -Winston Churchill

I saw something on Facebook earlier that prompted this blog post. It was a video of a reporter from MSNBC doing an interview with her daughter about marriage. During the interview, she asked what the child thought of gay marriage and I couldn’t help but smile at her daughter’s answer. It made me think, "Good job, Mama! You've done something right along the way."

See, it’s not very different at all from the conversation I had with my own boys about the very same subject. I tend to believe that civil rights are called civil rights for a reason. There is a clear separation of church and state written into the Bill of Rights, why should one person’s religious beliefs determine someone else’s civil rights?

Frankly, who the hell am I to tell you, or you, or you, who you can and cannot love? I may be straight, but I’m not narrow.

I’m pro gay marriage and I’m extremely thankful no one ever told me I couldn’t marry my husband when I fell in love with him. I’m thankful for a partner who accepts me for me and doesn’t try to change me, even when he doesn’t agree with me. He stands up for me and would charge Hell with nothing but a water pistol to defend me.

I am of the firm belief that no one is born hating another person. Hatred is a learned trait. So are bigotry, prejudice, sexism, elitism, racism, and homophobia. I believe that if a child can be taught all of those ugly things, they can also be taught love, respect, acceptance, kindness, tolerance, and compassion.

Have you ever observed preschoolers playing? They don’t see “colors”; they see other kids to play with. They don’t care if that child is Asian, Hispanic, or “brown” or “pink” or rich or poor. They simply see someone to play with. As much as adults like to think they have it all figured out, I’m pretty sure it’s the children who are far wiser than many adults I know.

I am a wife and a damned good one. My husband is lucky to have me and he knows it. But I’m just as lucky to have him and believe me when I say that I certainly know it.

I’m a wannabe writer. Will I ever be as good as Hemingway or sell as many books as Stephenie Meyer? Probably not. In fact, let’s just go ahead and say it’s a pretty safe bet that neither of those things will ever happen. But I still like to write. It’s my outlet.

I like to blog. I don’t do it nearly enough, but I still enjoy chronicling our lives this way.

I’m a coffee connoisseur. Actually, "snob" might be a more appropriate term here. Great coffee is like great sex- if all you’ve ever had is average sex, you’re accustomed to it so you accept it; but your mind is blown when you have amazing sex and suddenly everything else seems pedestrian in comparison. Same is true for coffee.

I’m an avid reader. I even read graffiti on the walls in the bathroom. I usually have at least three books going at once.

I’m a Rock Band rock star and sound just like Joan Jett when I sing “I Love Rock & Roll.” No, really, I do.

I’m a movie aficionado. I love a good sappy love story, especially if it involves a black & white film or anything with Doris Day, Rock Hudson, and Tony Randall. I won't turn down a little eye-candy of the George Clooney variety either.

I am a certified Girl Raised In The South. Being Southern isn’t about where you’re born; it’s a way of life. Here in the south we don’t hide our crazy; we parade it around on the front porch and give it sweet tea.

I’m an unapologetic Mama Bear when it comes to my boys. I'm fairly mild-mannered until someone messes with my children; then I'm twelve kinds of bat-shit crazy coming unglued. It's the kind of crazy that you don't see coming. It knows no reason and has no excuse; it simply is, and that's that.

I’m a believer in co-sleeping and attachment parenting, and I believe breast milk is best for a baby. But I’m not gonna judge you if you don’t believe those things. What worked for me might not work for you, and you know what? That’s okay.

I’m pro-life and will gladly tell you the reason I believe what I do. But it isn’t up to me to judge anyone for the personal decisions they make. While I won’t help anyone obtain an abortion, neither will I stand in your way should you choose to have one.

I try very hard not to judge. I don’t always succeed, but I try.

I believe in the Bill of Rights and will fight tooth and nail to defend those rights.

I'm a strong supporter of our military. Those who won't stand behind our troops are certainly welcome to go stand in front of them. I'll even help you get there, if need be.

I’ll readily admit that I have very few close friends, but those I do have know that they couldn’t ask for a more steadfast and loyal friend than me. They know I love them and will do anything for them; and I truly would.

I am a Christian who attends a Methodist church that I adore. However, I believe and teach my children to “coexist” with everyone. I respect everyone’s beliefs, whether they’re spiritual or religious.

Little-known fact about me: I once dated a man who is Muslim. He was extraordinarily polite, treated me with respect, and never once mentioned blowing up anything. He was and still is a good friend. I also have Jewish friends, Wiccan friends (and relatives), friends who are Pagans, Catholics, atheists, and Baptists. I have friends and family who are missionaries. And you know what? I don’t have to agree with them to love them; and I do love them dearly.

I am of the firm belief that it would only take a few generations of Mamas like me teaching our children to celebrate each other’s differences rather than using them as a reason to divide us; to change the whole world.

In my house we do second chances.
We do grace.
We do real.
We do mistakes.
We do I’m sorry.
We do loud really well.
We do forgiveness.
We do mercy.
We do compassion.
We do kindness.
We do hugs.
We do family.
We do love.

I am who I am, folks. Love me, like me, or hate me; but I am who I am. I am not perfect. I might bend a little, I might even change my mind about the way I feel about something, but I refuse to change who I am for anyone.

Finding Peace in the Middle of Winter

I grew up in a little map dot of a place called Bryceville. It’s a tiny place, really, and if you blink while driving through, you just might miss it.

It’s the kind of place where life revolves around church, the small country store, or somebody’s kitchen table. Its where, as a kid, you knew better than to misbehave when your parents weren’t around because your Mama would know about it before you could get home. That or an adult you’d known your entire life would correct you the same as your own parents would.

It’s a place where "yes ma’am" and "no sir" are not only a way to show respect, but a way to tell if you're a local or “you ain’t from ‘round here.” Hearing the phrase, “How’s yer Mama ‘n them?” is quite common and if you don’t ask, folks might wonder where you left your manners.

If you’re lucky enough to be from Bryceville, then you’re lucky enough. And you may grow up and move somewhere else, but you never actually leave. As they say, you can take the girl out of Bryceville but you can’t take the Bryceville out of the girl. To me, Bryceville is home and it always will be. I’ve known many of the families literally my entire life and am probably distantly related to half of them by marriage or some such. More to the point, our families have known each other for generations past.

Bryceville is the kind of place that everyone knows everyone else. It’s a place that thrives on a sense of family and a sense of community. So when we lose one of our own, we all feel the loss as acutely as if they were family because, in a sense, they were family. Today I learned of the loss of a dear, sweet man, James Fouraker. He was truly one of the kindest, most gentle people I’ve ever known. My heart aches for his family. My heart is saddened that the community-family that is Bryceville has lost another of our own entirely too soon.

My sister, Marcee, posted this earlier and I think it says it all:

“I guess in a way we are selfish because we don't want people we love to go, when in truth, we should be happy for them. I mean what could be better? I have an aunt in the end stage of cancer right now and it's hard. But in a way, I will be so glad for her fight to be over and for her to get home. Cause that is surely no way to live. The Fourakers have had blow after blow the last couple of years. I know they are surely some strong stock to weather all this winter.”

James was a young man in his prime; enjoying life with his lovely wife and watching his grandchildren grow up. Maybe the Lord just needed James there more than He needed him to be here. Sending love and light to the Fouraker family. I hope they find some peace in the middle of their winter.

Not today, not tomorrow, not next week; Not gonna happen

Allow me to preface this-
I really don't mind my *friends and family* asking me to host a party for their business; and I don't mind hearing about the products they sell. In fact, I love having Pampered Chef, Mary Kay, Scentsy, Tupperware, Ladies Night Out, wraps, Avon, etc. parties at my house IF I have the time and if I can get a group of my friends together for it.

I also understand that picking up a phone and cold-calling people is tough. But calling someone you don't know and pretending you're long-lost pals is probably not the best way to get business.

The following is a phone call I just received:

Caller: "Hey, is this Cari?
Me: "Yes, this is Cari. What can I do for you?"
Caller: "Oh, it's so good to talk to you again! This is (NameIsn'tRingingaBell). I met you at that event in July."
Me: (pause) "Oh! Uhm," (trying valiantly to remember) "Which event was that?"
Caller: "You know, the one at the golf course."
Me: (rolling eyes to self) "Ah, okay. Which golf course?"
Caller: "The Fernandina public course. I sat at the table next to yours."
Me: (Gee, that narrows it down) "Ok, yeah, I think I might... uhm, what the name of your company again?"
Caller: "Well, at the time I was with ____ real estate but now I'm full time at my side job. I love it!"
Me: (still wracking my brains) "Oh! Well, that's great! I'm glad you're enjoying it more than your old job!"
Caller: "That's why I called you. I wanted to see if you're interested in joining my team?"
Me: "I'm sorry, what did you say your name is again?"
Caller: "(RepeatsUnfamiliarName) I can't believe you don't remember me! I gave you my card."
Me: (Eleventy-two events and a hundred business cards later...) "I haven't had enough coffee yet this morning. (self-deprecating laugh) I'm sorry; to be honest, I don't remember meeting you. You're gonna have to help me out here, what is it that you do again?"
Caller: "I sell scented candles for ____."
Me: "Oh, okay! (still don't recall meeting this person) Which event did I meet you at?"
Caller: "It was the one that the ____ sponsored. I am having a special this month if you want to become a distributor. It's only $350. for the start-up kit! But you make all your money back after one show! The kit includes..."
(tells me all about it as I shuffle through old business cards)
Caller: "Doesn't that sound like a great offer? You can pay off your car and make all sorts of extra money for Christmas! I have my calendar right here in front of me, I can schedule a time to come to your house."
Me: "I really don't have time..."
Caller: "Don't have time to make some extra money?" (laughs like I'm stupid for rejecting this fabulous offer) "You know the saying, 'If not now, then when? If not you, then who?' It's a great opportunity!"
Me: "Listen, I really do have a lot going on right now..."
Caller: "Oh. This doesn't take up a lot of time- just a few nights each week."
Me: "I don't have a couple nights each week to spare."
Caller: "Are you sure? You won't get this chance again! This is a once in a lifetime offer!"
Me: (losing patience) "I'm *sure* I don't have time to do this right now but I appreciate you thinking of me."
Caller: (getting huffy) "If you don't want to become a distributor, can you host a party? It's the least you can do for not remembering me."
Me: (flabbergasted) "I beg your pardon?"
Caller "I was just kidding! Would you like to set up a time to have lunch and we can discuss this?"
Me: (Speaking slowly) "As I said, I really don't have time..."
Caller: (in a sing-song chirpy voice) "You could make the time if you really wanted to."
Me: "As I was saying before you interrupted me- I have many commitments. I don't have time to take on anything else right now. Also, I'm still not sure who you are. I don't mean to sound rude, but I've met a lot of people over the last six months and I really don't remember meeting you."
Caller: (snotty tone) "Well, you could have just said that from the start!"

And then she hung up on me. /sigh I can't win.

First- I need to learn the fine art of saying, "Not no, but hell no. Not today, not tomorrow, not next week. No, no, no, no, no, NO!"

Second- am I required to be polite to people like this? I was tempted to call her back and tell her off, but grace and manners kicked in and I decided against it.

Third- she was right about one thing- I probably would make the time if I really wanted to do it. I wish I knew how to politely say, "I'm sorry but this isn't something I'd be interested in doing." It's just a few little words; it seems like it'd be so easy to say. But somehow, I can't bring myself to utter them.

Is it my upbringing? My sense of propriety? WHY can't I come right out and say, "No, thank you", never worrying about hurting someone's feelings or being rude?

Fourth- I have a lot of old business cards.

Joie de Vivre - My Grandma Charlotte

This blog post was fairly personal and I had to put it down and come back to it; so it took me a while to complete. I thought it a fitting time to finally finish and post it, however, since we are coming up on the yearly observance of her death.

"When somebody dies, a cloud turns into an angel and flies up to tell God to put another flower on a pillow. A bird gives the message back to the world and sings a silent prayer that makes the rain cry. People disappear but they never really go away. The spirits up there put the sun to bed, wake up the grass and spin the Earth in dizzy circles. Sometimes you can see them dancing in a cloud during the daytime when they're supposed to be sleeping. They paint the rainbows and also the sunsets and make waves splash, and tug at the tide. They toss shooting stars and listen to wishes. And when they sing wind songs, they whisper to us, 'Don't miss me too much. The view is nice and I'm doing just fine.'"

A couple months ago, my cousin, Ashlee, posted on her Facebook page that her fiancé made the off-hand comment that she wasn’t sexy. There were a plethora of replies- some funny, some not so much- and I had to throw in my two cents. It wasn’t really to prove her fiancé wrong; it was more to prove a point.

The following was my response:

Every woman has a vagina; but not every woman is sexy. Drag queens notwithstanding, of course. ;)
Sexy is all about how a woman carries herself and how much confidence she exudes without coming off as an unapproachable or intimidating bitch.
Having said that; Ashlee is my first cousin. If you were to blend her, Elizabeth (another cousin) and me together you'd have a clone of our grandmother, Charlotte, who was unequivocally the most sexy woman I've ever *personally* known. She had to ability to walk into a room and make men drool. Men wanted her and women wanted to be her. She commanded attention without saying a word. The way she walked, the way she talked... her very presence made people feel like a million bucks.
And I know my opinion isn't biased just b/c she was my grandmother... she's been dead for nearly 20 years and to this day, I STILL have people tell me what a sexy lady she was. Just two weeks ago, I walked into a local place and the man who owns it knew our grandmother. He just stared at me for a moment and then commented, "My God, as I live and breathe, it's Charlotte all over again." Then proceeded to tell me (as he has several times before) what a sexy, beautiful woman she was.
Now, having come from stock like that... Ashlee can't help but be sexy. It's in her essential make-up; it's in her genes. Perhaps she just needs a man who can bring out the sexier side of her more often. ;)

Yeah, I know, I know… I couldn’t resist the jab at his manhood there at the end. My bad. LOL I’m sure he’ll forgive me.
As I wrote the response, I realized that I’d never written a blog about my grandma, Charlotte. Probably because even after all this time, she’s still a difficult and somewhat painful topic for me to discuss. Not in the piercing serrated-knife-to-the-heart sorta way; more in the dull-ache-that-will-never-heal kinda way.

God, I miss her.

It’s not just her that I miss; it’s the way I felt when she was around that I miss, too. She had a certain zest for life that few ever experience- what the French call, “joie de vivre.” It made her an irresistible magnet. You couldn’t help but want to be around her.

I remember her coming to our house when I was a little girl for Christmas and such. She was almost always late. Fashionably late, she called it. I remember staring out of the window, waiting for her to arrive, being aggravated that she wasn’t already there. But the moment she came in the door, all was forgiven. She had a way of making you forget that you were ever mad at her.

I remember once she brought us bags of dress-up clothes. I really have no idea where those clothes came from- a yard sale? Consignment shop? No clue. But there were green lizard-skin stiletto heels in that bag and that was all that mattered. There were heels and dresses and hats and gloves and purses- a veritable treasure trove of dress-up clothes- and my cousin Elizabeth & I were in hog heaven. I can’t imagine that there were two happier little girls anywhere on the planet that day.

As I think back on that, I realize that my love of shoes probably isn’t a random coincidence.

She taught me to be pretty if I could, be witty if I must, but to be gracious if it killed me.

She taught me the “proper” way to do dishes- starting with the glasses and ending with the silverware. Made sense to me and if I still washed dishes by hand, that’s how I’d do them.

She made me eat liver and onions once. It did not make me a fan, but it taught me to try something new.

My Mama taught me basic table manners, like chewing with my mouth closed; but Grandma Charlotte taught me more formal table manners like sitting up straight, keeping my elbows off the table and the difference between a salad fork and a dinner fork. She said that I needed to know formal manners because one day I might have dinner at Buckingham Palace and need to know which fork to use.

At the time, I absolutely believed it was entirely possible that she was right. Hey, it could still happen! Not likely, but at least I won’t look like one of the Buffoons of York if I ever do find myself at a state dinner in the palace.

It won’t matter if I live to be a hundred and ten, I will still be able to recognize her handwriting. Grandma had a beautiful old-fashioned ultra-feminine script, like something you’d see in an old diary. Every now and then when I am going through old photos or boxes of things, I run across her handwriting and it always startles me- in a good way. It reminds me that she’ll never be completely gone. Not really. Not while traces of her linger here and there.

She had a style that was all her own. The flashier, the better. She actually owned a gold lame’ blazer. Liberace, Michael Jackson and Cher notwithstanding, the vast majority of us really can’t pull off wearing something like that. But she could. And she did it with style. On me, it’d look like one of NASA’s satellites had crashed to earth; but on her, it was perfect. Tall and statuesque, she wore clothes like nobody’s business. She was a firm believer in, “if you’ve got it, flaunt it” and, by God, she had it.

Sometimes, I’ll see a well-dressed, refined and polished woman and think of my grandmother. You know the ones I mean- the accessorized women who are the epitome of good breeding. Ladies whose hair and makeup are “just so” and nails are painted a tasteful red. They’re impeccably groomed in a beautifully tailored outfit, color-coordinated Dolce & Gabbana shoes & handbag and silk Hermes scarf. They are women who ooze sophistication and drip gentility. That was my grandmother.

Of course, even in a housecoat and slippers, she was well-dressed. I suppose it’s because she always exuded self-confidence. Always. In every situation. There may be someone somewhere who can remember seeing her out of her element, but I am not one of those people. She was comfortable in every situation. If she wasn’t, she did a damned good job of covering it. Better than that, she made you feel comfortable, too. She didn’t have that snotty, I’m-obviously-better-than-you attitude. If she liked you- and she liked most people- she had a way of making you feel totally at home and completely at ease. She was as down-to-earth as someone like her could be. Those who knew her will know what I mean by that.

She was the kind of woman who, if she’d shown up at a party wearing the same gown as another woman, it would never have been awkward. She’d have embraced that woman like an old friend and spent the evening laughing and telling everyone who’d listen that the whole thing was planned from the start. It wouldn’t have mattered that the women was a complete stranger to her; by the end of the night, she’d have made a new friend.

She had some of the most beautiful pieces of jewelry I’ve ever seen. It wasn’t that they were super-expensive pieces from Tiffany’s, nor were they particularly unique; but they were classic, timeless, and they were her. They defined her, somehow. Or maybe she just knew how to pick good pieces, I don’t know. But she wore them with elegance personified.

If I could have picked any of the pieces, I’d have chosen a gold heart necklace she had. Yes, I could buy myself one that looks just like it, but it wouldn’t be hers. Unfortunately, along with many of the valuables she treasured, her jewelry disappeared shortly after she died. Even more unfortunately, it was probably pawned for a pittance long ago in a seedy pawn shop and is currently hanging around the sweaty neck of some stranger who can’t begin to appreciate that its true value has nothing whatsoever to do with a dollar figure. Such is life, I suppose.

In my romanticized version of the pathetic reality, maybe my grandmother’s necklace was given to this woman as a gift from someone who meant the world to her and maybe she cherishes it as much as Grandma Charlotte did.

At least, that’s the lie I’m comfortable believing.

I’ve always found it interesting how scents evoke memories just the same as photographs do. To this day, I can’t smell Estee Lauder Youth Dew or Super Cologne spray without thinking of Grandma Charlotte. Something about the way it mixed with her body chemistry made it undeniably her. Combined with the smoky odor of a Virginia Slims cigarette, for me, it’s an absolutely unmistakable scent. Once in a great while, I’ll catch the faintest whiff of that particular combination and immediately, my brain ceases to think and, for a split second, I’m transported to another time and place.

She was a proper southern lady and she really did have the ability to make people feel like a million bucks. When she invited you into her home, you were treated like Her Royal Highness, The Queen of England. You were welcome to whatever she had cooking on the stove and given a glass of the sweetest iced tea you’ve ever had in your life.

She also had the ability to tell you to go straight to hell in such a way that you actually looked forward to the trip. You walked away knowing you’d been supremely insulted but felt like a better person for having been told off. Of all the things I inherited from her, that’s the one I wish I had more of.

I’ve been told I look like her by many, many people. As I walked into that store a few weeks ago, I knew what the owner would say- he says it every time I walk in. But this time, he stared at me for a minute longer than he usually does, just shaking his head in disbelief. His exact quote was, “My God, as I live and breathe, it’s Charlotte all over again.”

While I do favor her somewhat, those who knew her best tell me that I don’t so much look like her as I have her mannerisms and expressions. In my opinion, my cousin, Ashlee, physically looks the most like her and has her flair and flamboyance. My cousin, Elizabeth, sounds the most like her and has her panache and creativity. And I’ll be the first to admit that the two of them got the lion’s share of Grandma’s sense of style- give me basic black any day- but if there were a way to meld the three of us together, you’d have Grandma Charlotte.



I really did mean what I said about men wanting her and women wanting to be her. Since I’ve been an adult, I’ve had more than one man tell me how much he’d have loved to have had a shot at dating her. One, in particular, told me that he thought she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever known. He said it wasn’t just her pretty face; it was her attitude, too. He said she was one of the kindest people he’d ever known. It’s always interesting for me to hear her described from another’s perspective.

He also said he loved her voice. I’m not sure if he meant her accent or the timbre of her voice but both were unforgettable. She had a thick southern accent. The kind you hear on movies and wonder if anyone really talks like that in the Deep South. I am here to tell you that yes, yes, they do, indeed. She said words like “peppah”, and “buttah.” But it wasn’t corny or contrived; it was smooth and husky from years of smoking.

I’ve heard it said that how you face life is only half as important as how you face death. If that is so, then she was a courageous woman, indeed.

When she started having unexplainable headaches that no amount of Tylenol would alleviate, she cut off her hair, thinking the weight of it being pinned up was causing the headaches. It was only a few short weeks later that she found out she had lung cancer. She chose to fight it and fight she did- in true Charlotte style. She started by packing up her things and moving to my family’s beach house. She also did chemo and radiation.

She fought hard and for a while there it looked like she just might win when the cancer went into a brief remission, but by 1992 it had spread into her brain and there was no beating that. There was only making the best of the time she had left.

She actually teased us and joked with us about death. Macabre, yes, but it was her way of dealing with a situation that was beyond her control. She wasn’t making light of death but she knew that it would be damned near impossible for us to have to watch her die and be helpless to stop it. She always hated gigantic white elephants sitting smack dab in the middle of the room. In her magical way, she confronted it head-on and made it okay to talk about. Talking about it didn’t make it go away completely, of course; it just made it easier for us to forget that she was sick and to treat her normally.

For a while it worked- until the cancer came back.

Cancer is a bitch. Period.

Cancer took her from us- from me- entirely too soon. It’s not fair that she missed my wedding. It’s not fair that she never got to meet my husband- I think she’d have loved him. It’s not fair that she never got to meet her great-grandchildren and not fair that they never had the privilege of knowing her. And it’s damned sure not fair that I can’t pick up the phone and call her or drop by to see her.

There is a song by Rhett Akins called, “If Heaven Wasn’t So Far Away.” In the song, he says, “If Heaven wasn’t so far away, I’d pack up the kids and go for the day. Introduce them to their grandpa and watch ‘em laugh at the way he talks…
And tell them we’d be back in a couple of days. In the rear-view mirror, we’d all watch ‘em wave. And losing them wouldn’t be so hard to take; if Heaven wasn’t so far away.”

If only it were that easy. To just go visit any time I’d like. That would work for me. But if I am honest with myself, I don’t want just five more minutes to hear her voice or smell her unique scent- it would never be enough for me. I’m selfish like that.

Whenever I am confronted with something I don’t want to face, I tend to shut down and pull inside myself. I don’t want to go through the motions of getting out of bed, getting dressed and being civilized. And I am an absolute master at finding reasons why these things aren’t necessary so that I won’t have to do them. When she got sick, it was one of those times. So when I say that I’m not quite sure of the exact sequence of events and dates, now you know why.

Thanksgiving of 1992 was hard. Hospice had been called. She’d lost all her hair for the second time. The steroids she had to take in order to keep any food down made her look sick and bloated. Her perfect, pale porcelain skin was ashy and pasty.

Still, we went on as if she wasn’t sick; as if the end wasn’t imminent, knowing all too well that it was. The giant white elephant was back again and this time, he wasn’t budging. We all knew it was just a matter of weeks. Everyone- my Papa (her first husband and father of her children) and Gran, aunts, uncles, cousins- everyone made sure to stay close by. The only ones who ventured further than a couple hundred miles were my parents.

That year, my parents had won a trip to Arizona to accept an award at a convention. As luck would have it, the convention was in December. They debated for weeks whether or not to attend and in the end, they decided to go. While Mama and Daddy were gone, everyone came to our house. Since all the kids would be at Mama’s and since it was still Christmas, I decided that we needed a Christmas tree. That was the first year I did the tree entirely by myself. It helped me to appreciate how much trouble my mother went to every.single.year- year after year- to make our Christmases special.

Looking back, I know it was a desperate attempt on my part to bring normalcy to what was certainly not a normal situation.

During this time, Grandma Charlotte didn’t really recognize anyone. Not well, anyway. She’d have short periods of time where she was completely lucid but there close to the end, I don’t think she even knew where she was.

It was also during this time that Grandma began to slip in and out of deep sleep. I would call these episodes comas but I don’t think that’s really the proper term for it. Each time, they’d think that would be “it” but it wasn’t. I can’t recall exactly, but I think we were called in at least twice because they thought it was over and each time, she’d always wake up again.

I’m not really sure how to explain how I felt at this point… it’s difficult for me to express. No, my feelings weren’t misplaced guilt. No, I didn’t blame her for being sick. My God, how could I? It wasn’t her fault.

I suppose I was angry with the injustice of it all.

I am a doer and delegator by nature- I always have been. If I see something that needs to be done, I do it or have it done. I make things happen and I am good at it. I can be relentless when I want something. Some people would call that pig-headedness; I call it persistence.

In this case, I was powerless. She was being ripped away from me and there was nothing… absolutely nothing… I could do to stop it.

The helplessness was maddening for me.

Sure, I’d faced the death of a loved one before but this time was different. I’d been close to my great-grandfather, but when he died I was only ten; now I was fifteen and much more aware of- and struggling with- my own mortality. Much more aware that life isn’t easy nor is it fair. I was dealing with not only the loss of my beloved grandmother but a heaping, extra-bitter dose of reality as well.

It was so hard for me to see her sick. As a result, I stayed away except for the times I had to visit. In my mind, she was still the sophisticated woman who inspired men to drool and turned women green. But the reality was far different from the image in my mind’s eye. Here was this vibrant, beautiful woman who was so many things to so many people, basically wasted away to nothing but a sick, deathly pale, ravaged shell of the woman she once was. It was heartbreaking to witness.

She’d always tried so hard to be dignified, sophisticated; but seeing her like that- barely recognizable- I knew inside that if she were able to protest, she wouldn’t want anyone to see her that way.

Just before Christmas, they called us to come again and this time it was different. Somehow, I knew in my heart that this really was “it.” She’d already gone to sleep when each of us arrived. To this day, I remember the exact way the room felt when I came in- the way it smelled. Her labored, intermittent breaths, followed by utter silence.

I wasn’t sure what to say so I just told her that I loved her. There really was nothing more to say, I guess. I have no idea if she did, of course, but I’d like to think she heard me.

Then they quickly whisked us kids out of the room and sent us out on the deck to sing Christmas songs. At some point a bit later, someone came up to tell us that she’d passed on.

She had looked Death in the face and, in her typically gracious way, accepted that he’d won.

I remember feeling guilty over the relief I felt. I wasn’t relieved she was gone; I was relieved she was no longer suffering. There was no more pain. No more indignities. As much as I wanted her to stay, death was a bittersweet blessing.

Grandma and I had a theological discussion once and she asked me if I believed in heaven and hell. I told her I absolutely did believe in heaven and hell. She asked if I believed in souls and spirits and ghosts and I told her I absolutely did. Then she told me that if there really was life after death and there was any way possible for her to come back and let me know that she was okay that she would.

I have lived in this world long enough to learn that I have still a lot to learn. There are things that are beyond my comprehension- things that are beyond any our understanding on a personal, religious, or scientific level. But I do know what I’ve seen and heard. I’ve learned to trust my senses and my gut feelings.

Those nights that I wake up and smell that unmistakable scent that could only belong to her, I know she’s here with me. Those times when it’s perfectly still in my house and a sudden rush of cold wind blows through the house for no apparent reason- I know it’s her.

I know, I know, I’m crazy, right? It’s okay, you don’t have to believe me. Most people have a hard time accepting what they can’t explain.

After she died, I can’t tell you how many times I picked up the phone and dialed her number, only to have my stomach drop to my toes as I remembered that I couldn’t call her. There are few days that go by that I don’t miss her or think of her in one way or another.

Now, was she perfect? Oh, God, no. Was she well-behaved? Hell no. If I am honest with myself about this, I really think don’t think she wanted to be perfect or well-behaved. I think she simply was who she was, and that was that. Take her or leave her but, try as you might, you sure as hell weren’t going to change her. She didn’t try to fit in anywhere, she made people fit her. Only you didn’t realize you were doing it at the time. She was truly one of the most unique and amazing people I’ve ever known.

Personally, I don’t think she was ever meant to stay among us mere mortals. I think she was always meant for somewhere better than here.