55 years......7 weeks......2 days. Such a mathematical way to describe a life. That's how old my Mother was, when she died - at 10:30 pm on a cold December night when I was 18 years.....6 weeks....and 2 days of age. Around 10:00 on that most horrible of all nights, her death rattle became so loud it seemed to shake the very walls of the ancient hospital room. Frightened, it seemed like all of us keeping vigil pressed our backs to the walls as one. My Father, in a broken sob kept repeating "Breathe Honey.....Breathe....." I couldn't stand the thought that she might die without a touch, so I climbed in the bed with her, and curled my body around hers....one last time. My beautiful, broken Mama....my kindred heart....my touchstone....my best friend....my strength....my everything. She died in my arms. One last kiss, an embrace....I buried my face in her shoulder and breathed the last smell of a Mothers love, before my Father gently pulled me up and off the bed. I fled to the hall and searched out Sarah - my boon companion. She and her Mom had waited there all night, knowing I would have need of them. We stayed at the hospital long enough to see my Mother rolled away by the men from the funeral home, one of whom was my former school bus driver - a mean spirited boy that I detested.
When Dad unlocked the back door of our house, we entered the darkness in a heavy silence. I went to the Silver Chest, lifted the top tray and felt around until my fingers found the letter. The one that had long resided there, nestled in the deep blue corduroy lining. The one whose envelope said "For Kelley Bell. To be opened in the event of my death". I kissed my Father and locked myself in my room and read that letter over and over again. The one that poured out a Mothers love and hopes for my adulthood - one that she had always known she would not see. Adulthood? Not possible. I was certain that I would not survive the night, that in my grief I would just stop breathing. I slept in my clothes. On top of the bedspread. When I awoke, my eyes were swollen shut and my long hair was a clump of mats. The letter, still clutched in my hand. I read it again, hearing Mama's voice in every word...it closed with a blessing for the daughters I might have and the love I would surely find.
How. Would. I. live.....through the day? through the week? Till the very day when I had lived one more minute, taken one more breath than my Mother? On the day that I was 55 years.....7 weeks....2 days and one minute.
That occurred tonight, at 10:31. I am sitting in my kitchen, with a candle, a shot of fireball and Janis Ian keeping me company in my vigil. The little cedar box that holds my Mama's letter open - the letter read and cried over. The daughters my Mother prayed for me to have, both upstairs in bed. Every day of my life since I was 18 years, 6 weeks and 2 days old have been spent with my Mother in my heart, knowing that no one has ever or will ever love me as much as she did. We were lucky, she and I. To have had each other. From a young age I was aware of the blessing that was my Mama, and that our relationship was rare and precious. And, as neurotic as it might sound, many of those days have seen the thought, "How will it be when, God willing, I live one minute, one day longer than Mama?"
And now 37 years later, I have arrived, and in this moment it feels.....cold, and empty, and sad. I had always thought I would feel relief, if I made it to this advanced, important age and milestone. It is not as old as I had imagined it would be....I still feel young (except for my knees....and my back....). Did Mama still feel young? I know the answer is probably not - her prolonged illness certainly took it's toll.
In a few minutes, I will go out the front door and stand in the night. I will breathe in the cold air and look at the stars, and give thanks for my one of a kind Mama. I will go to bed and get under the covers. I will curl around the love my Mother envisioned for me, and I will wake as I did so many years ago, with eyes swollen shut from the tears I have cried. Tomorrow I will be 55 years, 7 weeks and 3 days. I will let my daughters read "the letter"....a legacy of love from the Grandmother they never knew....and then....who knows? Maybe I will cut all of my hair off. Or dye it blue - something slightly jarring to snap me out of this....I will drink coffee and look at the sky, and breathe in the air. I will pick up my last, almost grown daughter from school. I will herd and conduct a passel of excited kids, as they present the Christmas Program that they have worked so hard on...I will live the life that my Mother fought so hard to give me. But for tonight, I am both 18 years, 6 weeks, 2 days AND 55 years, 7 weeks, 2 days and one minute. Tonight, I am me AND my Mother....together again.
Tuesday, December 8, 2015
Thursday, October 8, 2015
Color me Speechless....
So, last night at the beginning of Children's Choir (Better known as the Treble Makers), we had sharing time, as is our tradition. I went last, and shared that I had a big birthday coming up on Sunday. My compatriots clamored to guess my age. I was pretty pleased as they were all trying numbers in the 40's. To each guess, I shook my head no, until one little fellow jumped up out of his seat and executed a perfect "Sha Na Na" knee slide over to my chair. As he arrived at my feet he smiled and shouted "You are 36 and Beautiful". Seeing as how I am fixing to turn 55, he got a gold star and the first piece of candy!!
This birthday is a tough one. I was 18 when my Mother died - at the age of - you guessed it......55. To say that I have been in a "bit of a mood" is akin to saying we had a "bit of rain" last week (You do remember those record rain totals and generalized flooding, right?). SO, the laugh those little guys gave me last night provided for a much needed lightening of the spirit......you know what they say....no good deed (or evidently no good mood) goes unpunished.
The fancy pants school that Babiest attends in the next town over is on Fall Break as of 1:00 this afternoon. It has become our tradition to enjoy a nice lunch out on these early release days, so I was looking forward to the time. I got up at the hiney crack of dawn, did my chores (I wanted a clean house for my 3 day weekend - I even have Sunday off!), donned a snappy outfit, complete with red cowboy boots, and left a couple of hours early, so I could get in some good mall time before pickup.
I made my usual rounds, looking at this and that....sampled the tea at Teavana, allowed myself to fall prey to the dream that is Pottery Barn, and then ended with some quality time in Sephora. While there, I doused myself liberally in Physiology's "Pure Grace" (my second favorite perfume), applied some new blush, a little eyeshadow, and some wickedly expensive neck cream. Hey - they ARE labeled "tester" for a reason, right? Looking at my watch, I determined I had just enough time to pass by the new skin care place where the girl outside the door insists you take a sample (It really IS good face cream), before I needed to head out to get Babiest.
My only defense is that I was still in that Pottery Barn/ Pure Grace trance. I allowed the lovely girl to lead me into the store, for the purposes of demonstrating the miracle that is their Glycolic peel ....and what a bargain, at only 120.00 per teeny tiny jar. As part of her sales pitch, this beautiful girl asked me what I did. I told her I was a Children's Minister. The very handsome man at the counter, who turned out to be the Manager of the fine establishment, said "You? A WOMAN?" He drew close, and spoke to the girl in their native tongue (Something velvety and exotic). He then turned his mega watt smile on me and explained that they were not accustomed to a Woman having a job in a Church. After that - he was all business. He examined my skin with a fine tooth comb....turning my head this way and that, muttering as he did so. Asking my age...looking some more......he was distressed by my "advanced Rosacea" (which, I don't think is all that noticeable....just sayin)....finally, this Handsome man was ready to make his Pronouncement. "Dear Lady", said he....."you are looking pretty good for your age....really." (Please - to get the desired effect, you must be reading this in a really dreamy middle eastern accent) And then.....his eyes and hands left my face, and dropped a .....little lower. "But these wrinkles here......" He took a deep breath, and waving his hands dramatically over my neck and.....ummm....decollete (OK fine - my shirt may have been cut a little too low), pleaded - " I KNOW you work for God Almighty, but Please dear lady - you must DO something about THIS!"................color me speechless,and in search of a good turtleneck...it's WAY more frugal than the Glycolic Peel.
This birthday is a tough one. I was 18 when my Mother died - at the age of - you guessed it......55. To say that I have been in a "bit of a mood" is akin to saying we had a "bit of rain" last week (You do remember those record rain totals and generalized flooding, right?). SO, the laugh those little guys gave me last night provided for a much needed lightening of the spirit......you know what they say....no good deed (or evidently no good mood) goes unpunished.
The fancy pants school that Babiest attends in the next town over is on Fall Break as of 1:00 this afternoon. It has become our tradition to enjoy a nice lunch out on these early release days, so I was looking forward to the time. I got up at the hiney crack of dawn, did my chores (I wanted a clean house for my 3 day weekend - I even have Sunday off!), donned a snappy outfit, complete with red cowboy boots, and left a couple of hours early, so I could get in some good mall time before pickup.
I made my usual rounds, looking at this and that....sampled the tea at Teavana, allowed myself to fall prey to the dream that is Pottery Barn, and then ended with some quality time in Sephora. While there, I doused myself liberally in Physiology's "Pure Grace" (my second favorite perfume), applied some new blush, a little eyeshadow, and some wickedly expensive neck cream. Hey - they ARE labeled "tester" for a reason, right? Looking at my watch, I determined I had just enough time to pass by the new skin care place where the girl outside the door insists you take a sample (It really IS good face cream), before I needed to head out to get Babiest.
My only defense is that I was still in that Pottery Barn/ Pure Grace trance. I allowed the lovely girl to lead me into the store, for the purposes of demonstrating the miracle that is their Glycolic peel ....and what a bargain, at only 120.00 per teeny tiny jar. As part of her sales pitch, this beautiful girl asked me what I did. I told her I was a Children's Minister. The very handsome man at the counter, who turned out to be the Manager of the fine establishment, said "You? A WOMAN?" He drew close, and spoke to the girl in their native tongue (Something velvety and exotic). He then turned his mega watt smile on me and explained that they were not accustomed to a Woman having a job in a Church. After that - he was all business. He examined my skin with a fine tooth comb....turning my head this way and that, muttering as he did so. Asking my age...looking some more......he was distressed by my "advanced Rosacea" (which, I don't think is all that noticeable....just sayin)....finally, this Handsome man was ready to make his Pronouncement. "Dear Lady", said he....."you are looking pretty good for your age....really." (Please - to get the desired effect, you must be reading this in a really dreamy middle eastern accent) And then.....his eyes and hands left my face, and dropped a .....little lower. "But these wrinkles here......" He took a deep breath, and waving his hands dramatically over my neck and.....ummm....decollete (OK fine - my shirt may have been cut a little too low), pleaded - " I KNOW you work for God Almighty, but Please dear lady - you must DO something about THIS!"................color me speechless,and in search of a good turtleneck...it's WAY more frugal than the Glycolic Peel.
Tuesday, September 15, 2015
Biggest Boob in Town
It's been a while since I've written anything......In the last little bit, my life has not been anything to write home about, so to speak.....unless I were writing for a melodrama, or a "too many stressful things to be believed" publication. Anywho....it speaks volumes for me to confess that the mortification I am feeling now is at least a change from the old mad, sad, bad routine.
I was in the Teeter (I swear the title to my autobiography should just be "Yet another trip to the Teeter"). They were horribly short staffed today, and the lines were long, so I grabbed a Better Homes and Gardens, and chose the longest one (I may have mentioned before that I read the Magazines in the store, in an effort to be frugal). I blame the magazine I had my nose in.....that, and the fact that even though I DESPERATELY need them, I never wear my glasses. I was looking at a spread with the most beautiful Fall Porches, when my buggy jostled. I look up to see a Man trying to cut in line.
Now allow me to interject, that I am a big fan of letting someone ahead of you in line....I view it as a kindness....a pay it forward kind of thing. The flip side of that coin is that cutting in line (It falls into the not following the rules category, which is a BIG pet peeve, second only to Bad Grammar) really, REALLY yanks my chain. So in a voice calculated to be polite, yet firm I said "Excuse me sir, but I am next in line". As I spoke, I simultaneously realized 3 things. I was in line behind a Church Member (You might recall that I am in the Ministry). I was in line beside a friend (ALSO a Church Member) whose health problems, and the grace with which he deals with them would bring a DemiGod to their knees. And worst of all....the line-breaking Man (A stranger, NOT a Church Member) in question was a contemporary of Methuselah, and his wife was leaning on canes - looking as if she would benefit from prolonged use of portable oxygen.
So NOW what am I supposed to do? Say - "Oh no, please - forgive my assertiveness - go ahead of me, because you are of a highly advanced age?!" How terrible would THAT make them feel? The horrible reality is - these are the kind of folks that I would have insisted go in front of me in a normal circumstance, and now everyone within a 4 register radius is staring at me (remember - I have a theatrically trained voice - it carries). So, I offer my best Mommy smile at the elderly couple - the one that says to your child "this hurts me far more than it does you", took a cleansing breath and soldiered on - pushing my buggy ahead in the queue. They fell into line behind me, muttering under their breath indignantly. The magazine, now ruined for me, was put to the side as I stared straight ahead, face aflame, waiting my turn. The cashier - a new employee - took my Harris Teeter "VeryImportantCustomer" card with judgement oozing from his every pore. Of course, there was a problem with my rain check for the Dog Food, causing quite a delay in completing my order - allowing ample time for me to be on public display - surrounded by the ugly aura from the shock waves of my heinous behavior. Transaction complete, I fly to the car, wearing my mortification like a hot, itchy smelly cloak of wool. Groceries loaded, My shame and I dive into the drivers seat and prepare to make a get away. Just as I am pulling out of my parking lane, there - blocking my path to freedom is PaPaw, pushing his cart. He glares at me with the condemnation of the righteous, Granny hobbling along behind - teetering on unsteady canes.
I have been home for some time now. The groceries are put away, and I have made my written confession (they say it is good for the soul). My face is still Scarlett, and I feel like I have swallowed a hot poker.....Just call me - The Biggest Boob in Town.
I was in the Teeter (I swear the title to my autobiography should just be "Yet another trip to the Teeter"). They were horribly short staffed today, and the lines were long, so I grabbed a Better Homes and Gardens, and chose the longest one (I may have mentioned before that I read the Magazines in the store, in an effort to be frugal). I blame the magazine I had my nose in.....that, and the fact that even though I DESPERATELY need them, I never wear my glasses. I was looking at a spread with the most beautiful Fall Porches, when my buggy jostled. I look up to see a Man trying to cut in line.
Now allow me to interject, that I am a big fan of letting someone ahead of you in line....I view it as a kindness....a pay it forward kind of thing. The flip side of that coin is that cutting in line (It falls into the not following the rules category, which is a BIG pet peeve, second only to Bad Grammar) really, REALLY yanks my chain. So in a voice calculated to be polite, yet firm I said "Excuse me sir, but I am next in line". As I spoke, I simultaneously realized 3 things. I was in line behind a Church Member (You might recall that I am in the Ministry). I was in line beside a friend (ALSO a Church Member) whose health problems, and the grace with which he deals with them would bring a DemiGod to their knees. And worst of all....the line-breaking Man (A stranger, NOT a Church Member) in question was a contemporary of Methuselah, and his wife was leaning on canes - looking as if she would benefit from prolonged use of portable oxygen.
So NOW what am I supposed to do? Say - "Oh no, please - forgive my assertiveness - go ahead of me, because you are of a highly advanced age?!" How terrible would THAT make them feel? The horrible reality is - these are the kind of folks that I would have insisted go in front of me in a normal circumstance, and now everyone within a 4 register radius is staring at me (remember - I have a theatrically trained voice - it carries). So, I offer my best Mommy smile at the elderly couple - the one that says to your child "this hurts me far more than it does you", took a cleansing breath and soldiered on - pushing my buggy ahead in the queue. They fell into line behind me, muttering under their breath indignantly. The magazine, now ruined for me, was put to the side as I stared straight ahead, face aflame, waiting my turn. The cashier - a new employee - took my Harris Teeter "VeryImportantCustomer" card with judgement oozing from his every pore. Of course, there was a problem with my rain check for the Dog Food, causing quite a delay in completing my order - allowing ample time for me to be on public display - surrounded by the ugly aura from the shock waves of my heinous behavior. Transaction complete, I fly to the car, wearing my mortification like a hot, itchy smelly cloak of wool. Groceries loaded, My shame and I dive into the drivers seat and prepare to make a get away. Just as I am pulling out of my parking lane, there - blocking my path to freedom is PaPaw, pushing his cart. He glares at me with the condemnation of the righteous, Granny hobbling along behind - teetering on unsteady canes.
I have been home for some time now. The groceries are put away, and I have made my written confession (they say it is good for the soul). My face is still Scarlett, and I feel like I have swallowed a hot poker.....Just call me - The Biggest Boob in Town.
Thursday, March 26, 2015
No Medium Required.
I would love to meet the Long Island Medium. I have this fleeting fantasy.....We pass each other in the grocery store, or the WalMart, or on the GreenWay. She stops, and gasps -" I have a message for you - from your Mother". The fantasy starts to unravel there, because - really - what would I want her to say? At the end of the day, I think I would just want to feel her presence - if only for an instant.
Twice, in the last few weeks - I have been so blessed - and it didn't even require the Medium.
A couple of weeks ago, I spied a beautiful, familiar face on the Bread Aisle of the Teeter. (My Mother had 3 best friends - 2 of whom are still living). Martha, - white hair cut in a modern, sassy style, eyes still twinkling with health and vigor - a bright jacket that forced you to take a second glance, was checking out the Pepperedge Farm. We were so happy to see each other, and as she hugged me, I allowed myself, for just a moment, to relax into a Mothers embrace. (I am sure Martha's daughter, my friend Alice, would not mind sharing). If she noticed that my head stayed on her shoulder a smidge longer than necessary - that I was the last one to end the hug - she didn't let on. We chatted about my children, her children...inevitably, the talk turned to my Mom, gone these many, many, many years.
Martha's last words ensured my family would eat a hodge podge of leftovers that night - sent me fleeing from the store, so I could cry my tears in the privacy of my old HippieChick van. "Your Mother would be so proud of you......she loved you so."
Today, leaving a luncheon honoring a retiring co-worker, I ran into Dot, the other remaining BFF. At 90 years old, she still drives a sleek, elegant car, and wields her rolling walker like a Five Star General. "I have something for you in my car - it has been there for months", she said. Together, we crossed the Club parking lot, she opened the door, and handed me a bag...inside was one of Mama's framed pen and inks. "This has hung on the wall of the Mountain House for all of these years. I wanted you to have it". Once again, I allowed myself the luxury of a Mother's embrace....and Dot was content to hug me longer than propriety decreed. Her parting words...."Your Mother would be so proud of you.....she loved you so". Identical to those Martha had spoken days before. My friends were waiting in the car, and I hurried to get in - head down, clutching the little bag with the treasure inside. Thankfully, the Church is just a block from the Club, so we were there in a jiff. I managed to close myself in my office without making a public spectacle, but once seated at my desk, my tears bathed the little picture - the one I remember my Mother drawing, so long ago.
I have felt such a longing lately for my Mother....for a hug, some words of encouragement.....a little nurturing to make up for 37 years of fending for myself....
In 8 months and 13 days (But who's counting, and God willing) I will have lived one day longer than my Mama. As a grieving 18 year old, I constantly thought about that day....when I would be older than She ever got to be....55....it seemed so old....so unattainable....so unthinkable - that I could survive for so long with no Mother. But I have, and often it has been a hard scrabble, punishing journey...one that has left me in dire need of some non existant tender care.
God has often shown up for me in unusual ways, during the course of my life. I do not believe it was coincidence, that these two women uttered the exact same words. He sent me a Mother's embrace when I needed it most...through those that were closest to my Mom...I felt her presence - for a moment, I smelled Jean Nate perfume and Jergens Original scent lotion....I saw her eyes in the eyes of her besties - the softness of their age worn cheeks was the softness of hers....her love, channeled through the decades - like a note in a bottle - sent long ago, for a future time.
Message received.
Thanks be to God for the Blessings of this day.
Tuesday, January 20, 2015
A "Go to" kind of day
It was a moment that hung suspended in terror and mortification. A moment where time slowed to such an extent that I found myself able to relive the entire day up to that point, and still have ample time to cover up and holler.....loudly.
This Tuesday began at a slightly slower pace than normal....Babiest Girl was home sick (She is, thankfully, feeling better), and Baby Girl - owing to the three day weekend didn't have to be back on campus until after lunch. So there was Coffee AND breakfast....time to fuss over hair and makeup, love on the sick one, pick up new contacts for Baby G AND make it to campus early, allowing us to grab one more cup of coffee (At the coolio shop that I refer to as "The place formerly known as Friars Cellar", which is what it was in the golden days of my carefree youth). One last hug for my beautiful growndy up girl and I was off towards the Dinner Theatre for my Matinee.
Now, it is not a long drive - a straight shot down the thoroughfare, and a left before you hit the underpass. It was however just long enough for the Coffee to work it's number on my bladder. By the time I parked the car and grabbed my theatre bag, I was doing "the dance"....which is, as I have stated before, a direct result of three kids born, and not enough Kegels done. I climbed the steep back stairs to the actors quarters and dashed to my dressing room which, mercifully has an attached restroom. Quick as a wink, I had dropped my bag at my table, flipped the light switch and locked the door. Seeing as how it is a show day, I was forced to wrestle with heavy spandex tights AND a set of Spanx (Too much info, I know...but it sets up the visual). I arose the victor, and.....finally. Whew....I made it.
Now let me pause here to acquaint you with the layout of the little bathroom. Toilet tucked in a tight corner, sink in front...and a funny little window, which allows you a lovely view of the sky and the tin roof on the Theatre bellow. I always feel like I am in a tower when I am in that bathroom....one that I have made use of for over 30 years. Come to think of it, it is the most constant "facility"of my Fiftysome years. But I digress.....Imagine my shock, as I looked out that high tower window from my perch on the throne and saw, not sky nor tin roof....but MAN!....gazing into said tower window. I'm guessing he was too bumfuzzled to look away, having witnessed my tug of war with my foundation garments...so there we were - face to face...frozen in terror and mortification. My scream loosened his feet, and now HE was the one doing the dance...scampering away as if the roof were lava. It is a good thing I was in the appropriate place, or I would have needed to do laundry before the First Act.
This is just a guess, but I am thinking that poor man might be reconsidering his choice of profession (he was a roofer) right about now, because....let's face it - there are just some things you can't unsee. My friend, acting partner and Boon Companion helped me assure our future privacy....There is now an old cork board propped up against our beautiful little tower window- wedged in place by a huge water jug. Obscuring the beautiful sky, but ensuring the safety and privacy of the "go"......
This Tuesday began at a slightly slower pace than normal....Babiest Girl was home sick (She is, thankfully, feeling better), and Baby Girl - owing to the three day weekend didn't have to be back on campus until after lunch. So there was Coffee AND breakfast....time to fuss over hair and makeup, love on the sick one, pick up new contacts for Baby G AND make it to campus early, allowing us to grab one more cup of coffee (At the coolio shop that I refer to as "The place formerly known as Friars Cellar", which is what it was in the golden days of my carefree youth). One last hug for my beautiful growndy up girl and I was off towards the Dinner Theatre for my Matinee.
Now, it is not a long drive - a straight shot down the thoroughfare, and a left before you hit the underpass. It was however just long enough for the Coffee to work it's number on my bladder. By the time I parked the car and grabbed my theatre bag, I was doing "the dance"....which is, as I have stated before, a direct result of three kids born, and not enough Kegels done. I climbed the steep back stairs to the actors quarters and dashed to my dressing room which, mercifully has an attached restroom. Quick as a wink, I had dropped my bag at my table, flipped the light switch and locked the door. Seeing as how it is a show day, I was forced to wrestle with heavy spandex tights AND a set of Spanx (Too much info, I know...but it sets up the visual). I arose the victor, and.....finally. Whew....I made it.
Now let me pause here to acquaint you with the layout of the little bathroom. Toilet tucked in a tight corner, sink in front...and a funny little window, which allows you a lovely view of the sky and the tin roof on the Theatre bellow. I always feel like I am in a tower when I am in that bathroom....one that I have made use of for over 30 years. Come to think of it, it is the most constant "facility"of my Fiftysome years. But I digress.....Imagine my shock, as I looked out that high tower window from my perch on the throne and saw, not sky nor tin roof....but MAN!....gazing into said tower window. I'm guessing he was too bumfuzzled to look away, having witnessed my tug of war with my foundation garments...so there we were - face to face...frozen in terror and mortification. My scream loosened his feet, and now HE was the one doing the dance...scampering away as if the roof were lava. It is a good thing I was in the appropriate place, or I would have needed to do laundry before the First Act.
This is just a guess, but I am thinking that poor man might be reconsidering his choice of profession (he was a roofer) right about now, because....let's face it - there are just some things you can't unsee. My friend, acting partner and Boon Companion helped me assure our future privacy....There is now an old cork board propped up against our beautiful little tower window- wedged in place by a huge water jug. Obscuring the beautiful sky, but ensuring the safety and privacy of the "go"......
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