Feeling a Bit Georgia O’Keeffeish

I indulged today in a few minutes of one of my favorite hobbies – looking up Nature's skirt. With friends posting about watermelon patches and persimmon trees, I am inspired to take better stock of the beauty around me. This afternoon, I found a patch of gorgeous lemon-yellow day lilies that were peaking. I took a few photos only to find that, well, I can't help but think they're rather naughty. Pretty, but most assuredly naughty.

Ms. O'Keeffe said, "Nobody sees a flower really; it is so small. We haven't time, and to see takes time - like to have a friend takes time." So here is a spot of lemon-yellow happy for my friends. Thank you for brightening my days.

Mr. Toady

Let me introduce you to an old friend of mine. He has lived at our house for at least three years, and every year he gets a little bigger. He never makes a sound, and this is the first time I've ever seen him outside of his usual hangout, which is next to our garage doors. I only see him at night, and I am always extra careful when I park so I don't smoosh him. I never go in without giving him a greeting when he's there.

I was getting something out of the car tonight, and his little nose gave away his location. I could not resist taking a picture. Hopefully, he can see again by now.

And no, I'm not going to kiss him.

Walt Twitman

This series cracked me up, and I had to share. Enjoy!

In Memoriam

The place has changed since my last visit. I must now travel through the main entrance because the surface streets that used to let out onto the main thoroughfare have been terminated. I wind my way through the maze, not entirely sure of the best route, but comfortable that I'm at least heading in the correct direction.

As I pull up to the lake, I see a few people and I slow my car down. To my right I observe a father in his mid-30s supervising his young daughter – I estimate her age at two years, and she has curls the color of powdered sugar – who is at the water's edge feeding bread to the geese and ducks. I stop to watch them for a moment, moved, and when the father turns to me and smiles, I roll down the car window and tell him I have something to share with him. He smiles and nods, encouraging me, and I clear my throat and say, "When I was a little girl, not much older than your daughter, my father would bring me to this lake to feed the geese. It was a very special time for us." His eyes widen in surprise, and he says, "Really? I guess I didn't know the lake had been here long." I laugh, overlooking his innocent comment, and say, "Yes, long before we put my father to rest here. I just wanted to say that I'm glad you are bringing your daughter here to do this. It touched me to see her there." He grins and tells me they love to come there, and when I wish them a good day, he waves and says, "Thank you for the story."

Wandering through the labyrinth, I marvel at how many new residents have settled in since my last visit. I notice many new trees dotting the landscape. I hope I can remember how to find him amidst the shifting landmarks.

I do find my way, and as I stop my car, I am greeted by a sea of small American flags, waving to and fro in the warm, soft breeze. I follow the signature line of birch trees to where they intersect with another line of trees, and this is where he rests. The trees are all so big now, which tells me it's been far too long since my last visit.

I sit on the ground, at his feet. This happens every time; I have so much to tell him, but when I'm with him, I forget, remembering only how to cry like a daughter. It amazes me that he can still touch my heart and soothe me, telling me my tears are wasted and that all is as it should be. I turn my face to the sun and let it dry my tears; a few escape the warmth and are carried away on the soft breeze, coming to rest on a blade or two of grass.

I close my eyes and I hear the whisper of the flags all around me, the chirping of a pinwheel on a nearby marker, the tender song of small windchimes that have been placed in the lower branches of the trees, the soft hiss of the fountain in the lake, and the birds singing in the surrounding woods. I do not hear the curse made by the ant as it bites me on my left index finger. I flick him away.

Sitting here instills a calm inside me. There is an ancient magnolia leaf near me at the foot of the grave, brown and fragile. I look around but there are no magnolia trees in sight. Where did it travel from? Most likely carried by the errant breeze, like a tear.

After a short, silent spell in the sunshine, I'm ready to exit the silk and plastic garden with all of its accouterments. I send kind thoughts to all of his neighbors, particularly those bearing the little flags. And I find myself making parting apologies to my father, something new for me:

I'm sorry I was not a better judge of character.
I'm sorry I let love blind me to the truth.
I'm sorry I let someone steal from our family.

Hush, he says. All is as it should be.

The tears are gone. Another ant bites me, this time on my left foot. This one I hear, however; he says, "Hurry up. You have a life to live."

The Power of the Smiley

I love it when my family gets together.

As I get older, I find that each family meeting (in this case, a visit from my grandparents) grounds us firmly in the present, while allowing us to reminisce on events from our collective past. Getting together also lets us share by reaching back into our respective pasts, and offering forth things previously unknown by our loved ones. At such gatherings, I hear about and observe little superstitions, inside jokes, and rituals that serve to strengthen the bond between family members, and that unite them in solidarity against the negative. Family superstitions are not uncommon, and can even be replicated – perhaps through the collective unconscious – by multiple families from different locales.

My parents adopted one such superstition, and it's one that I will carry with me throughout my life. During their marriage, if either of my parents had occasion to spend the night in a hospital, the other would take a magic marker (felt tip, usually black) and draw a smiley face on the bottom of one of the patient's big toes. It was a particular smiley – two small circles for eyes (not darkened in) and a big, loopy, elongated smile that was proportionate to the pad of the toe.

I remember the first time I observed this ritual performed, and fascinated, I asked why my father was drawing a smiley on my mother's big toe, while Mother giggled away in the hospital bed. He just smiled and told me it was so she wouldn't be alone in the hospital. I learned that the smiley's job was to watch over her while she slept, and while she underwent surgery. It was a symbol of luck for us. It was also an effective non-verbal communication to the medical staff and surgeons that despite the circumstances, my parents could maintain a sense of humor.

I grew up knowing that if one of my parents was admitted to the hospital, a smiley would immediately follow. (I've not had occasion yet to wear the prestigious smiley, but I can't say I'm disappointed.) Smileys on toes don't seem to be proprietary to my family; several images of smileys on toes can be found on Google, PhotoBucket, and other sites. I don't know if any other families share our hospital tradition, however.

In 1993, when my father was admitted to the hospital for the last time, Mother confidently held the pen and administered the smiley. The smiley accompanied him from one hospital to another, and it stayed with him for the duration of his battle. In my mind, an eleven-day old smiley was an ancient fellow, as previously they'd only had a life span of a few days. Mother had instructed the staff to not wash the smiley off when they bathed my father, and I remember seeing it intact, on his left big toe, the very last time I was in his room.

Dad and his smiley fought the good fight together. When the time came for my dad to be buried, Mother's only special request was that the funeral staff allow the smiley to remain on Dad's big toe and not be disturbed. And that's how my Dad came to be buried with a smiley on his left big toe. It's funny to me how this little inside joke helped my mother and me through the process of putting Dad to his final rest; it was our small way of showing ourselves, and the powers that be, that we could maintain our sense of humor. I don't think my father would have settled for anything less from us.

I know that a smiley's power is definitely limited. Having a smiley on his big toe didn't save my dad's life, but it ensured he'd never be alone on his journey.

On Mother's Day

This Mother's Day brings me mixed emotions, securing itself as the latest (yet most likely not final) link in a monumental chain reaction.

Last year, I almost lost my mother. (No, not like a child in a department store, or a french fry under the car seat.) This scare was brought about indirectly by someone who was close to us, someone that we trusted; all I will share here is that my Mother worked herself to the point of requiring open-heart surgery. Another link in this chain reaction was how wizened my soon-to-be ninety year old Grandmother became, caring for my Mother and supporting her through her recovery until I could get to Georgia and until my health improved enough to assume the role of caregiver. Mother survived, but with considerable difficulty; her body suffered, but both it and her spirit are on the mend.

My Grandmother, whose son had passed away just a year before, was deeply and understandably affected by my Mother's condition. She poured her life into her daughter, my Mother, during the recovery. This is the flow and ebb of love between a daughter and her Mother, a dynamic shifting of emotion and support between the two souls. As the women in my family say, "It all comes out in the wash." That is why I don't hesitate to care for Mother, as a small thank you for all she has done for me. Sadly, I sense that Grandmother feels there won't be many more trips to our home in Georgia, and as a result we are taking great care to see that her ninetieth birthday party next week is a memorable and special one.

It is hard to think of Mother's condition and not think of my mother-in-law, whom I flippantly refer to as Dr. Frankenstein. Her parenting skills are the equivalent of flushing a baby alligator down the toilet; the alligator, living unsupervised in the sewer, grows to Japanese-horror proportions and ends up decimating half the city. When I first met my MIL, I remember her making an odd excuse one day: "I wasn't a very good mother." My ass. Throughout his life, she has consistently rewarded her son for his bad behavior. Do I harbor hard feelings towards her? Hardly, because I know she fell into his trap of lies, just like the rest of us. For her, I just have pity because she is still swimming in the muck. Don't read this and label me a whiner – read this and label me empowered enough to walk away from such stupidity.

I think of my own possibilities for motherhood. It is hard for me not to feel real anger towards the man who stole by deceit the last of my natural childbearing years. It's easy for men to pshaw this statement, but I simply consider that to be callous ignorance. Yes, I know I can adopt. Yes, I know I can go through years of fertility treatment if necessary. That, however, is not the point. I chose someone to give this precious gift to, a man who thought it so worthless that he wrecked it, most likely beyond repair. And he doesn't care; he's too busy "getting on with his life." Sheah, some life 'ya got there, buddy.

I think of T's grandmother and mother. I think of my own. I think of the mothers of close friends; mothers who have been lost to time and sickness. These women worked hard their entire lives to rear families who might not change the world, but could hold their place in it without being mowed down by the more selfish among us, without becoming collateral damage. They taught us as women to respect ourselves and to see the good in other people. They taught us to embrace the differences that exist among us, and to one day rear our own families with love and respect. These women are the women we want to be, the women we will be one day.

I think of a mother who seems to think nothing of throwing her family over to be with a man who isn't even single yet, and I take sad comfort in knowing that one day she'll become all used up, like all of those before her. I think of Dr. Frankenstein. Considering these two women, I know that motherhood doesn't automatically make someone a good person; they treat motherhood as an entitlement, cheapening it for the rest of us. I can learn from a bad example just as well as I can a good one.

This Mother's Day, I will be washing clothes because it's so difficult for my mother to go up and down our stairs now. I will supervise her medication. We will be packing our clothes in the seasonal closet swap; the clothes being removed we'll never wear again because they are far too big. We'll balance our checkbooks and make sure we have enough money to throw my Grandmother's ninetieth birthday party next week. I'm about to give her a perfect Mother's Day card and a tiny gift. We'll probably have a good cry together, as we both are cognizant that her being here this year for me to adore is a gift beyond price. And we'll cry for joy that we are starting along the path to get back to where we need to be, despite the actions of one who would carelessly do us harm.

I love you, Mom.

Ex-Perience

A nod to R for the title . . .