>Changing Faces

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I have been feeling my Mom lately.

It started last week when I read a question posted by a member of an online community I frequent about things we “miss”. I could blame it on the time of year, what with Halloween around the corner, but, for whatever reason, a memory popped into my head, complete with holiday cobwebs, and it has brought me comfort all week.

Every year, just before Halloween, my mother piled all four of us into her Vista Cruiser “woody” station-wagon, complete with backwards-facing rear seat, to purchase our costumes. Having four children now, myself, I have only just recently begun to appreciate her bravery….

Halloween costumes, at the time, came in rectangular, yellow and black, cardboard boxes with cellophane windows, behind which lay a cartoonish plastic mask, the hallmark of any 60’s era disguise. We chose a new one every year, but I remember only one.

I must have been about 10 at the time. After perusing all available selections, I chose what I believed to be the most sophisticated Halloween costume I had ever seen. The mask, behind the shiny plastic, portrayed a gorgeous blonde, whose permanently flipped hair and matte crimson lips embodied everything I dreamed to be. Underneath the plastic face lay a swath of golden nylon fabric, featuring black markings suggesting a stylish trench-coat.

I had never missed an episode of “Get Smart”, and my fascination lay not in a shoe that doubled as a telephone. I was fascinated by “Agent 99”. She was smart. She was sexy. When she spoke, her tones were low, soft, and commanding. She was everything I could hope to be when I grew up, and now, my wait was over…

We hurried off the school bus on October 31st, running as though darkness snapped at our heels. Waiting for Mom to finish cooking dinner was sheer, restless agony. When it was served, excited legs swung wildly beneath the table as we picked, and poked, and moved our food from one spot to the other, until the admonishment; “You have to eat! If you eat all that candy on an empty stomach, you’ll be sick!” Girlish eyes stole surreptitious glances round the table to ensure everyone participated accordingly. I was probably the first to declare, “But, sheeee’s not eating!”.

As darkness fell, and time marched on, Mom relented with appropriate scorn as we scraped our dinner into the trash, before heading to our bedrooms and the precious yellow and black boxes.

As I lifted the lid of the box, I noticed a corner of cellophane had parted from the trace of glue drawn across the inside of the lid. Running one finger around the corner, I attempted a repair before removing my new face to uncover my golden garment.

October chill warranted covered legs, and costumes were drawn over school clothes. I observed my reflection in the full-length mirror behind the door, and bemoaned the lack of stockings and stilettos for a minute or two, before sighing in resignation and heading back towards the bed, and the mask.

Exchanging faces, I carefully pushed my own hair up under the flimsy rubber-band securing my disguise, before turning once again towards my reflection. I leaned in close to assess my handiwork, and secured a few more natural blonde fly-aways. Standing back, I posed.

I must have stood there for several minutes, considering my new persona. I was blonde. My lips were full, blooming red, and accented by a Monroe-esque beauty mark. My golden trench-coat featured large, round buttons, deep pockets, wide lapels, and swaying sash. I was beautiful. And, my Mom called.

Jerking open my bedroom door, my Keds barely touched the linoleum as I entered the family room, and awaited the ooohs and ahhhs I could already hear inside my 10 year-old head.

My sisters gawked. I can’t recall their masks, but I do remember their silence, which was broken only by loud, raucous laughter.

I turned in the direction of the sound, to see my mother, in full abandon, bent forward, clutching her knees; her mouth agape in deference to her mirth. She moved towards me as tears filled her jade-green eyes, and uncontrollable laughter shook her entire body. Falling to her knees, she put her arms around me, and rocked me in spasms of joy. Every few moments, she pulled back, and, as her eyes fell once again upon my unmovable façade, collapsed again.

Finally, regaining her composure, she rose, and with a smile that shone through her eyes, looked down at me and said in a barely composed voice, “You’ve got to take that thing off; at least for now. You can put it back on when you go to the door.”

It wasn’t the reaction I had hoped for, but it was a reaction. It was approval. And, it was enough. I walked towards the door, mask in hand, and happy.

And, today, as I observe my reflection over a blouse of green or blue, that same jade creeps into my own eyes, and I remember…

Night music

There is a pattern to my nights.

As I emerge, steaming, from a hot bath, carrying a pile of laundry, I am accompanied by the tick-tap of dog claws on hardwood. My emergence, and the bundle I carry can mean only one thing; treats!

They wait, patiently, as I deposit the laundry, and two pairs of liquid brown eyes follow my hand into the cookie/dog-treat jar. As they crunch their prizes, I walk to the back door and open it, in anticipation of a final trip outside.

As they join me, tails wagging, I close the door behind me in an effort to quell any thoughts of re-entering prematurely.

Freshly bathed, my dampened skin welcomes the soft, warm, Georgia-night breezes, which are not lost on the Beagle, as his nose lifts high and quivers in appreciation.

I walk the walk towards the gate while observing nightfall on my gardens. Brightly colored hibiscus winks as I pass, palm fronds sway, and roses send their scent, lest I forget their presence beyond the swath of yellow cast by the porch light.

As it is occasionally, our quiet exaltation is interrupted by the singing of a siren heading in the direction of those less fortunate. Both animals halt in their tracks, their busy noses still in silent question.

They turn to look at me; at me, Alpha-female, for guidance. It is a position I have won through time, patience, and dogged perseverence, and I know what I must do.

I wait, until the siren has reached it’s crescendo. And, I begin; low at first, then building. My sound becomes louder, the tone becomes higher, until they pick it up; first the half-breed, and then the Beagle; two aquiline noses pierce the air and twitch in unison…and we howl.

The siren wails, as do we, until, realizing that our inspiration is now distant, faint, and failing, I allow the two born to this sound to finish their song, alone.

And, as we turn towards the door, and the interior our quiet house, they smile, and wag in appreciation of my leadership, and my love.

>Night music

>
There is a pattern to my nights.

As I emerge, steaming, from a hot bath, carrying a pile of laundry, I am accompanied by the tick-tap of dog claws on hardwood. My emergence, and the bundle I carry can mean only one thing; treats!

As they join me, tails wagging, I close the door behind me in an effort to quell any thoughts of re-entering prematurely.

Freshly bathed, my dampened skin welcomes the soft, warm, Georgia-night breezes, which are not lost on the Beagle, as his nose lifts high and quivers in appreciation.

They turn to look at me; at me, Alpha-female, for guidance. It is a position I have won through time, patience, and dogged perseverence, and I know what I must do.

The siren wails, as do we, until, realizing that our inspiration is now distant, faint, and failing, I allow the two born to this sound to finish their song, alone.

And, as we turn towards the door, and the interior our quiet house, they smile, and wag in appreciation of my leadership, and my love.

Breaking the Fall

The autumn air carried a chill, forcing us to pull sweaters over our t-shirts, and giving me a new appreciation for the warmth of his hand surrounding mine.

Our quiet voices mixed, musically, with the earthy sounds around us as we talked easily of little things.

To the left of the trail, irregularly shaped stones pointed the way to a swelling of the ground, inviting us to climb.

As my rubber-soled feet struggled to gain a foothold amongst jutting rocks and rolling stones, I thrust both hands in front of me in preparation for the fall before I feel his, larger hands around my waist, pulling me away from the rocks, and into his chest.

Climbing the rest of the way, without incident, we reached the top of the rising and stopped; to breathe, and to survey the landscape we had just traversed from a new perspective.

Standing on the apex, there is a renewed sense of hope in the clearness of the air, and gratitude that I didn’t make the climb, alone.

>Breaking the Fall

The autumn air carried a chill, forcing us to pull sweaters over our t-shirts, and giving me a new appreciation for the warmth of his hand surrounding mine.

Our quiet voices mixed, musically, with the earthy sounds around us as we talked easily of little things.

To the left of the trail, irregularly shaped stones pointed the way to a swelling of the ground, inviting us to climb.

Climbing the rest of the way, without incident, we reached the top of the rising and stopped; to breathe, and to survey the landscape we had just traversed from a new perspective.

Standing on the apex, there is a renewed sense of hope in the clearness of the air, and gratitude that I didn’t make the climb, alone.

Shakin’ and Bakin’

After 2 months of a blessedly uneventful start to middle school, today, he forgets to lock the house.

It was bound to happen, sooner or later. And, as usual when my child downloads alarming information, Mommy-mode kicks in, and my focus is on allaying his fears so that he doesn’t trip on the stairs as he climbs into the bus.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it. You have a great day, ok?”

My next-door neighbor, who works from home, does not answer my call. He is a sound sleeper.

I decide to take my chances, until I remember that we replaced the hinges on the side door a couple of weeks ago, and it still doesn’t shut properly without careful attention.

Visions of my cat-eating dog, loose, and free to eat what she may, viciously flash across my brain, complete with dripping, red background…

Patricia answers on the second ring, as she carefully negotiates the car-rider lane in front of the school.

“Sure!”, she answers without hesitation, as I envision two potentially horrific scenarios.

“Um…What do I do if they are out?”, she asks, with a voice that tells me she is measuring traffic in an effort to make a turn.

“Stay in your car!”, I almost shout, as I imagine my friend, who is violently afraid of dogs, dealing with the blood-dripping cat-eater.

My phone rings, again, as she climbs the driveway in front of my house.

“The door is closed, honey.”, she manages, in a tight voice, not yet given to relief.

I tell her where to find the key, and, my pathetically frightened friend braves the door, and the pouncing, barking, cat-eating dog on the other side of it, as she inserts the key, and finishes the job…

And, tonight, I bake, in thanks.

While I don’t always enjoy cooking, I do enjoy baking, and, especially baking for a reason, and, particularly, baking for other people.

Tonight, I got to do both. I strapped on the IPOD, and cinched up my apron, as I pulled out recipes I had settled on earlier today.

I am baking “Butterscotch Blondies”, courtesy of Alexis Stewart of “Whatever” on Sirius radio,(A guilty pleasure that makes my daily commute doable.), and, “Pretzel Yummies”, a recipe I’ve made only once before, but which is requested on a weekly basis…

I had a great night! Below, I’ve included some pictures, and samples of music that accompanied me along the way. Come have fun with me!

My resident taster…

“Butterscotch Blondies”, fresh from the oven…

My crumb-catcher…

Coating for the “Pretzel Yummies”

“Pretzel Yummies”, complete

Presentation is everything…

The total package…

Baking is hard work…

And my music….

>Shakin’ and Bakin’

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After 2 months of a blessedly uneventful start to middle school, today, he forgets to lock the house.