Jergen’s on Jordan

My mother never asked why I always wanted to ride when she went to pick up Mrs. Jordan. She never asked, so I never told her.

It was because of the way she smelled.

Mrs. Jordan was our baby sitter, most of the time. Occasionally, we were subjected to Mrs. Holiday…she of the over-sized, plastic-rimmed eyeglasses, and mess of frosted hair which only added to the air of “Unfinished” she brought to a room.

Mrs. Jordan, on the other hand, had a place for every hair and every hair in its place. Short in stature, she was a study in cotton…cotton dress, cotton sweater, thick cotton stockings draped about the tops of her black orthopedic shoes. She favored pastels and Jergens’ hand lotion.

Thus the smell.

I don’t remember when I figured it out. I can’t cite the specific moment when I realized that the waft I lived for, as I perched expectantly on the backseat of my mother’s wood-paneled station wagon, emanated from a bottle of hand lotion. But I can say that, ever since I’ve known, I can’t pass a bottle without at least giving it a sniff. Usually I buy it. Today I brought a bottle to the office. It has a pump dispenser, making it easy to use while on the telephone…which I am…most of the time.

For some reason, I’ve always equated the scent of Jergens’ with femininity. I imagine a perfectly proportioned young woman wearing a slip, an old-fashioned slip, the kind with plastic adjustors on the straps. She sits on the side of a bed, languidly rubbing Jergens’ into her hands and forearms.

It wasn’t until this afternoon that I realized the error in my imagery.

Jergens’ isn’t used by perfectly proportioned young women. Young women don’t generally slather themselves with lotion and they don’t wear slips either.

As a young woman, the only time I applied lotion was after a bath…to smell good…especially if someone else was going to smell me.

I still do that, but it doesn’t stop at that. I have a lotion for my feet, a special lotion with special feet stuff in it. I have a lotion for my face. I have a lotion for my neck that I also use on my face when I run out of the other lotion I have for my face. I have a lotion for my eyes and one for my hands. I even have a lotion for my cuticles.

Having looked at it, there is no denying it. There’s a direct correlation between the number of years a woman has lived and the amount of lotion she uses.

I sat with that for a minute…and I’m okay with it.

Whatever else she was, Mrs. Jordan was a woman who smelled good and who, by her very presence, imbued that scent with a sense of femininity…orthopedic shoes and all…

There’s hope for the rest of us…

>Not Watching

I’ve always meant to watch “The Biggest Loser”. Over all the seasons it’s been on television, I may have seen one and one-half episodes. Many of my friends find the program inspiring and motivating, and it’s not that I don’t like it. It’s just that I had to choose between that and writing. And, writing won.

I’m not sure I’ve ever watched an entire episode of “Grey’s Anatomy” even though I’m a sucker for medical dramas and found myself falling for Kate Walsh, in a big way, while watching her in stilettos, pressing the accelerator in a Cadillac commercial. The ad came on during football time-outs. I always make time for college football. But it’s difficult to fit in other television programs, and still find time to write a blog post that must then be submitted to three different websites.

I did watch the first installment of “Downton Abbey”. I tend to forget how much I enjoy Masterpiece Theatre. Of course, I had to reschedule my manicure. I wonder if I can fit that in while watching “The Biggest Loser”?

I have, of late, listened to interviews with Jon Stewart that convinced me I am truly missing out by not being able to stay awake past 10 pm. I’ve considered recording the show, but that would engender watching and when would I? I’m committed to posting one photograph every day for a year. And I have to actually take a photograph first.

My son and I love tennis. John Isner’s marathon performance at Wimbledon last year placed him atop my son’s list of favorite players. I like Rafael Nadal for obvious reasons. It doesn’t hurt that he’s a great tennis player, too. The Australian Open opened on Monday. So far, we haven’t watched a set, but they’re still in the early rounds. The important matches will be played next week, and I’ll watch some of those when I’m not watching my son play basketball or trying to fit in an extra thirty minutes on the treadmill or catching up on emails I should have been answering when I was watching Denis Leary’s latest stand up routine, which I recorded last week while I was completing my profile on yet another blogging website. This one is aimed at recipe hounds.

I’ve watched American Idol with my children since the very first season. I took my son to the live show the year that the pudgy, gray-haired guy won when everyone knew Daughtry should have won. We have never, and will never, do that again.

I was very excited to hear that Steven Tyler and Jennifer Lopez are joining Randy Jackson at the judge’s table. While not attractive in the traditional sense, Steven Tyler is one of those men who grew into his unattractiveness. Kind of like a Shar Pei puppy, he’s so ugly he’s cute. And, of course, he’s got mad skills….

Jennifer Lopez, on the other hand, is like Paula Abdul 2.0. She’s beautiful, she’s sweet, she’s talented, she’s experienced…she’s younger, she’s relevant, she’s someone the contestants’ Moms don’t have to explain.

We don’t usually bother with the first few weeks. I get no kicks out of sharps and flats, and the segments appear contrived. Last year, they allowed a contestant who is old enough to be my father to try out. I couldn’t tell you what he sang or even if he was on key. All I could think was “What is he doing here? Whatever happened to the age limit? Why aren’t they following the rules?” Of course, next day “Pants on the Ground” was an internet sensation. That guy got his fifteen minutes of fame…and yours…and mine…

I had hoped to catch the premier performance of Tyler and Lopez, but last week’s record snowfall left a pile of white stuff on my desk…paper, lots and lots of paper, paper that must be looked at. Some of it actually requires reading. All of it requires shuffling. I worked late that night…

I’ve taken steps to simply my life. I’ve ended time-stealing toxic relationships, I’ve downloaded scheduling software. I meditate. I sacrifice. I sift through the unimportant in the interest of “being there”. And still, there just isn’t enough time in the day to catch up with “Brothers and Sisters”.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way. The seasons of our lives are fleeting. The day will come when I’ll have more than enough time and I’ll remember my season of chaos as some of the best years of my life. For now, I’ll take solace in the knowledge that as long as I have a DVR, there’s a chance I’ll get to see an episode of “Glee”.

>Making It

I made a yardstick cover once. It was my first, and last, experience working with smelly, scratchy burlap. I might have gone with a nice, polished cotton except I was eight at the time, and I worked with what the Brownie leader gave us. The flowers we glued to the front were nice. They were large, made of felt, and sherbet hued.

My mother hung my gift next to the door in her sewing room. It sheathed her favorite yardstick; the one made of soft, balsa wood with the telephone number of a local hardware store printed on both sides. It stayed there until the flowers’ petals began to curl, just like real petals do. I never left the room without pressing on them.

I made a vest in home economics class. And, then I made a jumper. Remember jumpers? I loved jumpers, especially a simple A-line jumper.

The class was taught by a large African-American woman who favored chartreuse double knits. She also taught cooking classes. I can’t recall what I cooked, but I do remember her announcement, “There’s no such thing as blue food!”, and my bemusement when I realized she was right. I’d never really thought about it before…

I made an amazing score on the SAT. This has no real significance other than knowing that my sister, the one who made straight A’s for twelve straight years, didn’t.

I made children; four of them, one daughter and three sons. Of course I had help, of both a divine and not so divine nature, but their complete reliance upon the inner workings of MY body suggests “making” to me. And when you make children, you make something more. You make history, and legacy, and hope.

Putting my home economics classes to good use, I made all of my daughter’s clothing until she started elementary school. I made shirts, and shorts, and ruffled panties. I made dresses, and long, cuddly nightgowns. My favorite, of course, was a jumper. I made it of brown corduroy, and embroidered a yellow Care Bear named “Funshine” on one side, close to the hem. Upstairs in my attic, I’ve stored one outfit each of my children wore as babies. I hope to see a granddaughter wear that jumper. Maybe Care Bears will be popular again. It could happen…

I made a lovely counted-cross stitch sampler which I then stuffed and fashioned into a pillow. The design suggested a friend, and I gave it to her. That was over ten years ago, and it still serves as the centerpiece atop her creamy, white chenille bedspread. Some of the stitches have loosened, and synthetic stuffing often peeks through one burst corner. You see, she doesn’t just look at it, she uses it.

I made a different birthday cake for each of my children. My daughter, a “Christmas Baby”, favors red velvet. One year, my friend made her cake. I can’t recall why she did it. Perhaps I was just busy with the other children. My husband might have been in the hospital. Or, rehab. Rehab is more likely. Once in the hospital for surgery, and he came out a new man. Several trips to rehab never had the same affect.

My friend, in her creative wisdom, added crushed candy-cane to the cream cheese frosting covering the cake. We’ve made it that way ever since.

Bruises, especially large, purple, soon-to-be yellow bruises, are hard to ignore. When they are on your face its damn near impossible. Before they healed, I made a home for my children out of a 12’x60’ metal box. In the south, most people refer to them as trailers. If they’re trying to be polite, they might say “mobile home”. But it really was just a metal box. Oh, it had a hitch on one end, but the last time it was mobile was at least thirty years ago.

I felt fortunate to have scored the lot across from the pool. At night, red lights on the Coca-cola machine winked at me, taking me back to my childhood, when all motel rooms were on one level, and a peek through rubber-backed curtains revealed the pool’s glistening surface reflecting off brightly-lit, multi-colored vending machines. Despite what some deem squalor, living there was a perpetual vacation, and it wasn’t just the lights…

I made a field of flowers out of what used to be a lawn before the septic tank was replaced. When it rained, red clay ran in rivulets down the street towards the baseball field behind the pool. I say “baseball field” because my sons played baseball on it. But, whether you call it a trailer park or a mobile home park, diamonds were hard to come by.

I never heard my mother curse until she had cancer.

“I’ve got some heavy shit to tell you.”

She died over five years ago, and I still hear those words at least once a week.

Upon hearing them the first time, I made the decision to return home to Atlanta. We shared a duplex with a young couple expecting their first child. I went back to school, and on a diet. My fitness class instructor partnered me with a more traditional college student. He was cute. He was required to touch me. Matronly just wouldn’t do.

Many nights, I made a bed of the couches in the ICU waiting room. Visits were limited to fifteen minutes out of every hour. I made one when I arrived, and one before leaving. My father couldn’t bear the thought of my mother being alone. I couldn’t bear the thought of my father worrying.

Today, I made pickles. It’s been a banner year for cucumbers. I can’t pickle fast enough. Fortunately, my friends are pickle eaters. My son thinks we should sell them.

We visit our local Farmer’s Market weekly. As we walk the aisle, tasting and touching, he taunts me.

“You should sell your pickles, Mom! I could help you!”

I don’t need to sell them. I don’t even need to taste them. I just need to make them.

Daddy’s Girl

My father fathered four females.

I am the eldest.

“My name is Stacye, and I’m a Daddy’s Girl.”

Of course I am. We all are. We have a Daddy…we are girls. And, like all good southern girls, we actually call him “Daddy”.

Addressing him that way comes naturally. Admitting to it conjures images of Orson Welles, syrup dripping from the corners of Joanne Woodward’s unlined mouth, and a discomfort that smells like warm gardenias.

By now, you have an image. My blonde hair is long, as are my legs. My eyes are large, and probably blue. There’s a natural curve to my lips, which are carefully painted pink; never red. And, you would be right.

Except, the image is that of my sister, my baby sister to be exact; the one who still throws her limbs on either side of his recliner as she sprawls across his lap, the one that bakes for him, calls him daily, and houses him when he leaves the crystal sands of his beloved beach for important family events, such as his birthday, Father’s Day, Thanksgiving, and Christmas.

But I was there in the early days…

On Saturdays, we logged hours in his two-toned El Camino, driving around town doing errands. His “Honey-Do” list became our “Trip for Two” list, as we traversed suburban side-roads between the post office, hardware store, garden nursery, and occasionally, the local mechanic.

Mostly, we talked.

“Never forget who you are!” I especially loved that one. “You’re a Howell!”

He said as though it meant something. He said it as though mere mention of our name was enough to garner the respect of anyone within hearing distance. He said it so often that I believed it.

He told me stories of him and Joe Wiggins. It was always “Joe Wiggins”, never just “Joe”. Perhaps there was another Joe. I don’t know, he never said. But, he never mentioned his childhood friend without inserting his surname.

I remember the sun being particularly bright one Saturday afternoon. We’d probably just dropped my car off…again. The dilapidated shop occupied most of a block-long side road. They specialized in foreign “jobs”, such as Hondas, Toyotas, Datsuns, and Cortinas. They didn’t actually specialize in Cortinas. No one did. Because, no one east of the Atlantic drove one…except me.

“Why don’t you divorce her?’ My right hand swept blonde wisps from my face. The air conditioner in the El Camino had stopped working weeks ago.

“Because Howells don’t divorce.” He said it as though it were true. He said it as though he was raised by two loving parents instead of a crotchety grandmother who insisted he sweep their dirt floor each morning before mounting the newspaper-laden bicycle he later rode to school.

And I believed, because I didn’t know.

He taught me about cars. He didn’t change his own oil. He had “Eddie, The Mechanic” to do that. But, he taught me to change mine.

He lay under the car, while I leaned across the engine. We changed the oil, added water to the battery, and checked all the other fluids. When we were done; large, continent-shaped swatches of my flannel shirt were missing.

“Battery acid.”, he said while ordering me inside to change my shirt with just a look.

But I kept it. I kept the shirt. I even wore it a few times. Now, I’m sure it lies alongside my holey Peter Frampton t-shirt; the one I kept for almost twenty years before deciding that I really never would wear it again.

But I will…

Angels will sing, harps will play, and there I’ll be…Daddy’s Girl…wearing a holey flannel shirt over a faded Peter Frampton t-shirt.

“Do you feel like I do?”

Hair Raising

It’s fitting, I suppose, that I have unruly hair. I’m a pretty unruly woman. But, sometimes, I think it’s my mother’s fault…

Some of my earliest memories are of my hips wedged between my mother’s ample thighs atop our ultra-chic, avocado green, vinyl couch. For reasons known only to her, she insisted on using a comb on my hair. And, not just any comb, but one of those barber’s combs with skinny, pointed teeth that were so close together a dime wouldn’t pass through them. As she raked those teeth across my scalp, I gritted my own and prepared for the blood that was sure to start running into my eyes just any minute. Occasionally, I howled, until I realized that only made her angry, causing her to plow even deeper.

The only respite from the raking came when she found what she referred to as a “knot”. I don’t know how it happened or why. I only know that every single time my mother raised a comb to my head she found the hair at the nape of my neck to be a tangled morass that inspired her to mutter mild epithets between groaning tugs.

There was lots of “I’ve never seen anything like this in my life!”, even though we both knew she’d seen it just last Saturday. And she whined a lot. Occasionally, the comb she extracted contained more than hair. The mass more resembled a bird’s nest than a knot, with wisps of lint and the occasional tiny scrap of paper woven into the mix.

And then there were the permanents…

For years, my mother lined us up on linoleum that was scored to resemble stone, if you were willing to allow that stone could possibly be tinged the same avocado green as the couch. By now, she’d invested in detangler which allowed her comb to slice through our tresses, unfettered. It was pretty smooth sailing, really, until it came time to roll. Because, rolling required wrapping, and wrapping involved small wisps of tissue paper, and, once again, she met her match at my nape.

At this point, she turned us over to my grandmother who owned a beauty shop on the ground floor of what would now be termed an assisted living high-rise. The real money, however, was made styling hair for regular customers who no longer required a return appointment. She spent Saturday mornings at the funeral home. Mother dropped us off after lunch and picked us up several hours later.

“Remember now!”, my grandmother called from the porch where she stood with one waving hand raised. “Don’t wash it for at least two days, so you don’t wash it out!”

I spent the ride home calculating how I could gain entry of the bathroom before my sister.

I drove myself the last time my grandmother curled my hair. By that time, I was compelled by more than style. By that time, the trek across town, and the smelly chemicals, the pulling, the tugging, and hot minutes spent under the hood of a hair dryer were a trade-off. Because, after she curled my hair, we could visit. She took me outside to her sun porch. She showed me her plants, some of which were decades old. She talked to me about them, told me how to grow them, and pulled up tiny samples for me to root when I returned home. It was worth the thirty minutes or so I would spend with my head in the sink later that evening.

The last time my mother tackled my hair involved one of those new-fangled curling irons; the kind encased in plastic bristles, the kind that not only curled your hair but brushed it, too. She was dolling me up for some kind of event. It may have been Easter. Easter was big deal at our house. It was one of two times, each year, that my parents would accompany us to church. We dressed in new dresses and wore pantyhose from freshly cracked eggs.

My mother separated a swath of hair from the crown of my head, twirling it around the plastic-bristled, metal shaft. Steam billowed from the contraption in her hand as she marked time. Time came, and she rolled her hand in an attempt to un-wrap. But, it wouldn’t. The curling iron, with its rows of plastic bristles, had a death-grip on my hair. Steam billowed from the crown of my head as my mother pulled and whined, pulled and whined.

“I’ve never seen anything like this in my life!”

Whines turned to whimpers as we both imagined what I would look like after she cut the hair at the scalp in order to remove it from the shaft. My mother cursed. My sisters watched in horror. Finally, the hair loosened. I never saw the curling iron again.

Two weeks later, my mother made an appointment for both of us at the hair salon she frequented. Despite odiferous armpits at the end of her pendulous arms, Sandra could feather with the best of them. Kristy McNichol had nothing on me…

I was in the eleventh grade. I don’t know why I remember that, but I do. I drove quite a distance to the salon and was somewhat taken aback by the pumping, bass-driven beat of the music that greeted me as I entered. “Toto? We’re not in Kansas anymore…”

A tall man with sallow skin under his brush cut rushed, as fast as his leather pants allowed, to reach me. I left with what amounted to a crew cut. And, I loved it…but I never did it again.

Since then, I’ve been shorn by a tattooed biker chick, one Valley Girl, a middle-aged woman with an unfortunate spiral perm, and one really nice Vietnamese man. He didn’t try to talk to me. I like that in a stylist.

Several weeks ago, I got the urge. You know the one; that feeling that you have to have your hair styled…NOW! Several weeks ago, the Valley Girl had sent me home looking like something the cat had dragged in, and it wasn’t the first time. As I left work, I made the decision to stop at the first salon I passed.

It took longer than I anticipated. I was almost home. The sign on the marquee read “Famous Hair”. The fact that it occupied a space just two doors down from the market was a huge selling point.

She was introduced as “Nancy”, but I’m willing to bet her green card reads “Tran” or “Nguyen”.

“What you want?”, she asked, whipping a black, nylon robe round my neck, matador-like.

I produced a copy I’d made of a style I’d found on the internet. Nancy laced tiny fingers through my hair as she studied the picture, frowning.

“But it doesn’t matter…”, I laughed. “I gave up a long time ago. My hair does what it wants to do…and I let it.”

Frayed Strings

No one loves their children more than I do. My youngest is thirteen now, which only goes to prove that all the minutes I spent wishing he could be my baby forever were for naught. But I knew that…

To my credit, I’ve turned those mournful minutes into reasons to be grateful. When he recounts an exchange with another student in school, I pay attention. The day will come when sharing won’t be so easy. When he calls “Mom”, as I walk past his darkened room, I stop and listen before reminding him, again, to go to sleep. When he allows me to take his hand as we walk, I feel it as I hold it. And, when he wraps his arms around my waist, and rests his head against my chest I thank God for the blessing. Every little boy hug, every little boy kiss, could be the last.

He turned thirteen last week, three days before school let out for summer.

“Do you want a party? You could invite your friends from school, the guys from your baseball team, and some of your football friends. We could go to the park. You guys could play baseball, and we could cook-out.”

Shane sat silent, looking through the window to the backyard. Movement in his eyes told me he was considering the offer. He’d attended several birthday parties this year.

Valerie invited him to his first boy/girl, night-time party. There was dancing, which led to sweating, which provoked Shane to stealthily comb the health and beauty aids aisle during our next visit to the grocery store.

Chelsea’s mother went one better and rented a pool-side clubhouse. As we pulled up, the outer walls of the building seemed to vibrate in time with the disco ball sparkling through an upper-floor window. Expecting hesitation from Shane, I turned in my seat to offer words of encouragement from someone who has personally experienced countless disco balls. The backseat was empty, the car door slammed, and by the time I turned around Shane had mounted the walk towards the door without so much as a wave good-bye.

A pattern began to develop, and I saw my mistake.

“Oh…I just realized all the parties you’ve gone to this year were given by girls. Boys your age don’t have birthday parties, do they?”

Relief colored his face.

“Not really…”, he smiled, lowering his head.

“Ok! So what do you want to do? We could go out to dinner. Your choice! Or we could go to the movies. You could take a friend….You tell me. What do you want to do?”

“I want to spend the weekend with Josh.”

Josh is his oldest brother. He married just before Shane’s birthday. He and his wife live in a rural area seventy-five miles away.

Shane left on Friday.

Friday night I had dinner out, and for the first time in a long time, no one offered me a children’s menu. My companion and I enjoyed uninterrupted adult conversation. And when we left, there were no tell-tale crumbs beneath our table.

Saturday I slept in, and woke to a quiet house. I never realized how much noise is generated by the simple act of breathing until mine was the only breath drawn. I took my coffee to the patio and never felt compelled to grab at the table beside my chair in hopes of steadying it. Birdsong fell on my ears without accompaniment. No one asked me any questions.

I spent the rest of the day doing as I pleased. I shopped without uttering the word “no”. I turned my Ipod up as I gardened, never giving a thought to what might be going on inside the house. I gutted the playroom, and in so doing generated quite a pile for the next charity pick-up. He hasn’t touched those toys in years…

I organized his dresser, and added several threadbare t-shirts to the aforementioned pile. The one with the hole in the collar has bothered me for months.

I baked cookies for the neighbors and no one whined, “You always make the good stuff for other people!” I watched tennis on TV without giving advance warning of an imminent takeover of the den. Music wafted from speakers mounted beneath the eaves as we grilled on the patio and no one asked me sardonically, “Why don’t you like rock music anymore?”

As I turned out the lights above the mantle and closed the sunroom door against the night I thought, “So this is what it will be like when he is gone. I can do this…”

The phone rang and I jumped to answer it.

“Hello?!”, I never gave a thought to sounding casual.

“Hey, Mom.”

Those two words began tales of Clydesdale horses, front flips from diving boards, and a dog Shane loved enough to bring home.

“I’m glad you’re having a good time.”

“Ok, Mom. Gotta go.” Male voices parried in the background. I understood the distraction.

“Ok…” Silence in the line told me he had hung up already.

For the first time in thirteen years Shane hung up without saying “I love you.”

But he does…

Living True

Somehow I’d forgotten the particular shade of blue that is sky. That blue that defies duplication. The blue that speaks the word “yonder”, by inviting eyes to see further.

Today, I saw it, and knew the wonder.

I’ve missed the caress of wind in my hair. The feeling of freedom. A space in time whose only accompaniment is the dull roar of the engine in front of me, competing with wind whipping through an open window.

Today, I felt it, and appreciated the gift.

It’s been a while since I’ve really looked into a loved one’s eyes as she spoke, or shared air, or a fork. I’ve missed the abandon of shucking my shoes under the table before resting my heels on the booth beside her. “That’s a lovely shade of blue on your toenails, honey. It looks just like you.”

Today I took the time.

Today I saw sky, and felt wind. I memorized the eyes of a friend, and held my daughter close for no reason. I stretched out, barefooted, in a booth at a restaurant and laughed loudly, with abandon.

Today, I knew the gifts of those who truly live.

Finding Farrah

As far as I am concerned, Katherine Hepburn was the quintessential woman; the type of woman who could pull on a pair of stove-pipe, worsted-wool trousers under a form-fitting, man-style vest while puffing on the cool end of an unfiltered cigarette and still be the classiest woman in a room filled with skirts.

Farrah Fawcett was no Katherine Hepburn. When “Charlie’s Angels” jiggled across our television sets in 1976, I immediately dismissed the toothy blonde who would soon make history for no greater talent than being blessed with good hair. Kate Jackson caught my eye, at first. Rail-thin and smart as a whip, I loved the earthy gravel in her voice as she shared her unfailing common sense with Bosley, Charlie, and the girls. Later, I grew enamored of Jaclyn Smith. Equal in intelligence to Sabrina, Kelly retained a soft, warm femininity, and she knew how to use it. As I watched the three of them cavort through the mean streets of Los Angeles, Farrah’s character, Jill, elicited nothing more from me than an occasional groan at her rendition of a bubble-headed blonde.

She did some good work in the eighties. I still carry around an image from the movie “Extremities”, in which her character restrains her attacker, caging him under a table before calling her friends for help. The strength of her performance left me wondering if her earlier portrayal of a vacuous bimbo was just as masterful.

Then came her incoherent interview with Letterman, which she followed with a reality show featuring long-time companion Ryan O’Neal. I watched one episode, and was sure I could feel myself leaking brain cells as I watched. But watch I did. It was a train wreck, and it’s always hard to turn away from a good train wreck.

Several weeks ago, purely by chance, I saw Farrah on television again. Her famous mane had been shorn, and her skin looked weathered. Her eyes carried age and pain, but her voice remained unchanged as she read from her journal, chronicling her battle with anal cancer.

Much has been written since the program aired, and especially since her death, about Farrah’s decision to share her journey. But, I’m glad I watched. The hour was filled with images of torturous medical procedures, stomach-churning rides in limousines, and long passages of prose written by Farrah in anticipation of the time when she wouldn’t be around to speak her words. But, this is not what remains with me.

I remember the love; the love rained upon her by her companion, Ryan O’Neal, the love she inspired in her care-takers, the love she felt for her errant son, and, her love of self.

Farrah Fawcett was a simple girl from Texas who was blessed with great teeth and better hair, and in the end, none of that was important. In the end, it was all about strength and love.

And, I’m grateful for the lesson.

No Air

Stagnant air hung hot and heavy around our heads as we squirmed inside metal chairs in an effort to find a modicum of comfort.

“Sorry! Didn’t get the air on soon enough. It’s kinda stuffy in here.” Madame Secretary scuttled back into the main room, taking her chair beside Madame President at the head table.

As we waited for the usual stragglers, a general moan filled the room.

“I had to sit down before I opened my power bill.” Janet sat two chairs away, and spoke as she rifled her purse for her “personal fan”.

“How much was it?” Several of us turned to look at Debra as though to challenge, “Did you really mean to ask that?”, and then swiveled just as quickly in anticipation of the answer.

A general conversation ensued amidst the waving of notebooks and the whir of hand-held air-movers. During a break in the complaining, I spoke.

“I haven’t turned my air on yet.”

Quiet befell the room. Newly arrived stragglers stopped in mid-stride. The clock ticked, and fans whirred over held breaths.

“Really?” Debra composed herself first.

“Yes, really.” I stirred in my chair, uncomfortable under the spotlight.

“Aren’t you hot?” Debra challenged.

“Well, we do have an attic fan…” Unheeded, the words formed an apology.

“Yes, but…” Debra finally failed to find the words.

When I woke this morning, I thought today would be the day. For the first time since I turned the heat off, I didn’t feel the need to add another blanket in the middle of the night. This afternoon, as I greeted the sitter while warding off the advances of my hundred-pound puppy, I marveled at the coolness in the air.

I live in “Hot-Lanta”. It’s the middle of June. And, I haven’t turned on my air yet. The power bill I paid last Friday was the equivalent of a bill I usually receive during the autumn months. I could get used to this…

As economic uncertainty ruled the airwaves, the print media, our over-filled heads, and our war-weary hearts, I made a decision to return to what I knew. I haven’t poured crystallized soap into the soap dispenser of my dishwasher in several months. Every night I bathe stoneware, glassware, and plastics bought in an effort to actually have drinking glasses despite housing a prepubescent boy. I love results oriented tasks, and nothing is more results oriented than wiping the remnants of a spaghetti dinner off my favorite set of dinnerware to reveal the hand-painted artwork underneath.

The clothesline Roger reluctantly strung between two stalwart pines is filled daily. Sheets whip, towels undulate, and blouses dance with pants in summer breezes.

As a comment was made about my decision to live in a house filled with summer breezes, I remembered the first house I lived in. It was small by today’s standards, and encased in red brick. Air-conditioners might have purred in other neighborhoods, but we subsisted on the air God gave us.

And, we did just fine…

Granting Wishes

Sometimes, I wish we could go away.

Not far, and down an oft-traveled road, but away.

The water under our deck chairs would absorb our words, whetting our appetites for more.

Sometimes I wish you had more ambition.

Sometimes I wish I had more ambition.

I always wish there was more living in making a living.

Your voice blows against me as we follow the same path in different directions.

But sometimes I watch you talk, and as the words fill the air between us I reacquaint myself with your nose, sitting just a little to the left, and your eyes, the softest shade of jade, and your mouth, which even when you speak turns up slightly on one side as though amused.

I’m in the garden, and out of the corner of my eye I see you hanging my clothes on the clothesline you wish you’d never strung between two trees you wish you had cut down, long ago.

And, I stop what I am doing, and come to you.