Seen With Joy

I see him in you sometimes.

He lives in yours eyes,

behind your brow,

and in the bridge of your nose where it crinkles when you grin.

He comes with joy.

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…

2011 – A Retrospective

As years go, there have been better and there have been worse.

1999, for example, was a wonderful year. 1999 was the year I remembered my worth and reclaimed my strength. After years of living a “less than” life, I gave the rudder a mighty jerk and set sail in a completely different direction. And I never looked back.

Given what I now know, I might have chosen to skip 2003, altogether. I had emergency surgery in March. Four weeks into my six-week recovery period my mother died. And while she’d been ill for most of the previous four years, her death came suddenly as the result of a blood clot. I learned she had died while shopping at Target in what was my first foray into the outside world since my surgery. My daughter and grandson had left me in the house wares department. He needed t-shirts.

I remember a voice inside my head shouting at me to breathe and finding it difficult to follow directions. That same voice reminded me my family was counting on me, if for nothing other than a ride home. And then there was the question of when to tell them. Did everyone need to carry that knowledge around Target? Or would waiting be more appropriate?

The words flowed from me as soon as I saw my daughter’s face and everything after merged into a days-long blur, with a few exceptions. I remember sitting, powerless, around a polished, wooden table meant for a high-powered board room, wondering why my sister hadn’t removed her sunglasses. I remember my dress. It was vintage, late 60’s I think, and gray. Embroidered flowers trailed down the right side of the skirt. And, I remember standing under a large, green tent, alongside my sisters, next to the casket holding my mother. The four of us sang “Amazing Grace”. It was her favorite.

2011 was significant in its own way. This year, for the first time ever, I drove several hundred miles across several states alone. And, before I did that, I drove several hundred miles across several states in the company of a friend who, up to that point, I’d only known online. The two of us were on our way to meet many more friends with whom we’d had years-long online friendships. The experience was wonderful and proved what I’d always felt; online relationships are real and can be every bit as meaningful as those we experience 3D.

Here are a few other things I learned this year:

– I do not have to react. In fact, in many cases its better I don’t. Action, in almost every case, is preferable to reaction.
– I can be most childish with those I care most about. Not behaving in a childish manner is a decision that benefits everyone. And it’s easier to do than you might think.
– There is a place in my life for religion, and participation in a group of spiritually like-minded people feeds something in me, making me more whole.
– You can’t fully appreciate the angst of desire until you’ve wanted something for your child that you are powerless to provide.
– Acceptance, in all its forms, is a major component of happiness.
– I’ve spent a considerable amount of time looking for something I already had but wouldn’t see.
– Despite disagreements, disappointment, and geography some people will always have a place in my heart…because they live there.

A Face For Hats

Despite the fact I only read it last year, on Tuesday I couldn’t remember the name of one of my very favorite books.

But, on Saturday, burying a hand trowel into earth made forgiving by Spring rains, I remembered being eight and being dubbed “Messy Bessie” by my brownie leader.

I forgot to buy an onion at the supermarket.

But every time I see a hat, or a lady wearing a hat, or even a hat-rack, I remember being twelve and standing in the millinery department at Macy’s. My sister and I were accompanied by my grandmother in what was an annual After-Christmas walking tour of Perimeter Mall. I call it a walking tour because, while occasionally an item was returned, nothing was ever actually purchased.

My sister and I donned hats. Both of us posed in front of mirrors.

“Laura!”, my grandmother called. “Laura, you don’t have a face for hats. You need a plain face to wear a hat.”

There was a slight pause as we looked at one another for an answer to the question neither of us would ask before she provided it.

“Stacye…”, it was a statement. “Now, Stacye has a face for hats.”

At work on Monday, I panicked at the idea of creating a whole new set of contracts, only to discover I’d already done it, weeks before.

Wednesday night, as I reclined against the cold ceramic part of the bathtub not filled with warm water, I remembered John O’Conner turning in his desk to ask in his most sardonic voice “Was that really necessary?”, before I even had a chance to lower the hand I’d raised, in vain, to prevent the burp from escaping my fourteen-year-old lips.

I sometimes struggle to remember which son was born on what date. Although in two different months, their birthdates are just two weeks apart. Which one was born in April and which in May?

And, just the other day, as I pinched dead blooms from pansies’ heads, the image of long, yellow hair swirling around my sister’s snarl flashed across my brain. Anger reddened her cheeks.

“I wouldn’t trade places with you for anything in the world!”, she growled.

The toddler at my feet pressed her back against my legs as instinct tightened my hold on the baby in my lap. We all shrank.

They come in quiet moments, reflections of mis-steps, things I’d rather forget. They’re etched there, burned onto the surface, easy to retrieve. They come unbidden.

They are not who I am but they are, in part, what makes me, me.