There's something about Judge Judy...

What is it about this show that has me smitten?

Could it be Judy’s long black robe with her little lace collar? Hmm, I think not. I mean if I made a reported $47 million dollars a year I might put a cute crisp white shirt under that black robe. It would have a great collar that flipped up with terrific cuffs that could be turned back in a most fashionable way.  Maybe I’d add some fabulous, yet “Judge-like” earrings and a statement bracelet, or two. A much cuter look to accompany that black robe. Judy, I’m telling you, ditch that tacky little lace collar.

Could it be her wrinkle free face and neck? Maybe, I mean at 72 years old, the body parts that stick out of that black robe are looking really good. I might suggest she find a better hair stylist. Again, to have a show that’s run 19 seasons and is number one in syndication, well, you’d think she could find a “do” that was worthy of her high ranking standards.

No, it’s not Judy’s appearance that keeps me tuning in daily. I realize watching back-to-back episodes of Judge Judy might be considered…mindless? A waste of time? Silly? Yes, yes, and yes. Perhaps I should do something more meaningful with my weekly afternoons…care for little crippled children, feed the hungry, clothe the naked…read a book. Those would all be worthy aspirations, but not during the hour of 4-5 pm, Monday through Friday. 

So what is it about Judge Judy?

Could it be her use of yiddish? Judy handles all these bubbe meise court cases with such chutzpah. The schmutzy litigants seem to kvetch so, that it often causes a kerfuffle in the courtroom.  Say what…? I do love Judy’s use of the Yiddish.

Could it be Judy’s quick sassy, sarcastic comebacks? Might it be the way she rolls her eyes so that no words are necessary? Is it possible that Judy can blast through any ridiculous situation and arrive at a decision that leaves litigants with their mouths wide open in disbelief…until they hear Officer Byrd, ”That's all. The Parties are excused, you may step out.”

 “Real cases. Real people. Judge Judy. The people are REAL. The cases are REAL. The rulings are FINAL.”

Okay, I admit, I love it all, but why? What draws me to watch this show that is way too much like Jerry Springer with a gavel and an Officer Byrd (I do love Officer Byrd). Why do I love Judge Judy?

I think everyone can recall a time in life when you found yourself in a situation where someone, let’s just call him “Chuck,” says something so outlandish that you are speechless? You know, a time Chuck is so wrong. Maybe he’s flat out lying, maybe he’s simply being a jerk, maybe he’s over exaggerating, and you know it. Maybe Chuck has just leveled, embarrassed or humiliated you to the point that anyone walking by could easily scrape you off the pavement. The list of maybes could go on and on, but we’ve all been there, right?

So you leave Chuck. You walk silently away, in disbelief that Chuck is being so “Chuck.” It’s only after you have left Chuck that you say to yourself, man why didn’t I tell him this, or if only I had said that, and then dole out one of those Judy-isms. Bam! That’s it. That’s the reason I love her so much.

It’s so fun to watch my dear Judge Judy in action! Oh how I want to spew forth Judy-isms to the Chucks of the world, but I stop short. I remember I have a faith that asks me not to be critical or judgmental, rather, to see Chuck as Chuck, to be forgiving, tolerant and loving. Instead of wanting to level the Chucks of the world, my desire should be to smile at Chuck, send up a little prayer for him and go on my merry way.

Maybe there are times I wish I had the chutzpah to dole out a Judge Judy like quote, but in the long run I know it would make me feel more miserable than Chuck. I’m thankful I have a faith that tries to keep me in tow. Thank you, Lord.

Judge Judy will always be fun to watch! She says it, I just think it. Of course, she’s got Officer Byrd by her side, $47 million dollars in her pocket, and a television show named after her…makes a bit of a difference, don’t you think?!

So while I may think like Judge Judy, I’m doing my best to try to WWJD.

For what it’s worth,

Janet

Mathew 7:1-3 “Do not judge other people. Then you will not be judged. You will be judged in the same way you judge others. You will be measured in the same way you measure others.

“You look at the bit of sawdust in your friend’s eye. But you pay no attention to the piece of wood in your own eye.”

The forgotten plague...

My mother died quite a few years ago, and there are so many times I wish I could turn back the hands of time and ask her questions from my ever growing list.

Mother lived a long life and passed away from natural causes. By the time she died, Mother was frail and weak, but her mind was amazingly sharp and her memory very much intact. I feel so remiss that I missed opportunities to ask her questions. Questions concerning not just her life, her past, but more, her thoughts, her feelings, her faith, her fears. I want to know more than I know about my mother, but my opportunity is lost forever.

Who was my mother as a person, aside from being my mother? I wonder how many of us baby boomers would ask the same question of their moms? Oh, I know all the stories of mother’s childhood. I saw pictures from Mother’s youth. I heard her tell me about her sisters, her teen years, how she met my father, fell in love and married. I listened to her experiences about living through the Depression Era and WWII. 

What I somehow missed, was understanding who was this person I called my mother. Did I know what kind of friend she was? Did I understand why she had the beliefs that she had? Did I know what made her really happy or very sad? I’m ashamed to say, I don’t think I ever stopped to think about my mother, other than the fact that I loved her because she was my mom.

Syble...in her 80's...at 18, as a young mother, as a good friend, as a wonderful wife

Several weeks ago, I came across a television show on PBS’s American Experience titled “The Forgotten Plague." I nonchalantly flipped past this program, but stopped and turned back. This was a documentary concerning tuberculosis, the deadliest killer in human history. At one time this disease touched the lives of every American family. I turned up the volume, settled in and watched with curious eyes.

This deadly disease holds great prominence in my family history. Both of my grandfathers died of TB, my mother’s eldest sister died at 26 years old of this disease, and my own mother suffered from tuberculosis twice in her early to mid 30’s. I knew a bit about tuberculosis. I knew that this disease had dramatically shaped generations of our family’s lives. I knew of the story my mother told of her own experience, yet somehow I glossed over the enormity of the effect of this deadly plague. My perspective of this story became so far removed from reality, that I lost focus of what my mother had actually endured.

Watching this documentary, I saw photographs of patients with sunken cheeks, too large eyes, gaunt, skeletal; coughing racked their body as they spat up blood and disease filled their lungs. They laid in cold sterile wards, often on screened porches, beds lined up, one after the other. Even though tuberculosis crossed all socio-economic backgrounds, the victims were considered outcasts because the disease was highly contagious. 

I learned about the sanatoriums that housed these patients, my grandfathers, my aunt, and my own mother. I saw footage of how TB patients lived, and died within these walls. I was moved, riveted in my chair, finally comprehending, what my family members must have experienced. 

At 11 years old, my mother watched her father, an East Texas farmer, leave their small struggling farm hoping, to recover from this deadly disease. Patients were told complete bed rest, and fresh air was the only cure at that time. He went to a sanatorium in San Angelo. I remember Mother telling that one day she looked up and saw her father slowly walking down the long dirt path to their home. Weak and so ill, my grandfather wanted to be home at all cost. The cost ended up being great, as my grandmother cared for him for several more years until he died a long and excruciating death from tuberculosis. 

Images from effects of TB 1950

Ten years later, my mother’s sister, Thelma, was diagnosed with TB. My young mother was devastated. This was her beloved sister. Thelma had just started teaching when she became ill and was forced to quit. She, too, left the family home to convalesce in a sanatorium in Kerrville. Thelma died on Thanksgiving Day. She was 26 years old. I knew all of this family history in my head, but I’m not sure the enormity of it had ever registered in my heart.

My own mother was in her early thirties when they first discovered she had also contracted TB. As I sat and watched “The Forgotten Plague,” I could imagine the fear that coursed through every part of my mother’s being. The reality of her life began to take form within me.

In the early 1950’s my parents had two little girls, my older sisters. My father was an attorney for Humble Oil, now Exxon. My father spent much of his time working long hours, his profession was all consuming. After her diagnosis, a portion of mother’s lung was removed and following surgery, she followed in her father’s and her sister’s footsteps, leaving home to convalesce in Kerrville (the same sanatorium where her sister had died). What horrible fears she must have faced concerning her own fate. What sadness, did she experience, leaving her family? How did her faith enable her to walk this terrifying path? Mother never really spoke of these feelings, she only told of the facts, leaving me with so many questions. Oh, how I wish I now had the opportunity ask her. Mother’s health did finally improve, she did come home, and she became pregnant with me several years later. She was 37 years old. 

I have always known my rather exotic birth story. The doctors wanted mother to terminate her pregnancy, stating neither she, nor I could lead healthy lives. Mother’s story was that she and my father prayed fervently about “me” and, of course, here I am. 

There’s more to this saga. Mother was 6 months along in her pregnancy when the tuberculosis recurred. Again, she left her young daughters, and spent the rest of her pregnancy in Houston’s Methodist Hospital. She delivered me naturally. How incredibly difficult this must have been for her. She had a second lung surgery, right after I was born, and lived away from home until I was 8 months old, only allowed to have brief visits with her family. How does anyone live through this experience? What must my mother have felt? The sorrow, the doubt, the fear, the why’s? I never heard her speak of any of these feelings.

Mother survived and became amazingly strong and healthy. I never knew my mother as an invalid.  At 80 years old Mother was doing yard work that I couldn’t imagine doing now. The older I become, the more I admire my sweet mama for all she endured and overcame.

We were blessed that her story was a successful one. I am embarrassed to say that it never occurred to me to question the depths of what she must had lived through, that is, until I sat and quietly watched this documentary on PBS and saw the horrible toll tuberculosis took on so many.

I suppose my curiosity, my guilt, had caused me to ask these questions. Was this simply the way my mother functioned, or was this the way all children were raised in the 50’s, 60’s, and 70’s? Were all moms like Beaver Cleaver's, June? Did all mothers exist only outside of themselves, so selflessly that their children never saw them as human beings? Was it just my own self-centeredness that causes me now to feel I didn’t know my mother well enough?

If only…the if onlys eat at me. If only I had understood the magnitude of my mother’s fears. If only I had asked her, “Who did you rely on during this uncertain, scary time? Was it a friend? Was it your mother? Was it my dad? Was it your faith? Explain to me in detail how you lived through this and survived? Show me how to live through life’s most difficult journeys? Teach me, Mother.

I will never know the answers to all these questions. I pray that my own children know me better than I knew my own mother. I feel that Brent and Brooke know me well, not only as their mom, but on a very personal level. I hope, during their lives, I have expressed to them, my fears, my dreams, my sorrows, my delights, my faith. I pray my children see me for who I am, not simply a mom, or a wife, or a mother, but a friend, a human with flaws, a child of God.

I’m thankful I accidentally scrolled across that PBS documentary. I’m appreciative that I learned more about the horrible toll tuberculosis took on victims, on families, on society. I feel like I have a better understanding of my heritage, my roots, my own sweet mother because I’ve spent these past few weeks grasping the truth, the devastation, the enormity of this forgotten plague.

I come from pretty good stock, while not perfect, I am thankful for a family, a heritage of faithful believers, of courageous fighters, and in one case, a mighty survivor.

For what it’s worth,

Janet

Proverbs 31:30-31  “…a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised. Honor her for all that her hands have done, and let her works bring her praise at the city gate.”

                               

The quietest whispers of my memories...

I was in junior high school when a house three houses down from mine burned to the ground. I remember coming home from school and our usually quiet block was chaotic, unsettled. Neighbors were standing in their yards, and firetrucks, with red lights flashing, lined our street.  A rubble of blackened bricks, charred wood and mountains of ash stood where once had stood a home to one of my childhood friends. I remember, after the fire trucks left, the commotion died down, and the parents retreated back into their homes, I walked through some of the remains that had been cast into the front yard. I saw little things that were of no value to anyone, but I knew my friend, and I knew these seemingly insignificant items held important value to her. I thought, how very sad to have things that were meaningful, able to be so easily tossed aside, left in a pile of rubble that would be hauled away as trash.

Perhaps having experienced this destruction as a young girl, I find I still have a sentimental nature concerning nondescript items from my childhood, from my children’s childhood, things that I still hold on to and want to keep close. 

I have and still use an old wooden clown head bottle opener. It has been in my family as long as I can remember, and while the paint has flaked off his face and he no longer looks much like a clown, he will always have a permanent home in my kitchen drawer. I have a photograph of my mother wearing a light blue flannel robe. I am pictured standing beside her blowing out the candles of my second birthday cake. I was amazed to find that robe still hanging in my mother’s closet fifty years later. This now soft faded robe held such a sweet memory, that it has been hanging in my closet for well over ten years, and I smile each time I come across it. There are other things I have kept over the years, small things, reminders of tender moments. Most people likely would have tossed these relics years ago, but to me, they are remnants of my past, something to hold on to and not leave behind. 

In Santa Fe this summer, we shopped the art galleries of Canyon Road, there I spotted this very funky sculpted piece that captured my attention. We gathered around this delightful sculpture and the gallery owner told us about the artist and about “Red Earth.” 

An abstract earthy lady wore a waxen silk threaded memory skirt. The gallery owner encouraged us to run our fingers through the contents of her skirt. Dangling from many of the hundreds of strands were “treasures” that had at one time been lost or forgotten. The threads of her skirt are filled with such things as: a broken wrist watch, a shell, a child’s small toy, buttons and beads, a chess knight, a small crystal rocking horse, a dog tag, keys, a child’s small cross necklace…her skirt is full of memories of others.

"Red Earth"

I learned, it is Native American lore that it is felt memories are often housed within life’s maze of artifacts. Each artifact that comes into our path holds a story, and that story holds a memory. The artist, being a Blackfoot descendant, found this tradition inspiring and began creating his pieces “to reflect memories which invoke choices we make. Raising the question of what’s important or what needs to be left behind?” Each item he attached to her memory skirt “contains relics of outworn fantasies, fragments of disconnected dreams, and the quietest whispers of intuitive perception.”

I waited a few days before going back to the gallery. I wanted to think about this piece and decide if she was right for me. On my second visit to the gallery, the owner explained that many of the strands of her skirt had been left unfilled.  It was the artist desire that who ever chose to purchase this piece would add their own memories to the skirt. Well, that sealed the deal for me, I knew then, she was mine.

I have had “Red Earth” for a few weeks now. The first thing I tied to her skirt was Steve’s wedding ring, then a very old well-worn high school ring of my mother’s. I have since tied the children’s silver rattle to a strand, a miniature antique perfume vial because it reminds me of Psalms 58:6 (a scripture that I hold close to my heart), and a silver cross bookmark that I have always loved. 

Explaining “Red Earth” to Harper and Harris, I asked what treasures they would like to add to the memory skirt. Harris quickly ran to grab his beloved two inch batman figure from his superhero stash, and Harper carefully chose her favorite of all the dinosaurs, a tiny T-rex as her treasure.

I’m sure I will continue to add precious mementoes to Red Earth’s memory skirt. Someday, I might tie a swatch of my mother’s frayed blue flannel robe, a small corner of one of my grandmother’s lace handkerchiefs, or whatever else I come across in my treasure trove of relics from the quietest whispers of my memories.

For what it’s worth,

Janet

Ezra 9:8  "But now, for a brief moment, the LORD our God has been gracious in leaving us a remnant and giving us a firm place in his sanctuary, and so our God gives light to our eyes and a little relief in our bondage.”

A taboo subject...

I had some extra time yesterday morning so after showering, I plopped down in front of my super magnified bathroom mirror and began plucking. I started with my eyebrows, badly in need of sculpting, then surveyed the rest of my face only to become up close and personal with…yep, the disgusting chin hair. 

As much as I hate to admit it, I have chin hair. I believe most women my age also have chin hairs, but the subject is taboo, unspoken among women, and I’m not sure why. Is it because these pesky protrusions are yet another sign on the ever-growing menopause casualty list? That time in life when the old estrogen diminishes, the increased testosterone steps up to the plate and your body is no longer familiar to you in any way shape or fashion. Perhaps the idea of those creepy hairs is simply, revolting. 

I am sure we have all been in a situation with a very elderly woman and, no matter how attractive or engaging she might be, if she has chin hairs, they become front and center in your line of vision.  They bobble around when she speaks. They seem longer and more obtrusive when she tilts her head, and the distraction is too much to endure. None of us wants to become “that old woman,” so the chin hair topic isn’t discussed among women of any age.

It was then, sitting in front of my mirror, at that very chin hair moment, I knew I had to take care of this disturbing, disgusting issue before I let another week, day, hour pass. I called Brooke and started our conversation with, “I have a very serious and important favor to ask you and I need you to be totally honest and remember this conversation when the time is right.” I’m quite sure Brooke was baffled by my request, wondering if my next words might be that I was terminal. “When I am too old to see my chin hairs and too shaky to pluck them away, I need you to promise me you will keep me well groomed.” There was a slight pause and a heavy sigh, as this might be much like asking a family member to cut your grandfather’s toenails. I fully expected my devoted daughter to give me the, “Not by the hair on your chinny-chin-chin” reply, however she did agree, though rather reluctantly, that when the time comes, she would indeed bring tweezers to the retirement facility and keep me from becoming “that old woman.”

I hung up satisfied, but my mind strayed a bit further into the future. Thoughts of being old and talking about that retirement facility, reminded me of a resolution I made about ten years ago. My mission, when the time is right, is to scope out the perfect retirement facility long before it is necessary for me to become a resident. 

Having moved both my mother and Steve’s mom into nice retirement environments, I began to see that the right community of older seasoned folks could be much like living in a college dorm. 

I mean, think about it…you have all these friends living under the same roof. All one needs to do is stroll down the hall, grab a friend or two and descend several floors where, there waiting for you (and your friends) is a delicious prepared meal. I prefer the dining room to be complete with linen covered tables, a menu selection, and a wait staff to service the needs of each of my lively and adorable friends. Not to be overlooked, there is great advantage to no clean-up after meals, what a treat to simply retire to the lovely living area to play bingo, bridge, mahjong, or a barrage of other old people senior games.  Receiving high marks are those facilities that nightly host Happy Hour, coupled with live music flowing from a baby grand piano for the enjoyment of all.  

This is dorm life without having to go to class! Better yet, it is like living on “The Love Boat" where Gopher, Dr. Adam, Isaac, Julie and Captain Stubing try their best to please all the residents. Only one little problem, I hate cruise ships. I can get over this however, if my new future home holds all the right amenities.

Finally, I have realized, that much like entering middle school, one must relocate to the retirement facility of choice sooner, rather than later. Why? The answer is very simple, it is far better to be in the A Group when making a transition of this degree. To be ushered into this top echelon, one must still be vivacious enough, endearing enough, and cognizant enough of one’s surroundings. It is helpful to still have the ability to drive one’s own car, know where to buy cutest clothes, and above all else…still have the skills necessary to self-extricate the plague of those despicable, chin hairs! 

For what it’s worth,

Janet

Luke 12:7  “And he knows the number of hairs on your head! Never fear, you are far more valuable to him than a whole flock of sparrows. 

P.S.  Excuse me, Lord, I couldn’t resist!