On being Honey...

I liken being a grandmother to participating on a relay team. Last Thursday morning, the baton was passed to me and I took my turn at a fast-paced, energy charged lap around the course…or maybe it was four laps…or maybe more like twenty.

The baton I carefully retrieved, were my youngest two grandchildren. Brooke and Jared had the chance to go to Washington D.C. for a long week-end, a business/leisure trip that was much needed.  I was grateful to be able to step into my “Honey shoes” and prepare myself for a fast-paced four days.

While we had a few must do’s, most of our long week-end was filled with, what is now known as, our routine regime. 

Silly Time, a part of all of our routines!

After attending a little soccer camp, we headed home, to Honey’s house. Here is where the steadfast, non-wavering regime begins. This little routine was never discussed, never thought out. There is no rhyme, no reason, for this set schedule, it has simply evolved into a routine that occurs every time they run through my front door.

Harper, beelining it into the house, heads for the dress-up closet. This closet is full of Brooke’s old dance recital costumes and all the tacky princess outfits I have been able to accrue. As she is racing through the house, Harper, looks back over her shoulder, “Honey will you please put on Pandora!” Harry, a.k.a Harris, immediately sheds all clothes. Down to his undies, Harry heads for the backyard. Grabbing golf clubs, baseball bats and all sorts of balls he is ready for action. Very quickly, the undies are down and Harry is finding a bush to proudly pee on. These are all hardcore, non-breakable routines that are consistent expectations when entering Honey’s house.

There are other regimes I will get to shortly, but let me pause here to dig a little deeper into the Pandora Radio thing. I know Brooke tunes into several radio stations, Disney show tunes, Christian children’s songs, Toddler Radio and Kidz Bop Radio. I quickly understood that Kidz Bop was at the top of the list. I spent four days listening to non-stop Frozen songs, lots of Taylor Swift, Katie Perry and oh so much more.

Harper, after changing into her costume of choice, heads straight for the cabinet full of colors and princess coloring books. There is usually a new book to fill, and Harper is content to color for hours. Multi-tasking is big with this little four year old. As she colors, she often pauses to become a cross between a prima ballerina and Tina the Pole Dancer (world renown Texas Tech legend). In her very own little world she transforms into Princess Elsa dancing her own choreographed version of “Let it Go” or Tina Pole Dancer comes out to dance to “Call Me Maybe” , “Hey I just met you, And this is crazy, but here's my number, So call me maybe.”

This once shy, timid child suddenly struts her stuff, twirling, arching, legs flailing, toes pointing. She is all about the dance and she knows every word to every song. Brooke, what in the world???

It isn’t long before Harry barrels through the back door. Still down to his skivvies, he leaps onto the large ottoman in the middle of my den and begins to gyrate singing at the top of his lungs, “This Girl is on Fire” or maybe even more dramatic, “Uptown Funk.” Nothing like a three year old boy singing naked, at the top of his lungs… “Girls hit your hallelujah (whoo)'Cause uptown funk gon' give it to you,” I could go on and on. After four days, I now know all of the lyrics of these entertaining songs…”Shake It Off,” Blank Space, “Hey Soul Sister”…I know every word and I’m singing them in my sleep.

Back to our routine regime. After dinner, while I clean up, Harper and Harris always play animals in the jungle. They love PBS “Wild Kratts.” Thanks to this enlightening show, they take on the persona of honey badgers, peregrine falcons, or other obscure exotic wildlife. Both children usually end up entwined between my legs/jungle vines, while I stand trying to wash dishes. 

After dinner and a trip to Africa, we are off to the bath tub. Here Harper becomes Ariel, the mermaid, or a lovely dolphin, while Harry is always a whale shark. More water ends up on the bathroom floor and on me, but hey, what are bathrooms and bathtubs for? A quick tooth brushing, flossing (Brooke I never flossed your teeth), lotion application, p.j.’s and then…the much awaited…movie time.

I have purchased a library of my favorite Disney movies and I think this time of night might be more a highlight for me than for the H’s. Movies are discussed and one is selected and a mad dash is made for my bed. Lights out, movie night begins and a crowded and cozy bed is home to three eagerly awaiting movie watchers.

This week-end our movies were, “Jungle Book” (Harry loves to be Mobley) and “101 Dalmatians.” When “The End” appears it’s off to bed…well sort of. We go to “Harry’s room” for story time, prayers and a song. It then gets a little sticky. Harper has finagled her way into sleeping with me, so sweet Harris ends up sleeping in his room and the girl, sneaks off to my bed…nightly. A footnote and after much rationalization, I decided, that in a very short time Harper will no longer want to sleep with her Honey and therefore, it is up to me to make the most of our time together. Thus, Harper sleeps with me, and soon I have no doubt, they will both be in my bed.

By the time I get Harry to sleep, Harper is sound asleep in my bed and I have some time to wind down. Before I know it 5:30 a.m. hits and Little Miss Sound Asleep starts to squirm. Harper doesn’t fully wake up at this wee hour, but suddenly I feel an elbow in my face, a knee in my back and then her leg flops down over my body. I’m wide awake, but Harper is still sound asleep. Not wanting to start my day before the sun is up, I lay wide awake and perfectly still until Harris bounds into the room announcing that he is ready for “something yummy in his tummy!” Thus our day begins…again.

Another of our routine rituals is breakfast, the same menu every morning. Oatmeal, apple juice and waffles with honey. There is something sweet about routine. There is something safe about knowing what each day holds. There is something poignant about ritual and I am thankful to be apart of their routine.

This stay I decided we would begin  reading “The Adventures of Winnie the Pooh” together. Winnie was always one of Steve’s favorites and A.A. Milne has always been a favorite of mine. Milne’s beautiful words of his beloved Winnie are so dear and precious. “Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind. "Pooh?" he whispered."Yes, Piglet?” "Nothing," said Piglet, taking Pooh's hand. "I just wanted to be sure of you.” 

or 

“Some people care too much. I think it's called love.” 

Oh how I hope I can instill this gift of words to these precious children!

Our four days flew by and before we knew it the children were back home in time for their Sunday afternoon naps. Putting Harper to bed, I knelt down beside her. I told her how much I had loved being with her the past four days. I told her how much I loved her and how proud I was of her. It was then I noticed a big tear running down the side of her cheek. “Oh Harper, why the tears?”  Her reply, “Honey I wish you lived with us always.” Feeling a bit teary myself, “Oh Harps, if I lived with you always, then our times together wouldn’t be special.” She looked up at me with those big brown eyes and lovingly stated, “Oh Honey, but wouldn’t it be so special to live together always?”

I passed the baton back to Brooke and Jared soon after the children had drifted off to sleep. I came home to a house that seemed a little too quiet, a little too empty and thought of Pooh, “It's so much more friendly with two.” 

I am thankful and blessed for this time with these children, for I know that all too soon both they and I will be too old for one another.

For what it’s worth,

Honey

Proverbs 22:6 “Train a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not turn from it.”

Walking in another’s shoes…

Every spring my mother would take me shoe shopping. We would go to the girls shoe department of Foley’s, in Houston. Spring of 1959, there we were, waiting to have my growing feet measured for a new pair of white Sunday School shoes and a pair of tie-up Keds, usually red. These shoes were to carry me through of first grade and the summer. As we sat waiting to be helped, my eyes zeroed in on the most incredible pair of tennis shoes. They weren’t lace ups, but slip ons, much like today’s Vans.

I was relentless. I begged, whined, and clung to my mother until she agreed to buy me these shoes. My mother was frugal and sensible and these slip-on tennis shoes seemed impractical, but she finally relented and I had a brand new pair of baby blue slip-on tennis shoes. I was proud. I imagined my first grade teacher, Miss McCann, who I thought looked exactly like Mrs. Jacqueline Kennedy, spotting my new shoes and telling me how wonderful they were. She would point out to the whole class how I had gotten the cutest tennis shoes ever. My fantasy grew.

Why I remember this so vividly, I cannot begin to explain, but there I was on the blacktop of River Oaks Baptist Day School, feeling pleased as punch about my new shoes. Suddenly Powie James strides up beside me and my new shoe world changed in the blink of an eye.

Powie was the George Clooney of first grade. I was as madly in love with him, as “in love” as first grader could be. This day, he strutted up with his entourage. Powie always had an entourage, as he was simply Powie. He stuck his shoe right up next to my brand new baby blue Van-like shoe, and that was the moment I wanted to melt right into the blacktop. Powie was sporting his brand new pair, yep, you got it, black just like my baby blues, all boy, Van-like tennis shoes. Oh no, please God no! He then proclaimed for all the blacktop to hear, “Janet’s wearing boy shoes! Janet’s wearing BOY shoes!” Oh, I was mortified. Before I could think, I raised my brand new right Van-like shoe and kicked him with all my might, right in his shin. I courageously stated my shoes were bought in the Girl’s Department. I didn’t have the Power of Powie, so my words fell flat and the chanting and laughing began.

Tears welling, I turned and stomped off, plopping down under a tree, where I sat on my feet, so hoping my shoes would magically disappear. I remember being taunted the rest of the day by the Power of Powie. It was tough being that first grader that day.

I went home, took off those shoes and stuffed them in the back of my closet. The following morning I appeared at breakfast in my old scuffed up saddle oxfords. I got into big trouble telling my mother I had lost my brand new shoes, but I was willing to take my mother’s wrath over first grade humiliation any day. I often wondered what it would be like to walk in the shoes of someone as powerful and influential as Powie James?

The year was 1966. Fashion was Villager, Bobbie Brooks and Pappagallo shoes. I went to an affluent junior high and high school in Houston and if you didn’t own Pappagallo shoes, well, unfortunately, you didn’t exist. It was an over the top caste system. As I stated earlier, my mother was frugal, as well as practical, these pricey, poorly made shoes were not in our repertoire. 

Finally, November, well into fall of 7th grade, and my twelfth birthday, my request… simply, a pair of Pappagallos.  That was it. That was all I wanted.

Walking into The Pappagallo Shoe Store on Kirby, I was in nirvana. Oh, the colors, the loafers, vs. the tassels, it was exhilarating. I remember my mother extrapolating, much too loudly, that these shoes were flimsy, poorly made and hardly worth $12. All that mattered was that I finally had my wonderful, coveted Pappagallos, and while I can’t remember, I’m sure they were some neutral color. Christmas came, my request was again, Papppagallos. By spring, I had three pairs of the desired shoes.  

I quickly learned several important things concerning these ridiculous flats. When it rained, which was weekly in Houston, the “Italian leather” shoes turned to cardboard. The rest of their lifespan consisted of using every toe muscle to keep them attached to one’s foot. It was more like wearing a close-toed flip-flop. The second thing I learned was that you could go to the dime store and buy shoe dye. For less than $1.00 you could dye your Pappagallo’s, producing a matching pair for every outfit. The only problem being, if you died them one too many times, they began to look like dog poo.

By 8th grade, I had become best friends with, well, let’s just call her “Ellen”. Ellen’s mom was younger and much cooler than mine. Ellen’s mom wore Pappagallos, and Ellen had every shade and style available. In the fall, Ellen would come to school in olive green Pappagallos, the next day she might wear navy blue with lime green tasseled Pappagallos. Oh, to be Ellen. Ellen’s closet shelves were phenomenal!  Lining each shelf were the coveted black and turquoise signature boxes. Ellen labeled each box, in her curly script, by the color and style of the flats. “Hot Pink,” “Lemon Yellow with Orange Tassels.” “Easter Egg Blue.”  Oh, what must it have been like to have a mother that would buy you every single pair of those marvelous flats? What must it have been like to walk in Ellen’s shoes?

9th grade Birthday Party, Excuse the short skirt, but notice the lovely navy Pagallo shoe!

Every foot donned at Pappagallo shoe

I was quite a bit older when I heard my mother tell of her childhood years. Mother was a child of the depression. Her father, a poor East Texas farmer, died of tuberculosis after a lengthly illness. Their family was beyond poor, and I remember mother saying that at 13 years old, she had to borrow a pair of shoes to wear to her father’s funeral. That day, I began to have a clearer understanding of what my mother had tried to instill me during those years of silly arguments over shoes. Oh my, what must it have been like to walk in my mother’s borrowed shoes that day of her father’s funeral?  

My mother (bottom right), her sisters and cousins

In the recent past, I volunteered in a men’s clothing shelter. Homeless men, men who had just been released from prison, men down on their luck and needing a pair of shoes to apply for a job would come and request a pair of shoes. A group of us made a conscientious effort to provide new tennis shoes for these men. Nothing gave me more pleasure than to hand these humble men a pair of brand new shoes. The smiles, the gratitude, the humility that I experienced from being able to give shoes to someone who so needed them filled my heart with incredible joy. What must it be like to walk in the shoes of someone so in need?

Today, embarrassingly, I have a closet full of shoes, none expensive, but way too many. Shoes that are fun, stylish, fancy, fit for every outfit, every occasion.  What is it like to walk in my shoes? Well, sometimes, I have needed my hiking boots, and sometimes, my muck boots have been necessary, but all in all, my shoes are mine to fill. 

While each path has been different, some more rugged than others, and some glorious mountain-top experiences, my shoes, define an exquisite life. Harper Lee wrote in “To Kill a Mockingbird,  ”… you never really know a man until you stand in his shoes and walk around in them.” 

May we all take the time to consider what it means to walk in another’s shoes, and be forever grateful for the shoes we are able to fill.

For what it’s worth,

Janet

Micah 6:8 “ He has shown you, O mortal, what is good.  And what does the Lord require of you?  To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.”

Mother's Day, 1959...

I was five years old and this is my first memory of celebrating Mother’s Day. I’m not sure if my family was just not into this motherly holiday homage, or if Mother’s Day celebrations have evolved over the years, but my memory of this day seems simple and unimpressive.

Easter, Washington D.C. 1957

Buckling my white patten Sunday School shoes (Easter had passed and one could properly wear white shoes again), I headed for the kitchen. On this special Sunday, I found my mother standing in her brand new very modern 50’s kitchen, making breakfast for her family of five, and preparing a roast or ham or chicken that would bake while we were at church. 

I picture my mother, hair and make-up ready, the scent of Aqua Net still lingering in the air, standing in her stocking feet, house coat over her slip, frying bacon and eggs. This might sound strange to younger readers, as today many children can be found bringing their moms breakfast in bed, served on a lovely tray with flowers and flourish. For those of us growing up in the 50’s and 60’s finding moms in the kitchen on Mother’s Day was normal…about the same as any other Sunday or Monday or Friday.

We gathered around our big circular claw-footed oak breakfast table that morning presenting mother with some kind of white flower. I hope it was an orchid, but fear it was carnations. Honestly, all I remember is it was a white corsage in a clear plastic box. 

I remember sitting in the congregation of River Oaks Baptist Church, wedged between my two older sisters and flanked on either end by our mother and father. The preacher (they were not called ministers in the 50’s) asked for the oldest mother to stand, then the mother with the youngest child, the mother with the most children stood, then all the mothers stood. I remember we clapped, we actually clapped, in big church. We clapped as all the corsage wearing mothers beamed with pride all around us. We most likely sang “What A Friend We Have in Jesus,” “Make Me A Blessing,” or maybe “Love Lifted Me.” A highly spirited, long winded sermon followed before we were allowed to file out of our pew.

River Oaks Baptist Church 1955

Before heading home, all the fathers stood around for a quick smoke, while the mother’s circled to visit before heading home to finish lunch. There was never a thought of eating Sunday lunch at a restaurant, unless it was Wyatt’s Cafeteria, but that would never have been the  appropriate thing to do on Mother’s Day.

I distinctly remember standing by my mother in that circle of women and someone saying they didn’t realize my mother’s mother had passed away. My grandmother was still very much alive, but it seems our faux pas was the white corsage. Emily Post Rule #231: “It is appropriate if your mother’s mother is living to give her a RED corsage, if your grandmother is deceased, a white corsage is to be given in her memory. Guess we missed Rule # 231, but to this day, I will never forget the look of embarrassment on my mother’s face. She was never again given a white corsage.

I remember coming home, my father ordering all of us to change out of our church clothes and hurry to help mother prepare Sunday dinner. I can’t remember one of us ever helping mother prepare anything in our pink and aqua kitchen, but I do remember the hours it seemed to take to clean up after a Sunday meal.

I remember presenting my mother with a Mother’s Day card I had made in Sunday School. My teacher had brought her brand new Polaroid Instamatic and took photos of each of us standing in front of a large picture of Jesus and the little children. Wow, this was huge! We pasted our photos onto our decorated folded construction paper card. It was the greatest of gifts. Years later, when we were cleaning our my parents home, I found that mother’s day card, it was still perfectly intact and had been kept with many of her other treasures for years.

That was it. Our Mother’s Day celebrating was over and my mother seemed completely content with the simplicity of it all. She had spent a lovely Sunday with her family, that was good enough.

I’m not sure why or how this holiday has so evolved, so escalated over the years. I suppose much like Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, Valentine’s Day and Easter our traditions have become more involved, more extravagant, more hoopla surrounds each holiday. 

Perhaps Mother’s Day, 1959 wasn’t any different from other Sunday, or maybe it special after all, maybe that is why I so vividly remember this day 56 years later. There is something sweet and poignant when I look back and see my mother standing in her kitchen, proudly cooking a meal for her family, wearing her white corsage to church, in spite of the fact it wasn’t red, and seeing her smiling happily as she was presented with her hand made mother’s day card.

I will miss my mother this Sunday, but I will forever hold on to these precious memories.

For what it’s worth, 

Janet

Mother's Day 1971

Proverbs 31:28-30 “Her children arise and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praises her: Many women do noble things, but you surpass them all. Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting; but a woman who fears the LORD is to be praised.”

Mind the Gap...

People are often dissatisfied with gaps in their teeth, easy fix, orthodontia. A gap in your fence, nail in a new slat. A gap in finances, cut up your credit card.

When riding the subway, aka “tube” in London you will see and hear the warning signs, "Mind the Gap.” It is an audible and visual warning phrase issued to rail passengers to take caution while crossing the spatial gap between the train door and the station platform as the drop is deep, dark and dangerous. 

Wouldn’t it be nice to have this warning signal before falling into one of life’s gaps? You know the gaps I’m talking about, gaps of sadness, fear, loss, disappointment. Everyone must choose to mind these gaps rather than fall into something that is deep and dark and ominous.

I heard this term, “Mind the Gap” on the radio a while back and this phrase has been gnawing at me since. Why? What gap do I need to be mindful of falling into? Why did this phrase so resonate with me that it continues to echo in my mind?

Steve’s birthday is tomorrow, April 13th. Steve was never big on birthdays, attention, gifts... however, being a big birthday fan, I struggled with his birthday nonchalance every year. Finally, I solved the “Steve Birthday Dilemma.” I found the gift that made him happiest, German chocolate cake. On really good years he would receive two cakes one from me and one from Lynn. Oh how he loved his cake! It had to be iced all over, not just the top and in-between layers. Steve’s cake had icing on the sides and the best was the left over icing, he kept in the frig so he could dollop extra sugary goo on each bite.

Oh, how I wish there were no gap to mind today. How I wish I were making that cake for Steve instead of writing these words. I wish Steve were still sliding, sock-footed down our hardwood halls, "Ferris Bueller's Day Off" style. I long to have him walk, mud covered through the house, proud because he had just mastered some do-it-yourself project in the yard. I want back all the times he would reach out and drape his arm across my shoulders, and pull me back against his chest, so that I could feel his heart beating against the back of my head. Oh, for one more chance to see his wonderful face break into his fabulous smile, to watch him dissolve into laughter until tears rolled down his face. If only I could hear his whisper, “Do you know I love you more than anything in the world, Janet?”

There is a gap in my heart, a gash, a rip, a crack. I doubt it will ever go away, as this is a wound that is deep and real. I recognize this chasm as a sign, a symbol, a badge of honor. It tells of a great love, of a great life, of a great man. That is a gap I never want to fill.

While my heart’s gap is ever-present, I know I must mind this gap. I must make sure that sorrow never supersedes joy in my life, that Steve’s absence never outweighs all the fun, sweet memories we have together. 

I must take heed to see and hear the flashing warning, “Mind the Gap,” and not fall into the dark hole of remembering Steve as he was, this time two years ago when the tumor returned with such a vengeance, as I watched cancer win. This is a deep hole that is all too easy to fall into. “Mind the Gap!”

I don’t think it was by chance that my brain stored these three little warning words in the crevices of my mind a week ago. I believe that God’s infinite grace knew what the upcoming days would hold for me and he allowed me to remember this warning, knowing fully that I would need something to grasp hold of, so as not to fall into the huge gap that Steve’s death left.

I write these words today to ensure “Mind the Gap” is forefront in my mind. That when my thoughts fall dark and heavy, I know that God has already built a bridge of hope, of joy, of mercy, of forgiveness. A bridge I can cross over, allowing myself to cross, as Webster’s definition of gap writes, this unfilled space, this interval; this break in continuity. 

I am thankful for my life. It is full of blessings and joy. Tomorrow, as I remember Steve on his birthday, I will “Mind the Gap” and I will celebrate how full, how rich, how precious my life was with him. I will find joy in the legacy he left for so many, in the love we had for one another and in the time we had together.

For what it’s worth,

Janet

1 Timothy 6:19 “storing up for themselves the treasure of a good foundation for the future, so that they may take hold of that which is life indeed.”