Listen to Your Mother...

There has been a great deal of Facebook publicity the past few weeks about the Listen to Your Mother show that was presented for the first time in San Antonio this past Saturday.

I was coerced by Brooke and Lynn to audition for LTYM months ago and was privileged to have been chosen, along with Brooke to read for this audience.

I was certainly the "seasoned member" of this cast of thirteen women and was honored to be included in this talented group of writers.

I loved sharing this experience with Brooke. I continue to be amazed by my daughter's abilities and talents, she never fails to blow me away.  For those of you asking to read Brooke's piece, she will publish it the week of  Mother's Day on Alamo City Mom's Blog. 

I was thankful to so many of you dear and precious friends for coming to the production and supporting this well deserving cast of moms. I was even more thankful to have Brent, Jared and Jennifer in the audience to lend their support and encouragement.

While I continue to say I'm only a writer by the grace of God, I will continue to state that I am not, nor ever will be a public speaker.

This said, I'm so thankful for this opportunity to leave my comfort zone and share the sweet love I will always have for my Minnie Mama.

This post will be followed by my repeated post from 2013.

For what it's worth,

Janet

My Grandmother's Hands...

Forward:  Some of you have asked me to repost the piece that I read on Saturday at 
Listen to Your Mother. I posted this in 2013 and it is one of my all time favorite posts about my precious grandmother, Minnie Mama. 

For what it's worth...one more time...

A few evenings ago, I was reading to my granddaughter, Harper.  As she sat in my lap, my hands laid on top of the oversized book I read to her.  My concentration was in the words of the book. Trying to allow my voice to emote the feelings of the characters, I wanted the book's story come to life for Harper, as it had for me so long ago. 

It was a few minutes into reading that I felt Harper’s small, delicate fingers softly outlining the tops of my hands.  No longer was she as interested in what I was reading as she was in studying my hands...her grandmother’s hands. 

Harper’s fragile little fingers traced my thin skin, the veins that I suddenly noticed, caught the attention of her tiny fingertips. The wrinkles and age spots, that appeared overnight, were circled by her sweet touch.

She was gentle, curious, memorizing these hands that she loved so much,  hands that were so different from her own, so different from her younger mother’s.  She said nothing, I kept reading but in that moment, in that scenario, I was poignantly and vividly swept back to my own childhood.

I loved my grandmother dearly.  If she were still alive today Minnie Mama would be around 145 years old, but I always thought of her as old, and old was a good thing in my child's mind.

Minnie was a woman of meager means, who had nor needed much.  She grew up a country girl, in the piney woods of  East Texas in the late 1800's. Minnie was well acquainted with hardship, sorrow and loss. Her own mother died when Minnie was 8 years old. Her husband died of tuberculosis at age 42, and only ten short years later my grandmother lost her eldest daughter to the same disease that had taken her husband's life.  

Minnie had a tough life. As a young woman, she was forced to managed a failing family farm and provide for her two surviving, younger daughters. Life finally proved too difficult on the farm and the family moved to Houston, where a living could be made.  

Minnie never drove a car, never painted her nails and she never wore a bra... a full slip under her dress was ample for Minnie. She was soft spoken and kind, a woman of strong faith, yet she had her had her opinions and she would speak her mind when the time was right and we listened.

As a small child, I would spend a week at a time with Minnie Mama in her small unassuming home.  Oh how I loved it there.  She had no air conditioning. Open windows framed in crisp white crisscross organza curtains, coupled with box fans blew warm humid Houston air through her little home.

Living right by railroad tracks, the sounds of slow moving trains with their long whistles would sing us nighttime lullabies.

Mrs. Baird's Bread operated a large factory only blocks from her home and that distinct aroma of baking bread drifting through her open windows still wraps my senses likes a child's favorite, warm security blanket.

I loved sitting in my grandmother’s lap, snuggled beside her in her oversized rocker.  She would sing hymns, read to me and we would quietly talk to one another..  I have a strong picture in my mind of her holding her hands in mine as we sad so still. 

I remember her hands...her thin fragile skin, almost translucent.  I remember thinking how different, how special they were from anyone else’s hands. The tips of her fingers, soft and pillowy and when I pressed their tips they would stay indented for just a moment too long.    

She wore two small diamond rings that hung loose on her slim finger. She had a habit of twirling them unconsciously between her small delicate thumb and ring finger.  Even today, I can close my eyes and see us sitting together, the warm air blowing through those wispy white curtains, the long, lone train whistle, the smell of freshly baked bread and my grandmother's hands.

When I think back and picture myself as that small little girl sitting in my beloved grandmother’s lap, her voice has fallen silent in my mind and her face has become dim over the years, but it’s her hands that are so vivid to me. I can see and feel Minnie Mama smoothing out my dress, running her soft gentle fingers through my hair, ever so gently caressing my shoulders, my back and holding my hands in hers.  

It was here, between her loving hands, that I was confident that she would always do everything possible to protect and encourage me.  I will never forget my grandmother’s hands, they taught me much.  

I am a far cry from the humble, unassuming woman that Minnie Mama was, but I pray that in my own way my grand children may find the same legacy she left me.  I pray that as Harper looks at my aging grandmother’s hands, she feels all the love that I have in my heart for her.  

I know that as she grows older she will no longer have the desire she does now to crawl up in my lap and allow me to hold her, to run my fingers through her curls, pass my hand up and down her little back. Nor will she want to sit and play with my hands as she does now.  

Perhaps someday, in the far distant future, as she is holding one of her little grandchildren in her own lap, she too will find the legacy that lies in the amazing warm and tender touch of a grandmother’s hands.

“When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives mean the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand.” Henri Nouwen

Psalm 90:17 “May the favor of the Lord our God rest on us;

    establish the work of our hands for us—yes, establish the work of our hands.”

An addendum to “If Walls Could Talk”…

I have to chuckle when something I write gets feedback. I never know what will strike a cord with someone. As I was writing my last blog piece, “If Walls Could Talk,” I questioned whether or not anyone would be able to identify with the binding ties and curiosity I have with my past homes. I was blown away by the number of responses I received about this post. Whether texts, phone calls, emails, face book comments or running into friends in the grocery store, I have loved your responses. It seems many of us have this connect with past homes we lived in and memories that continue to have a hold on us.

After writing this post, I discovered a friend living in Houston actually knows the family who now lives in my childhood Valley Forge home. The next time I visit Houston, instead of being a drive-by voyeur, I have high hopes of walking the halls of my childhood memories. I can only imagine feeling like Dorothy and friends as they walked the long passageway leading them to the Wizard of Oz. I will be as wide-eyed as Dorothy, the Scarecrow, Tin Man and Cowardly Lion taking in, with great awe, all that surrounds me.

On this subject of drive-by voyeurism, there is a little story to tell. It was probably 12-15 years ago that Steve and I were visiting my mother in Houston. As always, I would drag Steve with me to drive down my old block. (Steve understood, as he was also a drive-by voyeur and also enjoyed seeing all of his old homes.)

The stories were always the same as I pointed out each house and gave a brief synopsis of their history. Susie lived there, she was Catholic, adopted and her mother’s laugh sounded just like a machine gun. Next was Mary, her parents were divorced, making her quite exotic. Mary’s mother taught school, so cool, oh, and their house burned to the ground. Across the street, lived Nancy. Her mother was from Venezuela and spoke better Spanish than English, very flamboyant...and they had a swimming pool. Nancy was always allowed to do things the rest of us were forbidden to do, I wanted to be Nancy. 

Next door lived the older Nancy. She went to live with her grandmother for nine months. How fun would that be? I realized much, much later that being the older Nancy and “living with her grandmother for nine months” was most likely a very painful time for this young girl.

Then there were Dot-and-Levi. That was how we knew them, one name was never mentioned without the other. Dot-and-Levi had no children and were rather orchidaceous. Dot wore a proverbial french twist, capri pants with matching flats and a thin sweater draped her small shoulders. Levi, was the only “old man” (probably around 35 years old) who had a crew cut. They always had the most perfect house on the block. Sometimes I wondered what it would be like to be their little girl. I bet it would have been magical.

Next was Susan. Her father had a woodworking shop in their garage and behind a cabinet door he had pin-up calendars of scantily clad women. We would sneak into their garage and flip through the months of pinups, deciding which one we wanted to look like. Susan’s dad smoked, so she would snatch cigarettes and we would smoke them behind her garage. Susan taught me to inhale and blow smoke rings…thanks Susan! 

On my side of the street lived Fred, who cried and told on us when we demanded he pulled down his pants, along with his sister, Margie, who always dropped her popsicle money in the storm drains...prompted by my encouraging. Patty was my next door neighbor and my very best friend in the whole wide world. Her family was my second family and I can still recall every square inch of that house as well as my own. Patty’s mother always wore dresses, never raised her voice and had fresh grapes on their breakfast table's lazy Susan.

So let’s go back to 12 or so years ago, when Steve was coerced to drive me, once again down Valley Forge. This drive-by voyeur day was no different from any other of my zillion drive-byes with one exception. As we ever so slowly approached my old home, Steve and I suddenly saw a girl of about 16, slightly skinny, with long dark hair, leaving her house/my old house, bouncing down the sidewalk. I was looking in a crystal ball. Seeing myself at that same age, bounding down that same sidewalk, all skin and bones, long dark hair trailing behind me. The film reel in my brain froze in that second. I could see myself at 16 sitting in the bay window of our living room waiting for friends to pick me up. I can hear the quick honk, notifying me of my friends arrival. Yelling to my mother that I was leaving, I can remember running down the sidewalk, jumping in the car. Off we would go. My breath must have audibly caught in my throat and I felt Steve’s hand close over mine. Watching the car full of teenagers drive away, I looked at Steve. I knew we were on the same page. “Well, that was weird!” Weird yes, but what a serendipitous moment, a happy little pearl of my past to hold on to and best part, Steve got it.

A year ago, I was in Midland. I had a little time to kill before I was expected at a friend’s house. Naturally, I used the time for a Sinclair drive-by. Compelled, I stopped the car, took a deep breath and walked to the front door. Not knowing what I would say to the unknown homeowner, I rang the bell and waited. No one answered, so I actually cupped my hands to the glass door to peek inside. Oh, it was still much the same. How I wished my eye could have taken me farther into this old home of mine, but it wasn’t meant to be.

I can now confess my voyeuristic tendencies to all of you because I know there are many of you also long to go back and peer into those rooms, those old, dear, never forgotten friends and pay them a brief, but meaningful homage. 

For what it’s worth,

Janet

Ecclesiastes 3: 1-7

 “There is a time for everything, 

    and a season for every activity under the heavens:

    a time to be born and a time to die,

    a time to plant and a time to uproot,

    a time to kill and a time to heal,

    a time to tear down and a time to build,

    a time to weep and a time to laugh,

    a time to mourn and a time to dance,

    a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,

    a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,

    a time to search and a time to give up,

    a time to keep and a time to throw away…”

  

If walls could talk...

Any opportunity I get, I drive by homes I have lived in. These homes are such a part of me that I consider them old friends, homes that are important veins that lead to my heart. I am able to recall vivid memories of each room, whether joyful or despairing, they are integral in the telling of my life’s story.

Author, Stephanie Perkins, asks, “Is it possible for home to be a person and not a place?”

My earliest memory is my family's Valley Forge home in Houston. We moved there when I was 4 years old and my parents finally sold that home after I was an adult, with a family and a home of my own.

Valley Forge Drive

Valley Forge was as much a part of my childhood as any member of my family and my memories of that house are indelibly imprinted on my mind. My favorite room, a room I considered to be my good friend, became a large walk-in cedar closet located right next to my bedroom. To this day, the smell of freshly cut cedar makes my heart warm and fuzzy. 

When my young world seemed to turn upside down, I would retreat into the depths of that cozy, aromatic closet where I felt safe and secure. I can picture my young self, sitting cross-legged on the warmth of the plush carpeted floor. My mother hung all of her evening dresses, along with my older sister’s crinoline and tulle skirted formals in this cedar closet. I can close my eyes today and still envision those formals billowing around me. Gazing up, all I could see were clouds of the most beautiful dresses. Hat boxes were stacked on top of shelves and a rainbow of dyed peau de soie pumps, stood at attention, one after another. Here is where I could retreat and solve all the problems of my little world. Here is where my imagination could run free, I could forget my sadness and I become an exotic princess from a far off land living on an island all her own…surrounded by chopped down cedar trees.

Sinclair Avenue in Midland, Texas was my next home. We bought this house as a young married couple. While it was tiny, I loved every square inch of this home. This is where I brought my babies home from the hospital. This is where they took their first steps and said their first words. The dated, pink tile countertop of the hall bath was the place my little ones sat while loose baby teeth were pulled and pigtails were created. In this home, my children learned to read and ride bicycles. Magic childhood Christmases were experienced between the walls of this sweet home. I remember preparing the nursery first for Brent, then for Brooke. I was so proud of myself when I painted Brent’s little boy room sky blue with white fluffy clouds just like Meryl Streep had done in the movie, “Kramer vs Kramer.”

Sinclair Avenue

The front door of that home was never closed. Children came and played and stayed. I grew up, along with my children in that home. I discovered, within those walls, life could quickly change, as could the family that lived within. I became a single mom while living in that little home and remember feeling scared and uncertain of what our future would hold, but I never doubted the love that existed there.

Brent, Brooke and I made the move to San Antonio in 1995. Not only did we move into our Stonehenge home, but we moved into a new family. I loved that home because this is where I fell in love with Steve. I loved that home because this is where he had raised Lynn and David and this is where, together, we raised two more teenagers. That home suited us well, but Steve realized it could never be “our home” and so, we began to think about building a new home together.

StonehengeDrive

Bretford Court was our baby. It took 2 years to design. Working with an architect, we would draw and discuss and plan and then do it all over again. This was before the Pinterest and Houzz era and I lugged around a large, three-ring notebook stuffed with magazine pictures of dream room after dream room. The actual building took over a year, Steve and I loved the process, we loved our builder and we loved living there.

Bretford Court

We had such precious memories of this home. All six of our grandchildren played in the little mouse house that was tucked under the eaves of the second floor family room. This cheerful pint-sized nook held toys and crayons, books, pillows and stuffed animals to cuddle. Our grandchildren would crawl in and play for hours in this little space of their own. 

We put our heart and soul in the design of each room. Our kitchen was probably our favorite room, again another dear friend to me. Each night, Steve and I would listen to music, while cooking dinner. On cold nights, we would sit in front of a fire, drinking wine, laughing and eating dinner in that wonderful, cozy space. Ahh, those were the best of times.

When we knew Steve’s life was to be cut short, I knew I couldn’t live alone in this magnificent home that we had built together. I knew, without Steve, this home would be too big, too vacant, too sad. I’m thankful Steve was able to stay in our home until he left this earth. I am blessed I was able to say good-bye to him in our bedroom that we so loved, that was comfortable, that was home. After Steve’s death, the house was simply too painful, the walls echoed of the memories of voices and laughter I would never hear again and I knew it was time to move.

God was amazing in orchestrating every second of this last difficult move. Friends bought Bretford Court, Brooke and Jared moved into their new home and I was able to buy their Pinoak Knolls home and renovate it with incredible ease. The move of three different households took place without one hiccup, without one realtor and with such simplicity.

Pinoak Knolls

On occasion, friends ask me if I am happy in my Pinoak Knolls home. There is always a pregnant pause before I answer and I’m not sure why. I love my neighbors, they are the greatest. I love my house, it is designed exactly as I had planned, each room is comfortable and inviting. I have spent hours working in my yard and finally, this spring, everything is growing and blooming and it all makes me so happy. I am blessed beyond measure to be able to live in such a lovely home. I know this.

So why the pregnant pause when asked if I’m happy here? Sometimes, I feel like even this house is too big for just me, as I rattle around from one room to another. Maybe a smaller, cottage type home would suit me better. Perhaps, I have been watching too much HGTV and Chip and Jojo have turned me into a “find an old fixer upper, knock down all the walls, add some french doors and shiplap and it’ll be great” kind of person. 

There are times I wish I lived in a little house in the country where I could have a nanny goat, two chickens and two miniature donkeys. (My friend Claudia told me if you have one donkey, you must have another…Claudia knows these things.) Other times, I wish I lived closer to the kids, as I spend much of my time driving back and forth between our homes. Then there are times I wish I lived in a house overlooking a lake…no, that might get too lonely. 

All of this said, I’m unsettled. I’m trying to find my place. It’s as if I’m one of a few remaining puzzles pieces, searching for just the right spot for my piece to fit so that my picture is complete. I hope my puzzle piece will one day find its place, because until it does, my heart doesn't seem to be where my home is.

The time has passed for me to feel the security of a warm, quiet cedar closet, or the contentment of sitting in a nursery, rocking one of my babies. I understand my time of cooking in a kitchen and sharing a home-cooked meal with Steve has come and gone. I know these rooms will always be my friends, but they are from long ago and I simply am no longer able to visit them. 

There is a longing deep within me to nestle into my home and find the quiet solitude within, to feel that this home, like all my other homes, is more a person than a place.

I know my focus must lie in allowing my heart to be Christ’s home, for this is where I will find true contentment, real joy and a peace that surpasses all understanding. 

So, who knows whether tomorrow, I’ll be raising two miniature donkeys, living closer to my children, sitting out on a lovely lawn enjoying “GoldenPond” or simply staying right where I am and asking myself, “Why on earth would I ever want to put myself through the gruesome ordeal of moving again?”

For what it’s worth,

Janet

Ephesians 3:16–17  “Then Christ will make his home in your hearts as you trust in him. Your roots will grow down into God’s love and keep you strong.”