A Grand Dame

Posted by Aug 16, 2021 Family 8 Comments

Ever since I was a little girl I have read historical romance novels.  They have been an escape, a pleasure, and have given me a lot of knowledge about what life was like throughout different periods of time.  For those of you not familiar, think of the Netflix hit “Bridgerton.”  Most of the stories I’ve read contained a “grand dame,” essentially the matriarch of a family having great wealth or prestige.  I have read many where the character is mean but the ones I always loved proved the grandmother to be forward thinking, gracious, and kind.  Early on, when I was dating my (now) husband, the first person to whom I was introduced was his maternal grandmother.  After over sixteen years I can still see her quiet, commanding posture as she sat by the fireplace surrounded by her little dogs … as regal as any queen.  When she inquired if I had animals, I told her I had a wolf hybrid, a husky, two turtles and seven cats.  I will never forget she just smiled and replied, “Well, you are just as nutty as my daughter!”  I am so proud to call the woman whom you see pictured above my grandmother-in-law.  I just took this at her 95th birthday celebration.  I suppose because she has reached such a milestone birthday, I find myself reminiscing over the time I have known her.  Shortly before my husband and I were engaged he invited me along with his maternal family on an Alaskan cruise.  I want to say his grandmother turned 80 on that trip — and it was fantastic!  This woman took a military, all-terrain vehicle (like something out of “Tomb Raider”) to the top of a glacier so we could race sled dogs.  The thing was it was for groups of three, and we were a group of four.  I will never forget this woman, who must have understood I did not want to be with strangers, declare, “Well, I am SICK of you all!” and she went off to ride with another couple.  On a family wedding trip to Spain we were invited to an afternoon sherry tasting in tables of four.  I was married by then to her grandson.  So there we were, in heat akin to Texas, and this indomitable woman split four carafes with me which were intended for four people instead of two.  Not only did she match me drink for drink, I shall never forget that she quipped, “Well, with every drink I get more witty and beautiful.”  I fell in love with her right then and there.  For a woman who grew up in the Deep South, I saw her welcome a black man (whom we all consider family) into her home and to a very old Country Club.  At the risk of sounding impertinent, she is smoking hot.  She only recently stopped driving but still takes her dogs on a daily walk.  Claiming to not be tech savvy, she has told me she was going to throw her iPad into the swimming pool.  She emails and reads books on it regularly.  This woman accepted me on sight, despite that my family was far from well-to-do.  She maintains a positive attitude, has faithfully been a lifelong member of the Episcopal Church, and has always managed to have SOME time to spare for me.  I have watched her swim with sea turtles in Mexico and hike in the Sangre de Cristo mountains of Santa Fe.  When she was at our house our first Thanksgiving I was horrified when our cat leapt up and ran away with the turkey.  As he went careening down the length of the formal dining room table his hind leg nearly kicked my new wedding china to the ground.  Nimbly, she reached out, caught the plate before it shattered, and just laughed and laughed.  She has several monikers, but when our child was born I asked if we could call her “Great.”  She told me she did not feel comfortable with that, as that was her late mother’s name later in life.  I proposed “GG” or “Gigi” (for great-grandmother) and she happily accepted.  Once, when our little girl was a toddler, I was worried about leaving her while my husband and I went to a ball.  I’ll never forget she said, “Laura, I’m going to give her a pot of sugar and let her play in the fire.”  I will also never forget when we had tremendous snow storms and had no electricity.  My baby’s lips were BLUE and we finally broke down and called her, asking if we could at least spend the night.  She warmly greeted us in the door with milk punch and, as always, was the most gracious hostess.  The woman STILL makes a chicken curry which is so good our now nine year old recently was caught shoveling it with her hands!  My mother-in-law was kind enough to send me a picture of a gift her mother received at her party.  It reads:

If I should live to a ripe old age may I possess some bit of individuality, charm and wit.  That I may not be discarded when I am withered, worn and weak, but sought after and cherished like a fine antique.

And that she is.  She is truly the epitome of a grand dame.

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Not Bugging Me

Posted by Jul 25, 2021 Nature Leave a Comment


I have long associated the days and nights of summer with the sound of cicadas.  As a kid I called them locusts, but I have grown to realize they are completely different and not at all destructive.  I should also note they do not bite.  I used to love catching them and then of course releasing them.  Lady bugs are lovely, “doodle bugs” are delightful, caterpillars are captivating, and many types of spiders spin silk the envy of any seamstress.  I have always delighted in dragonflies and the beauty of butterflies.  For me the most precious and rare of all are fireflies.  I imagine the Praying Mantis to be a type of Crusader Monk from ages past.  Ants have intrigued me, as have bees, and I have a healthy respect for them both.  Along the loose lines of the birds and the bees, I recently discovered these two captured in time.  Cicada “shells” like the ones pictured above hold immense fascination for me, as one can examine the shed exoskeletons in great detail without stressing them.  One can see the intricate delicacy of their eyes, wings, body, and legs with just a cursory glance.  Like Pompeii, they are remnants frozen in time, only they were able to emerge from their proverbial molds.  The 93-year-old Japanese Buddhist philosopher, author, and educator Daisaku Ikeda has said:

Life is the blossoming of flowers in the spring, the ripening of fruit in the fall, the rhythm of the earth and of nature.  Life is the cry of cicadas signaling the end of summer, migratory birds winging south in a transparent autumn sky, fish dancing in a stream.  Life is the joy beautiful music instills in us, the thrilling sight of a mountain peak reddened by the rising sun, the myriad combinations and permutations of visible and invisible phenomena.  Life is all things.

Of the over 750 quotes I have cited since the inception of my blog, this is among my favorites.  For those who proclaim insects “freak” them out or are annoying — I say many are wonderful and incredible and serve purposes which link us all even if we do not understand them.  Anyway, they’re not bugging me.

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Coming Out Of My Shell

Posted by Jul 11, 2021 Travel 2 Comments

I have this thing about making my travel section chronological, and I yet I am woefully behind.  To write my articles I go back and look through hundreds of pictures to refresh my memory.  I’m not sure why I’ve avoided that, although I can say with the only worldwide pandemic most of us have ever gone through, I just haven’t wanted to post knowing the majority of us could not visit one another abroad.  This is the second year my little family has embarked upon a road trip through the South.  We had airline tickets for each annual beach trip but our little one is still not vaccinated, and I have been hesitant.  Last summer one of the delights about driving came to us in the form of a darling little hermit crab named “Hermington.”  He hails from Orange Beach, Alabama, as that is where we acquired him.  I told my little one I highly doubted they would have let us bring him home on a plane.  This year we drove from Dallas to Baton Rouge and then on to Destin.  I joked with my husband we were “Destined for Destin” (also what I shoe polished on the back of our car) because the deposit we’d made on our resort before COVID hit said I’d missed their deadline to cancel by days … so it was captured money.  The only trips I ever got to take with my parents were road trips.  Even then, it was when I was an adult.  I cherish those vacations to San Antonio and Santa Fe because the three of us were all together.  I can remember riding in the back without a care in the world!  So I completely understand why my little one loves road trips.  Instead of the sterility of the airport, we were able to stop at local “stands” and there was not a soul there who was not kind.  By that I mean MY kind of kind … the looking you in the eyes; smiling; asking where you’re “from” kind.  Black, white, brown, whatever:  a Southerner always knows a fellow Southerner.  I’m sure the “y’all” gives it away.  Now that I have had the good fortune to travel abroad since marrying, I can tell you:  there are NO local women on the streets of Algiers.  Everyone on beaches in Spain, in my experience, may as well have been entirely naked … and some were.  The Brits are rather stiff when compared to Americans, in that you just don’t see people hugging.  I have always found the French to be LOVELY; but perhaps that is because I speak the language and sincerely try to engage with them.  This applies to French Muslims, French Africans, and “Native” French alike who are living there.  I have never found arrogance to be appealing and I disagree with the stereotype that Parisians are.  I believe the most earnest people I have ever encountered were in Guatemala.  Maybe it was the kinship I felt with Native American people, even though their customs were more heavily Catholic and much unknown to me.  If you check my travel section, I believe I have written a blog entitled, “The Eyes Have It.”  Alaska is still pretty darn remote, and I have been literally knocked down by big groups from other countries in New York, London, and Paris.  Generally I have very little personal space because I’m touchy … but being block-checked mercilessly, ruthlessly, and repetitively offends not only my person but my soul as well.  I understand cultural norms vary across the globe, but I wasn’t kidding last year when I said I’d finally found “my people.”  In the South folks actually take the time to TALK to you, and I gravitate toward their interest like a flower seeking the warmth of the sun.  Knowing we were driving again, our little girl wanted Hermington to have a companion.  I selected a somewhat plain-shelled little guy and didn’t tell her, but I got the STUFFING pinched out of me from some of the other hermit crabs.  This little critter though was just so affectionate.  My clever child immediately named him “Claude.”  He, like all other hermit crabs, has one prominent claw.  Hermit crabs have adapted to occupy empty mollusk shells to protect their fragile exoskeletons.  They grow; they evolve.  And then it struck me:  I had been judging a proverbial book by its cover; searching for one with just a perfect shell worthy of the ultimate, detailed Fibonacci sequence.  But it’s what’s inside that counts.  The American Romantic poet, critic, editor, and diplomat James Russell Lowell once said, “The mind can weave itself warmly in the cocoon of its own thoughts, and dwell a hermit anywhere.”  I was trying to be happy about this trip but I was still shocked that we’d gone all that way and I wound up with absolutely no seashells (uninhabited of course) and not even an ounce of sand.  Coming home I found myself tired, disappointed, and uncharacteristically unhappy.  While my husband was standing in line for “boudin balls” somewhere in Louisiana, I made friends with a woman there whose husband needed to drive to Dallas for cancer treatments every week.  That immediately humbled me.  I had forgotten the lessons my father always strived to instill in me:  to bloom where you’re planted and to always be thankful.  After speaking with her I resolved to be more like our newest little family member.  I need to think more about others, and, perhaps, to learn from Claude the value in coming out of my shell.

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Two Scoops

Posted by May 30, 2021 Food 2 Comments


Even as a little kid I found two scoops of something to be very self-indulgent:  two scoops of ice cream, two scoops of mashed potatoes from the cafeteria, or even two scoops of molded butter at a fancy restaurant.  I seem to remember a cereal which boasted “two scoops” of raisins in every box.  (I do not care for raisins so honestly I never ate it.)  One can scoop up newly fallen snow, clear water from a spring, or freshly plowed dirt.  I think of candy scoops, scooping up ingredients from a salad bar, and scoops of “gravy.”  I have delighted in scooping up newly mown grass and hay to inhale their fresh scent, autumn leaves, and seashells.  So my little one and I were recently celebrating and found ourselves in the coffee shop we love.  They have new drinks out for summer, and one of them is called the “Dragon Drink.”  The name alone made it cool but with the dragonfruit turning it electric pink?!  My unleaded (decaffeinated) child was SOLD!  The barista very solemnly looked down at her over the counter and asked if she was aware of what she was undertaking by ordering such a drink.  Wide eyed, my nine-year-old stood transfixed as he told her “it had been known to cause scaly skin and possibly fire-breathing.”  She giggled.  It is people like that man who make the world great.  Assuming they were from China, I was surprised to learn when I searched it up that they are the fruit of several cactus species indigenous to the Americas!  I believe I can recall having Prickly Pear margaritas in both San Antonio and Santa Fe and marveling at their startling hot pink color.  Recently I was at a birthday party for one of my little girl’s friends.  They did not know she was gluten intolerant and both parents were genuinely concerned seeing all the pizza they’d ordered, the big beautiful unicorn cake, and then realizing my little girl could not have any of it.  I told them not to worry; I should have thought to bring snacks which I almost always do.  Such caring parents, they began scanning their kitchen with renewed eyes.  “Well, I have an avocado.  Do you like those?”  Asking a Texan if they like avocados is akin to asking if a wolf likes meat.  I could tell my girl was trying to be polite while trying not to attack this mom.  As she was slicing it open she said what she liked to do was to add hot sauce in the middle of each scoop (made by the indentation from the seed) and even I felt my eyes widen.  “CHOLULA?!” we exclaimed in unison.  Opening up her fridge, she produced a bottle.  All that was needed now was a spoon to scoop it all up.  I thought it was the coolest idea ever and my little one kept thanking her in between shakes of the bottle.  That was only about a month ago and it has already become a staple for my daughter and me.  We have a faux set of tree trunk table and chairs by our koi pond.  My little one and I like to snack out there after the sun has gone down, and we also feed the fish.  We named it The Koi Pond Cafe.  The Indian composer of music and film known as Ilaiyaraaja said, “Life is not what you expect:  it is made up of the most unexpected twists and turns.”  So that is the story of how The Koi Pond Cafe pictured above developed its signature drink and appetizer … and for once it’s not a bad thing to enjoy two scoops.

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Just A Casserole Dish

Posted by May 23, 2021 Food 2 Comments


Maybe it’s just a southern thing in the United States, but family china, crystal, and silver are still cherished.  I have had my grandmother”s and my mother’s wedding registry since they have passed away.  We fell on hard times and had to sell our family silver when I was little.  Some of my maternal mother’s thick, heavy, exquisitely hand-cut rose bowls and vases one could not purchase now if they wanted.  Contrary to popular belief, it is not EVERY woman’s ultimate “dream” to marry.  My father impressed upon me from the time I was in the fourth grade that when I got to college it was to get an education — first and foremost — and so I did.  When I was at SMU I really enjoyed my sorority and going out with fraternity boys to all sorts of fun parties.  Yes, the guy that drove a Porsche may have used it to his advantage … but guess what?  He was cute and I have always loved nice cars.  I was stunned to discover there were just as many “gold-diggers” with the boys, and yet that is a term that is most ALWAYS associated with girls.  There were some guys in college who dropped me like a hot potato once they realized I had no money.  Then there were the wonderful exceptions, like Anders from Germany who proudly picked me up for a dance at my parents’ apartment and never treated me as anything less than a lady.  He was so kind I wish I could have loved him.  He played rugby and did not seem to give a hoot for American financial dynamics.  Although I always wanted to be married with a family of my own, as I grew older it just seemed my chances for what I really wanted became slim to near impossible.  And then I met the most wonderful guy.  I can still vividly recall the first instant I saw him.  I wound up changing his flat tire and he wound up buying me ice cream.  We started dating exclusively three months later, just after I’d turned 35 and, after a year of dating, we wed eight months later.  Suddenly I found myself a fiancée having a big church wedding with between 300 and 500 people, and almost all of my own family had passed.  Getting to “register” as a bride was so exciting:  we got to choose our own china pattern, crystal glassware, and silverware design.  I kept envisioning all the holidays and parties I would host with both sides of my future husband’s family.  While I am very proud of our our registry, it remains mostly on display behind the wood and glass of a very old china cabinet that came from my husband’s maternal side of the family.  There is not a day that goes by that I do not admire it, as it lives in front of our little family dinner table.  What I had failed to see though, as a future wife and (by the grace of God) a future mother, was the everyday.  The normalcy of marriage … when you’re both tired from getting off work; when you don’t feel like cooking something new; when you make sure there are leftovers you know your partner is looking forward to because they’re having to stay late.  It’s the times they request your “comforting” casserole when they’re sick.  You develop favorite recipes and things you just make up along the way your family winds up loving.  I never thought to register for bakeware, I guess because I had my mother’s beloved brownie pan, the one she used for meatloaf, and her covered casserole dish I regularly use and bring to church gatherings and parties.  As much as I treasure my registry, after almost fourteen years of marriage, I feel it is our cookware which seems to hold the most family memories.  It’s the gleam in their eyes when you set that dish on the table.  It’s the weird little marks after years of use that won’t come off no matter how hard you scrub.  It’s both the routine and the specialness when you look back and realize all the things you have shared over that bakeware.  The American restaurateur Guy Fieri said, “Cooking is all about people.  Food is maybe the only universal thing that really has the power to bring everyone together.  No matter what culture, everywhere around the world, people get together to eat.”  To the newly married couple smart enough to register for it, I hope you both know it is with much love that your cousin and I bought you all just a casserole dish.

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Gather Love

Posted by May 16, 2021 Nature 4 Comments

Those living in warmer climates may be familiar with trees commonly referred to as crepe myrtles.  They bloom in varying shades of pink and also in white and purple.  The front of our house is lined with them and I take just as much pleasure enjoying their blooms in summer as I do their barks in winter.  Each year they grow a little mightier.  A lot of the United States experienced more climate change this past year when much of the Deep South and Southwest was blanketed in almost an entire week’s worth of ice and snow totaling in feet; not inches.  Power workers raced to get limbs off lines while millions were left without electricity.  I know northerners poke fun at the lower states because we tend to shut everything down when it snows.  However we are just not equipped with tire chains, sand trucks, and snow plows.  My father and mother taught me there was always something for which to be grateful.  My little family was so fortunate!  For starters we had hot water, electricity, and a wood burning fireplace.  Now that it’s spring we are starting to see some damage we could not catch earlier.  We have dead limbs, trees leafing out weird, and even one little tree that just couldn’t make it.  It could have been so much worse, and we are incredibly thankful.  Owning a home and having a yard, to me, is a privilege.  This is the only house I have ever lived in, which has been as many years as our marriage.  Right away I started naming the trees, shrubs, and plants.  So we have Big Ash out in our front yard (he is just as his name implies, and is about 40.)  There’s Bud out back (a red bud loosely around about fifteen), and Rosario, our stunning old fashioned bush that blossoms red spray roses which smell like heaven.  Mr. Figgy (our fig tree) died a few years back, God bless him.  When he had to be removed he literally left behind a heart shaped bark, which we still have in our garden to this day.  There’s Laurel (our Laurel tree) and Star, our jasmine which entwines herself gracefully all along the side of our house between our fence of iron and stone.  She is one of my favorites, as her sweet scent perfumes the air all around us on hot summer nights.  We have Cypress and Cyrus who are evergreen (Cypress trees).  I particularly love Asian plants, and we have Mabel the Japanese maple and my beloved MiMi, our Mimosa tree who fans herself out delicately over our koi pond with her pink, puffball blooms each summer.  Whomever starting pronouncing there were “trash” trees is awful in my book.  We are blessed to live next to a creek and I suspect some of our trees “volunteered” themselves long ago.  I enjoy watching the birds get buzzed on our Chinaberry trees each autumn.  And I don’t care:  I love Barry our Hackberry tree.  He is large and tall and provides excellent shade for our home.  We also have Ivy and Fern, as well as Lily and Iris in our pond … but dear reader thank you for sticking with me this long.  I promise I shall not subject you to to naming every living flora we have.  My tastes in landscaping run toward the unplanned “natural” look.  As much as I ADORE Versailles, no topiaries or stringent lines for me in my little garden.  I am only fluent in two languages, so I am always delighted when I attempt to joke in another one — and it is understood!  The picture you see is looking down our row of crepe myrtles which have yet to bloom.  Can you tell the first one has been SERIOUSLY pruned?  It could not be helped; Jack Frost got her.  Still, it pains me to see things “butchered,” and so I was telling our tree crew that what they were doing was considered “crepe murder.”  To my great pleasure, four men’s faces split into wide grins, accompanied by laughter.  Best of all they understood I wasn’t accusing THEM; I realized it had to be done.  Saint Basil once said, “A tree is known by its fruit; a man by his deeds.  A good deed is never lost; he who sows courtesy reaps friendship, and he who plants kindness gathers love.”  I always strive to reap friendship and to gather love.

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Repurposed

Posted by May 9, 2021 Nature Leave a Comment


It was projector time!  We had all been ushered into our elementary school auditorium and were “shushed” as the grainy film began to click-clack away in the dark.  It stopped midway, but there was always that one kid who could get it to work again, much to the relief of that teacher who was slightly and secretly afraid of technology.  Touting the merits of being “consumers,” the man’s dramatic movie theater voice attempted to extol the dubious virtues of rapacious “utilization” of the earth’s natural resources.  I suppose I remember this film in particular because I recall truly disagreeing with what we were being taught.  The first Earth Day began in the ’70’s, and it seemed like the message was switching concerning stewardship of Mother Earth.  I remember “paper drives” where all us kids would bring in our parent’s neatly stacked daily newspapers we’d saved up for the month to try and fill the giant truck that came to school for recycling.  I think the class who collected the most won a pizza party!  But now we were on the verge of the 1980’s and it was all about consumption.  Fast forward to today where we still have consumerism but we also know the vital merits of conservation.  Recycling has evolved into “reduce; reuse; repurpose.”  I try to live by those words, and guide my little family into doing the same.  This beautiful opal (my birthstone) pictured above was “repurposed” from a ring into a necklace very easily.  I had never owned an opal primarily because I was always given to understand they could easily break.  So proud of the ring my sweet husband bought me two Christmases ago, I always leery of wearing it.  Mama used to say she had her best ideas in the middle of the night.  Awhile back (in that nebulous place between sleeping and waking) an idea came to me.  What if I took my precious opal to the jewelers and had them hang it on a chain instead?!  Now I can wear my opal without being as worried.  The Japanese designer Issey Miyake once said, “The purpose – where I start – is the idea of use.  It is not recycling, it’s reuse.”  When something is “repurposed” it is given new life or perhaps a new intention.  The older I get, the more I think about ways I can become better, more useful; “repurposed.”

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Eyes Through The Window

Posted by May 2, 2021 Travel 4 Comments


I have been meaning to catch up on my travel section for quite some time.  I am categorizing this under travel for incredible reasons.  Growing up our annual family vacation was a trip to Six Flags over Texas.  It was the highlight of my summer.  My family could not really afford to travel until I was in college.  San Antonio and Santa Fe were our favorite places.  Mama and Daddy honeymooned in New Orleans and when I finally went there with my husband for a wedding anniversary I understood why they loved it so.  As a little kid I always wanted a View-Master.  For those too young to remember, it was a specially formatted stereoscope that had 3-D color images you could rotate and one could “visit” beautiful places.  In the sixth grade my father helped me sell the most chocolate in my school so I could win the grand prize: an original Atari I think the year it came out.  There was no way we could have afforded it, but Daddy made time every night after work and my school to drive me all around so I could sell candy.  I remember some folks looking relieved when they peered out of their doors and found him standing very protectively to the side of me.  I could not possibly have won without all of my father’s hard work.  I remember some of the first games like Pong (which was sort of like tennis or ping pong) and it was so primitive one could literally walk away from the controller and still be playing.  I recall playing Space Invaders a lot.  As a teenager during the height of video arcades I would not date a boy again who only wanted me to watch HIM play.  Fast forward to when I was in college and I fell in love with the Sony Playstation.  Tomb Raider’s Lara Croft was my idol, and like a true video game geek I would plant myself in front of the TV whenever I had a day off from work and play for hours.  I prided myself on never using “cheats” and I loved solving the complex puzzles in exotic locations like the ruins in Egypt and Cambodia.  I will never forget the triumph I felt (after playing for hours and hours and dying and dying and dying) when I discovered the invisible bridge to reach the end of the first Tomb Raider episode.  It was literally a leap of blind faith and I remember the drop off the cliff into nothing giving me slight vertigo.  Now I am a wife and mother and my sweet husband let me turn our two car garage into a “barcade.”  It has a glow in the dark blue floor, blue lights with a disco ball on the ceiling, and wolf bar mirrors covering every wall.  My mother’s 118 year old baby grand is mounted on the wall behind the bar (so we have a “piano” bar.)  I have a custom 60 in 1 old school standup arcade (with classics like Centepede, Frogger, Galaga, all the Pac-Man versions, etc.)  We also have a blue light air hockey table and blue light Skeeball machine.  I have an original Arkanoid cocktail version (sit down) I got in the ’90’s and, thanks to our little girl I discovered magnetic darts.  Also thanks to our little one we have a “Cruis’n World” driving game which we all love!  You can drive over the London Bridge, by the Eiffel Tower, under the ocean in Hawaii and more.  Truthfully I have never been a workout fanatic and I am NOT a group class taker.  I prefer to walk, jog, or play tennis.  The loner in me decided to try a Virtual Reality machine to be inspired to exercise at home.  This thing instantly transports you anywhere:  from Easter Island, to the Great Wall of China, and even the surface of Mars!  The competetive gamer in me NEEDS to hit every target (so I get my heart rate up.)  Thankfully they have different intensity levels since I have let myself get out of shape.  Add to that every conceivable type of music:  from 70’s disco funk to 80’s rock and punk, plus classical, Latin, hip hop; you name it.  I am so hooked!  The American technologist Ramez Naam said, “In a VR setting, you tilt your head up, and you really have the vertigo and the sense that it goes up to infinity, and it’s like you’re in New York City or Dubai, and you’re looking up at a giant skyscraper.  You have a sense of awe.”  That is exactly how I feel when I put on that headset, pick up the controllers, and get ready to embark upon my next adventure … a sense of awe with my eyes through the window.

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Angels Among Us

Posted by Apr 25, 2021 Wolves 4 Comments


I was feeling great!  I was getting things done; in the zone … and by the next morning I did not know what hit me.  I was still wearing my mask, sanitizing my hands, and avoiding crowds.  I vaguely remembered my husband telling me the night before, with some alarm in his voice, that my body was on fire.  I woke up to a PIERCING headache and dry mouth.  It sounded like a hangover, only I don’t get them.  I heard yelling downstairs.  Our nine year old was sassing her father and things were escalating.  Summoning all my breath while simultaneously holding my throbbing head, I hollered for my two beloveds to come upstairs.  Looking probably somewhat crazed, I decreed there was to be absolutely NO yelling, that I did not feel well, and that they were on their own for the day.  The two just stood there blinking at me.  And then I fell asleep.  At some point someone came in wanting to know about dinner.  I told my husband he could get fast food (which I don’t like him to have) and I said yes when our little girl asked if she could eat all her Easter candy.  And then I fell back asleep.  Of course it was a weekend, so I had Saturday and Sunday to get through before I could call the doctor on Monday.  The next few days were a hazy dichotomy between time suspended and time speeding.  As I lay in bed I could hear the single clanging of a wind chime and the distant, melancholy sound of a train blowing its horn in sets of three.  My temperature stayed around 104º and I fell into a rhythm of sweats and chills.  Several times a day our half wolf brought me “food.”  I would wake up to find a (plush) pheasant under my chin.  Sometimes she brought me her squeaky pig or her crackly catfish, and once I got a skunk.  All the water I was drinking was causing unrelenting, burning acid reflux which could not be assuaged.  Sweet, blessed relief was found in a blue “sports drink,” which was my sole sustenance as I swigged down bottle after bottle and tried not to worry about the environment.  Having never felt this sick in my entire life, I feared it was COVID.  I was fortunate both to have a rapid results test done and have it come back negative.  It turned out I had the flu — type A.  I have heard that word used broadly whenever someone gets sick but I believe this is the first time in my life I have ever actually had the flu.  So my sweet husband drove to the pharmacy and I began taking medicine.  I started feeling better with twenty-four hours.  After forty-eight hours I ventured downstairs.  My little girl hollered “MAMA!!!” as I wobbled my way straight to the sofa.  Blue-tongued, blue-teethed, blue-lipped, and frankly slightly gamey after not having showered for a week, I felt like some creature slowly emerging from its burrow.  My child stared at me wide-eyed and I smiled to reassure her.  “I’ve missed you so much!” she cried as she wrapped her arms around me.  “You look thinner!” she exclaimed as I told her that was one thing positive to come from this.  I lost five pounds in five days.  My caring father-in-law even brought me my favorite:  matzo ball soup.  Now I am able to care for my precious family again.  The English author Thomas Fuller once said, “Health is not valued till sickness comes.”  Prior to this I would have said I have always been thankful for good health.  What I have learned is to be more mindful of others who have health issues all the time.  Each Sunday in church we pray for the sick, but I have vowed to remember them every single day; all around the world.  And God bless every doctor, nurse, aid, caregiver, and our animal companions; they are angels among us.

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Soccer Mom

Posted by Mar 28, 2021 Family 2 Comments


When I was a little kid in the ’70’s Title IX was pretty new.  It is a federal civil rights law in the United States which prohibits sex-based discrimination in any school or other educational program that receives federal money.  In other words, it means girls can play sports with boys, or at least they are deemed worthy of having their own teams.  Growing up I was very defensive about my folks, as they were sometimes called my grandparents.  Mama had me at 38, which was a pretty big deal in 1970.  My family life was so close and so happy; I always knew I wanted one of my own.  I never played with dolls or dreamed of a big wedding, but I ALWAYS prayed I’d find my soulmate (yes, I believe in them) and that I would be a mother.  When I was in college at SMU on academic scholarship my father made it clear I was there for an education.  No one ever handed me the memo which said you’re supposed to line up a guy before or during your freshman year in college and marry right after you are graduated.  I have since learned that “our” time is not always God’s time, I would not wind up getting married until I was a late 36, and I had absolutely no clue about the imperativeness of a “biological clock.”  Although there was nothing “wrong” with either of us, I would not wind up getting pregnant until I was 40.  We went through two rounds of in-vitro and God was gracious.  Both of my folks have passed and yet every single day I am gifted with a glimpses of them through our child.  So!  That is a long way to say I grew up on the edge of East Dallas across from a community college surrounded by a field of flowers.  My fair-skinned, redheaded mother burnt her skin to a crisp walking me to swim practice and gymnastics.  I wanted to play soccer but for some reason it never worked out.  Since I already skated competitively and sang in an elite choir, I did not wish to pressure them further.  To this day I view soccer as upper middle class, with parents able to take time off from work to make practices and to watch their childrens’ games.  My second cousins grew up playing soccer in Arizona.  The beautiful little flower girl at our wedding, who was missing her two front teeth, (my third cousin) is now on a soccer scholarship to a college in the South.  I feel incredibly guilty that since kindergarten I have not given our child the opportunity to play soccer.  She is now in the third grade and asked us if she could play.  I think I speak for the loner in both my husband and me when I say we were shocked but supportive.  And so, within the last week, we found ourselves attending her first soccer practice, trying to learn the basics of the game, and making sure our girl had the right gear to play.  Yesterday was her first game and she chose number 11 for her jersey.  The journalist in me could not help but to research what other females have worn that number.  I realize everyone else must know this, but I discovered Julie Foudy (just a year younger than me) is an American retired soccer midfielder and Olympic gold medalist.  For the first time in my life I think I am starting to understand the fun in sports’ statistics and trivia!  I have learned Foudy became a mother and has since appeared in the HBO documentary “Dare to Dream:  The Story of the U.S. Women’s Soccer Team.”  I remember loving the movie, “Bend It Like Beckham” and I hope to watch it with my daughter soon.  I like the quote from the U.S. Olympic player Alex Morgan who said, “Whenever people say “women’s soccer,’ I want to correct them to say “soccer.”  Every girl has had their sport diminished because they’re girls.  All I can tell you, with great pride, was that Coach put my girl in the game some.  It was her second time on the field (one practice) and she managed to get a “steal” and a “pass.”  Their third grade team won against fourth grade girls!  I am so proud — and for whatever reason I never envisioned myself in the joyful position of soccer mom.

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