Caramel, Cousins, and Hard Conversations

Today I visited with my 'Blakeney Cousins'.  On most occasions, that would be reason for joy, for eager anticipation of the stories, laughter, and love, even of the Carolina Clemson banter we would share.  Not today.   Although I treasure every moment spent with these girls, today is quite different.  Today is surreal.  Today is heartbreaking.  Today, there just aren't words.

We've tred this path before, have my cousins and I.  We have plowed this ground together.  It never gets easier.  I think of how oddly often such visits and conversations as these  are accompanied by caramel cake.  Perhaps not so odd,  for Pageland folks know that many of the Blakeneys love caramel cake.  So, when the hardest, most trying of times hit, caramel cake is frequently part of the equation....part of the talking through....part of the tears.....part of the nervous laughter....part of the memories.....part of the healing....part of the love.

My cousins are ALWAYS there for me.  I want to be there for them.  We are a generation of all girls...only girls.....five girls......five Daddy's Girls of two brothers.  We face an unbearable loss.  We aren't ready.

Too many of these most painful of losses for my cousins, my sisters, and me have come at Christmas.  The holidays will never be quite as they once were.  Years later there is still the widower husband who cannot bear to decorate a Christmas tree.  Years forward, there will be the wife of more than sixty years who searches for the simple joys of Christmases past, the daughters who find it so painful to remember yet so impossible to forget, and the cousins who wish to make it better but can't.

Uncle Check was (and is) my 'Uncle' crush,' you know....in the vein of a girl crush or boy crush or star crush.  Handsome, impeccably well-dressed, wonderful laugh, great smile, athletic, special.  Even this week as I visited, still that almost chiseled face; that one forehead curl.  Love..... my dad's only brother.....my dear uncle.  His stories over the years of panning for semi-precious stones and of elderberry wine, of travels and  memories delighted and intrigued me.   To him, I was always "Neesie;" never ever 'Denise.'  Somehow, I always found such peace and happiness in that.

So often when spoken words aren't there for me, I turn to the private time with my keyboard and my blog, to say what it hurts too much to say out loud......yet another good-bye.  We understand if you have to leave us, My Sweet Uncle, and it is okay.  But, we so wish you didn't have to go.  Family will never be quite the same.  Christmas will never be quite the same.  I will never be the same.

I left my visit with my cousins.  I've cried 'til there are no more tears.  I shudder every time the phone rings, for I know a call is coming.

Three cousins will try to comfort two cousins.  Three without their mom, two without their dad.....five girls will find a way to share the hard conversations and maybe some caramel cake this Christmas.

PS:  On my last visit, I wondered if my uncle knew who I was.  Just as I determined he probably did not, Uncle Check grinned at me and mumbled that I needed a good spanking.  I had to smile.  Clearly, he knew exactly which of his nieces was visiting that day.

DMV Due Diligence

This morning, I dutifully arrived at the local DMV to renew my license.  In all fairness, in South Carolina, this process is only required once every ten years.  You'll forgive me if I have forgotten some of how it all goes down.   I was given the required paperwork and a number.....number 307 to be exact.  Knowing that couldn't be good, I took my seat, completed my form, and waited....and waited....and waited....

Finally I heard the computerized and weirdly sexy voice, "Number 307, we are ready to serve you at Window 8."  Okay, now we are in business.

Dee to DMV Person:  Good morning.  Hope you are having a good day.  I need to renew my license.

DMV Person (not smiling):  Who is your insurance with?

Dee (smiling):  I really don't have any idea.  Luckily, I haven't had to use it....knock on wood.....

DMV Person (not smiling and interrupting):  M'am, I will have to know who holds your insurance.

Dee:  Oh, well that would be George.  (Reaching for my cell), I can call him if you would like to speak with him. 

DMV Person (sighing):  M'am, I can't speak to anyone on your phone.

Dee (beginning to smile less):  Ok, well I will talk to him....Minutes later, we have insurance information.

DMV Person:  You'll need an eye test.  Press the bar at the top of the machine.

Dee (pressing furiously with my finger):  I'm sorry; your machine doesn't seem to be working.

DMV Person:  M'am, press your FOREHEAD against the bar; not your finger.

Dee:  Oh, well I guess that would  work better, wouldn't it?

DMV Person (now seriously tapping his pencil and clearly frowning):  Read Line 5, please.

Dee (reaching for readers)....

DMV Person:  M'am, this is distance reading.  If you don't wear glasses or contacts, you should be able to read it without your readers.  Line 5, please.

Dee (feeling both readerless.... which for me borders on nudity.... and totally intimidated):  Okay, Okay.....PAQ  TRE  YOL  MTV  ODB

DMV Person (still frowning):  You're missing one....

Dee (feeling VERY successful):  Only one....that's pretty good; I am surprised because....

DMV Person (again interrupting):  I MEAN you are missing one out of every group of three.  Would you like to try again?

Dee:  PAQ

DMV Person:  That is NOT a Q!

Dee (looking again):  PAO  TRE

DMV Person (exasperated):  M'am, that is not an R.

Dee (equally exasperated):  P then, is it a P?

DMV Person:  M'am, I cannot tell you if each letter is right or wrong.

Dee (under my breath):  SOB

DMV Person:  Excuse me?

Dee:  ODB

DMV Person:  M'am, are you sure you don't wear contacts?

Dee:  No, are you sure you don't have the slightest sense of humor?  (Alright, alright, Dee Readers, I didn't say it, but I thought it.)

Finally DMV Person (sighing):  M'am, would you step down to the lady at the last counter for your new photo?

Dee (thinking to self,  finally  the opportunity to speak with someone a little more laid back....Geez).  Just as I step up to the appropriate window, the DMV photographer says, "Honey, it's my break time; could you wait just a moment for my relief?"  "Sure," I respond, just as I glance over my shoulder to see Guess Who making his way down to take my photo.

So glad to be wearing my Keller Williams name tag today.  Think he will ever be calling me for a listing?  Oh well, it's only once every ten years.......

When Dreams Die......

It's so hard when dreams die, isn't it?  This past week-end was one of dying football dreams all over the state of South Carolina.  Football isn't just a sport here.  It is almost a religion and most definitely a way of life.  It fosters both love and hate.  It bears pride and shame.  It is nearly indescribable in its wicked hold on the Sandlapper State for thirteen weeks each fall.

South Carolina will get over its almost certain loss at their shot at the SEC East Division title.  Clemson will get over its certain loss at an outside shot at the National Title and their goal of an ACC Championship.  South Carolina's dying dream came amidst a gritty performance by an improving Tennessee team.  Clemson's loss came at home, before legions of Tiger fans, in The Valley they hold almost sacred.

That either team lost was not totally unexpected.  But the way in which the Dreams of the Orange died....that was the surprise.  The Tigers did not even show up.....in their own house.   Over and over silly mistakes, penalties, and miscues doomed Clemson's efforts to get back in.  The truth was it was over, completely over,  just a few minutes into the game.  And the Death Valley crowd knew it.

Some had speculated the team would make their breathtaking appearance at the top of the hill wearing all orange.  It didn't happen.  Some thought the Florida State Freshman Phenom would fold under the pressure of a hostile road stadium and a senior led high energy Clemson team.  It didn't happen....the high energy or the folding.

All day the dream had built......built....built toward a fevered crescendo when the beloved Tigers would finally appear at Howard's Rock.  All day building.... building, and yet something seemed a little different from the Georgia atmosphere of six weeks prior.  Maybe it was the sheer magnitude of what was about to happen....maybe it was everything riding on this one....Divisional Championship, ACC Championship, outside shot at a National Title Game.  Maybe it was the endless pre-game hype.

ESPN Gameday back in Tigertown......Guest Prognosticator Bill Murray tackling Lee Corso for Lee's most unpopular pick of the Seminoles......Press everywhere.....Drew's frantic search to buy a sharpie, just so he could get Tajh's autograph after the game......A frenetic Tiger Walk for Clemson's 'Boys of Fall'.... Band Parade past Johnstone toward the stadium.....massive 'fan jams' at the gates.  Clouds and cool yielding to that orange sun peeking through just in time for gametime.

Suddenly, the moment was here.  Here 'where the Blue Ridge yawns its greatness,' the awaited blue lights appear at the top of the hill.......buses of Tigers chomping at the bit to show what they could do....Tiger Band marching, almost skipping, toward the end zone and the hill........Memorial Stadium aglow in orange....fire batons in air....massive bouquets of orange balloons straining at the seams of the wrappings trying almost hopelessly to contain them.  The crowd was amazing; the stadium nearly shuddered with the weight and tension of the moment.  A thunderous rendition of "We Will Rock You" sung by 85,000 would be musicians.  The cannon fires.  The run down the hill....the roar was "pawsitively" deafening.....kick-off....and suddenly in only minutes....it ended.  The crowd was out. The Tigers trailed by 17.  Flashback to West Virginia two years ago.  This just was not going to be a Clemson night.  A rattled and possibly injured quarterback.  Skill players way off their game.  Defense gashed for big play after big play.  And an opponent the likes of which we had not seen and were not at all ready for.  Who ever would have thought a freshman quarterback and the grandson of the elegant Jack Nicklaus would combine to be the total undoing of the Tigers in their own den on this day when dreams became nightmares?

We will find out who this Clemson team is next week.  We really wanted to know last.

Dreams die so hard sometimes.....

 

Why Not Believe.......

Lee Corso, how could you not believe....

On this Saturday when not only hundreds of thousands of Tiger faithful but also America's 5th and 8th ranked teams, ESPN's College Gameday, and a national prime time television audience converged at The Valley?  On this Clemson day that started Southern sunny and hot, then turned silver gray with rain and lightning (Thunder and Lightning, maybe?) then just in time for kickoff  became clear, a little less steamy than before, breezy and beautiful with  could it be a pale orange sky? As an aside, I for one was most glad for the clouds and cooling showers, as I had begun to worry that my stick on brassiere was not going to remain....well "stuck on" in the sweltering August heat. 

Lest I digress, on this day when historic Bowman Field, where soldiers once drilled and where Homecoming Floats have for 100 years since welcomed Clemson masses back, turned into a sea of Solid Orange?  On this day when, decades overdue, Danny Ford joined the Clemson Ring of Honor?  On this day when my middle sister, who bleeds just as orange as the other two of us but never, ever wears it showed up in her own orange ensemble....thank you, Janie, for making sure there was at least something orange in Di's wardrobe........Lee, how could you not believe?

There were moments I will admit that made me wonder if the football gods were actually smiling on Clemson....when, for instance,  the stadium announcer brightly announced during Pre-Game festivities that sadly our stadium flag flew at half staff tonight because of a "polling malfunction."  What?  Surely not on this night.

Or when the...no pun intended.... 'cocky' Georgia fans strolled through with signs and decals reading....."They couldn't even protect the rock!"  Even I will have to admit that one was pretty good.....

Or when the inebriated fan three rows back from Pop and Grandmommy's seats, seats on this auspicious day occupied by daughters and a granddaughter, became overly excited and fell four rows forward, taking down the gentleman behind us, my lovely and hopefully future Clemson coed niece, and two young men in front of us in a frightening version of vertical human dominoes,  one after another, row after row, plunging frantically forward.

Or when a live ball bounced frighteningly loose in the Clemson end zone just waiting for a Bulldog to pounce.  Or when a back named Herschel or Gershel or Gurly or something of the sort ran all over our defense.  Or when the Dogs lined up for a tying field goal....

But somehow, even if Lee didn't know it, somehow even if he couldn't find it in himself to believe, on this  day, a coach, a staff, a team, nearly 100,000 of Tiger Nation in the stadium and possibly that many more again in the 'parking lot party' crowded around tailgates and coolers and TV's did.

We knew.  We believed.  Today, tonight, could be special.  And it was. The Tigers  managed to do enough.  Tonight the glow in Death Valley was dee-cidedly orange.... from the famed run down the hill into a Clemson crowd this day worked into a frenzy from the heat and the wait and the moment,  until the final gun sounded, it was something special indeed.

Work to be done?  Absolutely.  A couple of breaks that clearly tonight went Clemson's way.  Yes, indeed.  But, on this day, at this moment in Tigertown, Lee Corso, how could you not believe?

How To Live

I love Kate's writing assignments....definitely. Needless to say, Kate does not, but seeing as we agree on virtually nothing, who is surprised by that?  Kate was to write her own "How To Live" piece, following the template of Charles Webb's How To Live. Excerpts from Webb's writing spoke to me....

Go fly fishing every chance you get, with friends
who'll teach you secrets of the stream.

Read Dostoyevsky, Whitman, Shakespeare and Twain.

Snorkel with moray eels and yellow tangs.

Try not to lie; it sours the soul. But being a patsy sours it too.

Have kids if you can afford them,
but don't make them your reason to be.
Spare them that misery. Take them to the beach.

If you get sick, don't thrive on suffering. There is nothing noble about pain.

Listen to Elvis....and Bach.

Own Perlman's ""Meditation from Thais."

Don't be too sane. Work hard. Loaf easily.

Have good friends, and be good to them.

Be immoderate in moderation. Spend little time anesthetized.

Smile for the camera. Don't say "Cheese."

So, what was Kate's perspective on How to Live?

Eat Jamaican chicken, cheese ring, and peach cobbler. (the latter two being the only things her mom can cook)
Dive from the cliffs in Negril.
Visit Atlantis Paradise Island.
Soak up some sun on a Jamaican beach.  (I'm sensing a developing theme)
Soar above the clouds on an airplane. (relieved that wasn't some other high)
Go on a no budget shopping spree.  (She is her mother's daughter)
Meet a famous person.
Take a picture with the Hollywood sign.
Surf some waves in Hawaii.
Scuba with sharks if you're not scared.
Own a Lab, they'll be by your side through everything. (love to Ella and Marley and Bart and Bailey and Sunny and Footsy)
Drive a sportscar and reach maximum speed.
Kiss in the pouring rain.
Ride a rollercoaster and don't hold on.
Read The Bible; it'll teach you about life.
Learn right from wrong and left from right. (Extremely important before upcoming driver's road test)
Try to learn algebra, even though you'll probably never use it.
Trust yourself more than others because in the end you're all you have.
Figure out who you're meant to be regardless of others' input.
Watch The Proposal, The Blind Side, and Finding Nemo.
Remember 9/11, Michael Jackson, Whitney, and fallen soldiers.
Remember that you're perfect just the way you are.
Don't stay stuck in the past; it'll only hold you back.
Don't waste your breath arguing with mom because she will make sure she is always right.
Don't mourn.  You'll meet again one day.
Don't look back and wish you had done something; life is too short to live with regrets.
Be a friend, a sister, a girlfriend, and a child of God.
Be yourself because you're youer than you, and there's no one alive who could ever be you.

Yes, Charles Webb spoke to me.  My daughter spoke to me even more.....

Nephewisms

I am remarkably blessed by and with the nothing short of amazing kids in my extended family, and particularly it seems, with nephews of both the Pettit and Blakeney lineage.  Let's see.... one finished Clemson with a perfect 4.0 in Engineering, there are two nephew Eagle Scouts, a star high school athlete who will soon work his magic in a pool of swimming Gamecocks, a Demon Deacon who I am most modestly convinced will be President, a very young budding athlete with an undeniable competitive side, and now a drummer .....a drummer seemingly on the verge of something spectacularly special with his band Autopilot.

Autopilot.  Admittedly, there is a gorgeous blonde with the face of an angel and a gift for vocals, for the guitar, and for lyrics.  There is a talented and smooth indie guitarist or two.  But, this is about nephews, in this case my nephew..... a nephew drummer, a young star.  So pardon me, but  for  me, the doting aunt, he, my nephew, is Autopilot.  With Corey and Hunter,  he soars.....they soar.  With Autopilot, they become dream chasers, weaving their collective gifts into a truly remarkable one.

I love this Autopilot.  I hear Sheryl Crowe. I hear a little Carole King. These kids may not even know who she is. I hear moody and expressful guitars.  But, there is something....something I cannot quite verbalize....something....why yes of course, ...it's my nephew, the drummer!

I'm a wordie and unashamedly drawn to the lyrics.....the imagery of dancers in her eyes, the strength of I'm perfectly fine without you, the Southern simplicity of Sunday Driving.  Autopilot....speaking to and for a young generation....a day gone by.....days ahead.....love lost....new confidence found...... teenage hope.....teenage despair.....helplessness.....struggle.....strength.  I love them.  I truly do.

But, when you get right down to it, I most love the beat....probably because I most love the drummer who provides it. He's that special mix of handsome and sweet, of grace and awkwardness, of funny and serious, of introvert and extrovert, of humility and swag.  He always has been.  And he's mine.  Named for both his physician great grandfather and his physician grandfather....one who birthed half a city,  one who ministered to at least the other half, this boy like his mother's grandad and his mother's dad has, as our aunt would say, a certain je ne sais quois,  and it is indeed special.  This Vans wearing, skateboard stunting, tennis playing,  rather strange headgear sporting kid has his own.... very Carr version..... of it.

I love that Carr and Autopilot are chasing...chasing a dream...chasing their very own fireflies.  From a Durham basement, something special is born. Something special takes flight. From long working nights amidst North Carolina's almost mystical moonlight and magnolias comes legitimate hope of a Triangle music success story.  Like the lure of lightning bugs, a future success in Southern lights and maybe even beyond is calling.....calling Autopilot. 

A near term future holds Boston and LA, an excited father reliving his own youth and dreams through and with his son, and a mom finding a new, very chic sort of "indie hip."

My drummer nephew may someday be a star, like many of the other nephews in my family.  But, for Dee, he will always be that precious boy, the younger of her amazing sister, with a shy but slightly mischevious grin and an undeniable sparkle in his eye....a sparkle that, at least for Dee, has 'dee-finitely' said special since long before his drums.

In A Purrfect World.....

I am a pretty lucky girl, and I know it. But at times, I can't help imagining myself in a perfect.....or shall I say purrfect world.

My pets would be potty trained, and the human males in my family would always lower the seat.

My pups would not fancy the taste of wallpaper and sheetrock.

Kate would not be invited to prom in the 9th grade. Kate would not be able to drive in the 9th grade. Kate would make it out of 9th grade without her mother totally losing it.

Everyone, and by everyone, I mean I, would live within a stone's throw of a beach or some fairly significant body of water.

One or the other or both Adrian and/or I would have the slightest idea of how to do algebra.

The "boys of summer" .....at least those of the twelve-year-old variety..... would never ever play in 40 degree weather.

Neither Drew (nor Adrian actually) would think baggy red mesh basketball shorts combined with a red under armour shirt in any way, shape, or form creates a good look. The dad's response....simply "What????"

Drew would not see the need to shout, "Sup?" out the car window at each passing car. Oh, you know, "Sup"....as in "What's up?"

My house would be spotless...my house would be spotless and someone else would have cleaned it.

I would be able to decline The Cheesecake Factory's white chocolate and rasberry cheesecake with dark chocolate crust. It was so yummy!

Either my speaking voice or Adrian's hearing would be in reasonably good working order.

Every seller would want to sell, every buyer would want to buy.

All my shoes would be Choo's; all my clothes Tibi.

Ahhhh....in a purrfect world.

Prom Was Hard

Saturday was Prom Day....Kate's first. I truly tried to share her excitement. It was more than a little hard. It's always hard to let go, to get through those rites of passage. We as parents all understand. We as parents learn to get through them. I shared in the dress selection. I loved her choice. We looked for shoes and earrings. We talked about hair and make-up. We arranged photography. We discussed her night...her dinner plans, her curfew. We planned. We laughed. We yelled.

Saturday morning came. Prom Day was here. I slept in, but only briefly. So much to be done. Should teens who can't drive go to prom? I suppose that's for another blog. But, as I awoke, in my groggy dreaming of more sleep state, I was startled by two huge brown eyes with their beautiful gold flecks and long, thick lashes staring hard into mine. We were almost nose to nose, Kate and I. My beautiful daughter, she of the prom, had silently, secretly crawled into bed beside her worried mom and was staring intently.....waiting for me to wake....waiting for me to share. The hush spoke volumes, for Kate had done this when she was little....staring hard as I slept, until I on some level felt her stare.....she not saying anything....waiting....eyes saying everything. My mother always said she had never seen a child love her mother more than Kate loved me. And in this tiny moment before this biggest day, I feel that. Her eyes say it all.

I was reminded that although my daughter is going to prom and although I sometimes feel her slipping away, there are those times even now....those moments in time when she is still my precious child....this one I waited forty years for.....this child born of loss and pain, of struggle and tears but at the same time of conviction and strength and resolve and faith....this child who shares so many of those same attributes...my Kate.

She sometimes doesn't understand why my love is so hard. She sometimes doesn't understand why my answer is no or why my expectations are high. Frankly, I don't care. My mother's love was hard. My daughter will one day realize, as I have of mine, that her mother wants so very much for her and sees how very special she is. For even through my groggy, blurry morning eyes, I see the dancers in hers. I know she can do anything. I just pray those dancers are always there, in those deep gold brown windows to her soul. I hope she finds her way. I hope many, many mornings begin with her staring at her sleeping mom....waiting for my wakening to share her day.....her moment in time.



Note: The phrase "dancers in her eyes" is borrowed from a lyric of the new band Autopilot. My nephew Carr, soon to be featured by Dee, is a member.

Tiny Dancer

April 15, 2013. It's Patriots Day in Boston. For many, it's the much dreaded tax day. For Bostonians, it's quite simply the best day of the year. It's Patriots Day.....Patriots Day. The Red Sox play. This year they win. It's Marathon Day. In spectacular temperatures and conditions, the iconic Boston Marathon is run. Serious athletes compete in one of the most illustrious races of all. Perhaps less accomplished but even more motivated runners run for causes of the heart. They run for cures. They run for loved ones lost. They run. They glory. They glory in the moment. They glory in the day.

It's a school holiday. A six-year-old, her mother, her brothers head to Copley Square. They'll watch the Marathon. They'll meet her dad. She's so excited. She reaches for her mom's hand. She skips along. She cannot imagine a more perfect day. They find the perfect spot near the finish line grandstands, all set for a perfect view. They soak up the sunshine. They soak up the energy. They soak up the joy. They take in the perfect moment. Until the moment is shattered.

Suddenly, in a sonic like boom, innocence is lost. Perfection is lost. A second explosion, and life as the beautiful six year old....this one who loves and lives to dance, this most precious Tiny Dancer.....has known it is obliterated. In a senseless moment born of a coward's sick mind, so much is lost. Frightened beyond imagining, she looks behind to see her strangely still big brother Martin. She cannot feel her leg. She's terrified to look, but she must peek down. It isn't there. Bewildered, she feels herself being scooped up, up in the arms of a fireman as her brother peacefully rests in the arms of the angels. Wide-eyed, shocked, she stares quizzically into the tearful yet strong eyes of one of Boston's finest...one trying to help her, trying to save her. He calms her. He speaks in hushed tones. He sees the horror. He thinks of his grandson. He knows the tiny dancer has lost her leg. He worries about her other, for he sees through his own tears and shock that the remaining leg is seriously injured. He is haunted by her innocent eyes, by her missing leg. She wants her mom. But on this day her mom, too, will fight for life.

Six year olds don't experience this. Tiny dancers do not experience this. Not in America. Not on Patriots Day. Not in Boston. It's a day for hot dogs...for baseball....for the exquisite athletes of the Marathon.....for school holidays....for tiny dancers.....for everything we hold precious.....for innocence.

Heroes are born. Bostonians show their grit and their resolve. America falls to her knees to pray for strength, for comfort, for justice. And I pray for a tiny dancer.




This blog post is based on bits and pieces of the hours of news coverage I have seen and heard this week and born of the pain and hurt I feel for the most innocent victims of the tragedy in Boston.

Shop Local

For several years there has been a Chamber of Commerce sponsored "Shop Lancaster" effort. And I am all for that. As a realtor, I clearly understand the importance of supporting local businesses. But this morning, I found myself wishing I had shopped far, far away from my beloved home town corner drug store.

I realized I needed stamps. Then I realized I was much closer to the drug store than to the post office. And while at the drug store, I could also pick up body wash, another item on my to do list for today and something I definitely could not get at the post office. As I made my way quickly through the drug store, I also remembered that I needed some feminine hygiene products. Without thinking much about the choices and more importantly without my trusty reading glasses, I grabbed the first I saw.... which sadly turned out to be of the "Sweet Romance" variety. Finally, as I rounded the last aisle toward check-out, I noted that my favorite wine was on sale, and at a great price no less. I just couldn't pass it up. Note to readers: It is probably not the best idea for the pharmacy to sell wine. I'm just saying.....

So, let's get the whole picture......it's 10:00 am. I am in the local drug store where like Cheers, "everybody knows your name." I think half the staff has told me they graduated from high school with Adrian. And remember my basket...my basket for check-out that now consists of several (but who's counting) bottles of wine, my "sweet romance" feminine product, body wash....and, oh yes, the stamps which were the reason for my trip to begin with.

Now, it's a sunny almost spring Friday morning in LA, and I suppose I am looking fairly cute in my salmon colored cropped skinny jeans. As I stood at check out, I suddenly regretted that I also was wearing my hot animal print slingback pimps....um that's pumps.... you know, the ones with the three inch heels. As the suddenly quite disapproving clerk peered over her glasses I thought let's just get this check out done and get out of here. But she intentionally it seemed oh so slowly took each item ceremoniously out of my basket.......first the body wash....then the Sweet Romance......then the several bottles of wine. Just as I thought it couldn't possibly get worse, and with my little cluster of shame sitting not so ceremoniously now on the very public counter, it happened. She was yelling "Could I Get a Price Check on the Big Bottles of Moscato Wine? Denise's got several here." I am sure she is thinking girl, you are way too old to be planning a party like the one these purchases indicate.

I arrived home, opened my bags, still shaking my head, when I suddenly realized, I had left my stamps. Had my sale actually managed to close last week, I might have chosen to just leave the stamps. As it were, back I went, back to the scene of my earlier shame, back to my favorite corner drug store.

Oh well, at least I shopped Lancaster.

Alopecia,Introspection, and The Oxymoron That is a Teen

This morning I am....pensive. Introspective. Not sure why. I just am. As I showered and shampooed, I thought of Kate. Admittedly, this is not unusual. Almost every day, as I shampoo my hair, I think of Kate and her alopecia. I say the alopecia prayer. Hair. I would gladly give all of mine, if only she might no longer deal with her lack of it. I see her looks as she watches me blow dry my hair. She doesn't say anything....she doesn't have to. I'm her mother. I know.

I asked Adrian yesterday if he had noticed how suddenly beautiful this daughter of his and mine is....our strong-willed child with her gorgeous, nearly perfect face.....and her nearly bald head. As I have said so often, we are blessed and grateful this is not a life threatening diagnosis. But how hard it must be for a soon to be fifteen year old girl to cope with this particular malady. Maybe that's it....maybe that's why today brings such odd feelings. Kate's fifteenth birthday is fast approaching. With it come all the usual fears....fears of her driving, fears of her dating, fears of the disappointing choices she could make. Have we done enough?

But in Kate's case, there are additional questions. Who is going to one day hurt her feelings about her hair loss? What boy will break her heart because he can't understand or deal with her alopecia?

She wants to be a doctor but sees no reason why doctors should understand algebra, or any math. She wants to save puppies from the cruelty of the death rows of animal shelters, but she seems to feel her responsibility ends when the puppies are home. She wants to volunteer at the hospital, but she sees no reason an essay is required with the application. She wants to work at Carowinds. She wants to go to Prom. She wants to be in Cotillion. She wants....hair. Like all the other girls her age, she wants hair. She's an oxymoron of understanding and lack of, of hurt and strength, of a child and a blossoming young adult.

I can hire an algebra tutor. I can help with her hospital essay. I can support her soft spot for animals in dire straits. I can help her choose the perfect prom dress and try to help her into Cotillion. But hair.....I am helpless.

She's KK to some, Aunt Kate to others. She is daughter, sister, student, Christian. And she is an alopecia patient. As her teenage years come into full swing, just who will this girl become? And how will her hair loss affect her?

Yes, today, I am introspective. And my very strong daughter is out there.....doing what she does.....being who she is ....probably worrying far less than her mom. Tomorrow will be better.

He's A Little Bit 'Kwerky'; She's a Little Bit Rock and Roll

Yep....that's my boy. He's a little bit 'kwerky'. I wouldn't have him any other way.

This past week, Drew participated in a school spelling bee. He breezed through the first round. But his second round brought t-r-o-u-b-l-e. The word was quirky. I love that word, always have. I have described myself often as a little bit quirky. But Drew's spelling.... you guessed it....was k-w-e-r-k-y. And with it died the spelling bee ambitions of my sixth grader.

Now, the blame for this bee boo boo falls squarely on an elementary education philosophy that teaches, even encourages, phoenetic spelling. I remember frequently hearing from both of my at the time elementary school students that they only had to spell correctly in spelling class. As long as the teacher could follow what the student was sharing, in other subjects there was no penalty for misspellings. As long as the student was communicating effectively...oh how my English teacher mother or my Advanced Composition teacher aunt would have had a field day with that point of view.

In this case, however, I will have to give my son credit for his rather, well quirky, spelling of quirky. I have to say that I like it, in fact kwerky may be a better spelling than the actual accurate one. Doesn't kwerky just elicit images of quirkiness? It does for me. Kwerky just seems to take quirky to a whole new level.

I have blogged before that Kate invented the word coincidink.....(pronounced co.ink.e. dink), and I am convinced we may one day find Mr. Webster recognizing that one. What a great word for the happenstance. Now the brother of the creator of coincidink has effectively retooled the word quirky. And a proud Dee beams. Who needs a spelling bee champ in the family anyway? Let's show a little creativity in our spelling.....as long, of course, as we are communicating!

The Pea Soup of Parenting

Like every mom, I marvel at how fast my children are growing up and wonder frequently where the time could possibly have gone. Last weekend at the beach, I found myself in that increasingly familiar yet still oh so uncomfortable place of knowing Drew is old enough to have a little freedom but still young enough to make me worry if he is really ready. More importantly, am I?

Sunday morning of our beach week-end arrived warm, with a bit of a misty fog....a truly spectacular beach morning. Drew, his friend, and I walked (in the interest of full disclosure, we actually rode the golf cart) down to the beach....I with my beach chair and book, Drew with a different plan. The two boys kicked around at the edge of the ocean, scoped out a few seashells, then hit me with the million dollar question....could they walk to the Surfside Pier. I was sure we were at least a mile from the pier....I thought we may be two. Through the misty morning, I could see the pier, but only just barely.

In a weak moment, I said yes. There, I had done it. I allowed the boys to go. I hedged my bet that they might make it a couple hundred yards up the beach before they tired and gave up on the adventure. As he so often does these days, my son surprised me.

I fretted every moment they were gone. I couldn't read. I couldn't relax. I looked so hard and so often to my right (I suppose sitting on the beach, facing the ocean that would be to the south, right?) that I earned both a crick in my neck and a weird mild sunburn on the left side of my face and shoulder. I peered and squinted and squinted and peered. I find parenting so much easier when you can actually see the child, don't you agree? An hour passed. I became increasingly afraid that I had made a mistake. I prayed that I had not.

Every appropriately sized pair of human shapes I could make out down the beach gave me hope that the boys were approaching. Over and over, I was wrong. Now they had been gone almost an hour and a half.

I was just before hitting the beach on my dad's golf cart, not caring if that is legal or not, when the mist seemed to lift ever so slightly higher, the fog became just a little less thick and....could it be that mixing with the shore smells of salt and sea I also smelled.....now I was sure of it..... IT WAS AXE! I detest that scent. Many are my headaches one whiff of Drew's "smell good" has birthed. I long for the day Drew outgrows his Axe Stage, as all my friends and sisters with boys assure me he will. But at this particular moment, I was not sure I had ever smelled anything more glorious than Salt and Axe. I suppose the ocean breeze had blown just enough and from just the right direction, for there, bursting through the clearing pea soup, there they were.....my two tired yet excited Axe-coated explorer boys. They had conquered the beach. They had run/walked all the way to the pier and back. And one relieved mother had survived the conquest and lived to parent another day.

"Drew is on fire......and he's not even Lutheran!"

Over the Christmas break, Drew attended a local Lutheran church with his friend Bryan. During Sunday School, the children were quizzed with Bible questions and rewarded with candy for correct answers. I am not quite sure how similar Lutheran and Methodist theology are, but they must be close enough. Drew returned home to proudly share that his correct answers scored five....count them FIVE.... pieces of Christmas candy! According to Drew, the leader proclaimed to the group of children, "Drew is on fire, and he's not even Lutheran!"

Drew is on fire, and I see it in him all the time. Like when he thoughtfully and painstakingly leads his church basketball team through the recitation of The Lord's Prayer before each game. Or when he announced at Audrey's recent pet funeral that he knew he would see her again one day in Heaven.

One of the true bright spots in our rather introspective Christmas of 2012 came in the form of a letter to me from Drew's ELA teacher. In her letter, the teacher wrote that her students had been asked to complete an essay as part of benchmark testing. The writing prompt was "Who is Your Hero and Why?"

As you would expect of twelve year olds, students wrote of personal heroes that included sports stars (in this Gamecock hotbed that I call home, I am quite sure there were odes to Jadeveon Clowney, Marcus Lattimore, and/or Steve Spurrier). Other students wrote of stars from the world of entertainment they considered heroes. I certainly hope she didn't get any 'Honey Boo Boo,' but who knows? Some children wrote of one or the other or both parents. Drew's Hero.....God. His teacher knew I would want to read and treasure this work from the pen of my sixth grade son. In five paragraphs of a child's grasp of his faith that gave his mother goosebumps, Drew explained his choice. Drew wrote, "God is an amazing person because He makes miracles happen." My son continued, "When you need someone because you are sad, just pray. God will answer, although it might not seem like it." So true, My Child, and an aspect of faith many adults struggle to understand.

Drew wrote, "God is my best friend. He watches over me. He keeps me, my family, and my friends safe from harm. I have never even broken a bone." Doesn't that just about say it all for a twelve year old boy? Especially one who recently wrote in another assignment that his biggest obstacle in life was "huge football players." There seems to be a pattern of broken bones and the fear of such imagery emerging here. More importantly, there is an image of a boy coming to terms with his faith. I couldn't be more proud.

What are the phrases......"from the mouths of babes........and a little child shall lead them......

This week as the children of Sandy Hook returned to school, a different school but school nonetheless, I was struck by a news photo....a young Sandy Hook survivor, looking out the school bus window, flashing peace signs and a grin. You couldn't see a parent or loved one in the picture, but I envisioned a worried mom waving a concerned good-bye to her little boy who saw far more and experienced far greater evil than one so young ever should. And yet, there he was, grinning out the bus window, waving those peace signs. Drew is right. God makes miracles happen.

God Bless our children and those of us entrusted to love and protect, to guide and to teach, to lead them in the way He would have them go. And, Dear Lord, thank you for my children, for this one on fire for You.....even if he isn't Lutheran!

As Sisters ....And Cousins... We Make It Through

We three dreaded it... I think Daddy did too.....Christmas Day 2011. Maybe dread is not quite the right word. Perhaps apprehension...uncertainty..... better expressed our feelings. What we found were indeed a few moments of joy, of laughter, of being together, of peace. But all were interspersed with a sadness.... a something missing.

Kate and I went to Christmas morning services. We left our significant males at home and found an often elusive moment of peace for a mother and daughter struggling to reach a meeting place in our often volatile teen/mom relationship.


As always, I saw and revelled in that look of pure excitement that only Christmas morning can bring as it was reflected in my children's faces and eyes. Their joy is always my joy at Christmas, and for last year's Christmas, that was very important.


Times shared with my sisters are always special, and last Christmas Day was no exception. Thinking our day might be easier if our setting changed, we opted not to gather in my mom and dad's home, but instead to meet at my youngest sister's, a strategically central and yet "removed" location for all involved.


We shared gifts and stories, love and support, laughter and teasing, a glass of wine, fun. But there were moments when last Christmas was everything we had worried it would be. That striking moment we three saw our daddy leave our Christmas gathering alone, lip quivering ever so slightly, to travel home alone. At that moment, everything came flooding back. The especially emphatic hug and kiss he gave each of us three before he left.... yes, it was getting easier, but not easy yet....

There were moments I will always remember. Cousins Andi and Lori had earrings made for Di, Donna, and me.....earrings designed from a strand of beads Mother often wore. There each Christmas are gifts. There are only occasionally gifts that transcend gift giving. The beautiful gesture of our precious cousins was most decidedly one that transcended.

Now, quite unbelievably really, Christmas 2012 has come and gone. Again this year there were gifts and stories, love and support, laughter and teasing, possibly more than one glass of wine. (Note to Dee...keep imbibing husband and my sisters apart as much as possible to avoid unintended and/or unwanted sharing of secrets.) In 2012, amidst a little more fun and a few fewer tears, an at least partly healed trio of daughters and a husband, their father, were finding a new path.

This year, Daddy arrived at our holiday soire' bearing fifty years of Mother's and his Christmas ornaments. Three sisters gleefully pounced on the sentimental, and some not so much so, treasures. Some were lovely. Umm....some were not. We argued over which sis had made the pretty ornaments and accused the presumed maker of the ugly ones, each sister refusing to admit creatorship, instead pointing at another. I myself remain quite convinced that all the lovingly, delicately cross stitched ornaments meticulously made with care and pride were without doubt produced by Dee. I likewise am sure that anything that involved cotton balls was undoubtedly born of Diane's artistic endeavors. All Clemson ornaments were attributed to our youngest, the rally cat of the crew. A few rather unfortunate incidents of ornament comingling had occurred in the big box, but we shall save that story for a future blog.

We had FUN! But, through our scrumptious dinner, our chatter, our gifts, our great ornament divide, it was still there. I heard it yet again in my father's voice as he said grace before our Christmas meal. As Daddy asked God to continue to be with us and to see us through another year, there it was......that same quiver......the one I had noted in his voice and lip as he left our gathering last year.

For those who experience loss, especially around the holidays, I am not quite sure any Christmas is ever the same. Nor, I suppose, should it be. We love you, Mother, and miss you still. Some things will never change. Two years....and counting.