August 1

August 1....my stepson Joseph's birthday.......our Miss Ruby's birthday.....and my mother's birthday. Odd that three such integral and important people in my life shared the same birthday.

I have told my dad and my sisters that my "mother blogs" will be happier now, not the tear jerkers of a year ago. But my mother's birthday....her day....August 1 continues to bring me overwhelming feelings of love and loss and what might have been and worst of all what was.

Caught amidst scattered remembrances of her laughing so hard she cried.....Drew once commented, "Grandmommy smiles so hard she squints" (isn't that a great phrase; good job, Drew)..... I am haunted by remembrances of my mother's final cries to go home, upstairs, to her bed.

But then, I also remember at 16 years old, those teen years when I know I so often disappointed her, looking out from the stage where I had won a hometown high school pageant. The pride and excitement in my mother's face were such that one might have thought I had just been crowned Miss Universe. I guess mothers are like that, right?

Mother had a weak stomach and often when the issues to be dealt with were of the sick children variety, it was Daddy who got the duty call. It was indeed fortunate that my mom was blessed with the physician husband who had seen it all before. But, I recall when so nauseated during my labor with Drew that I couldn't hold my head up, it was Mother there beside my hospital bed, holding my hand while Daddy, my OB-GYN, and even Adrian checked a ballgame score on tv. Note to Dee....I am glad I remembered that one......another blog for another day.

From decades back, I vividly remember Mother's agony as she shared with me the horrifying news that she had accidentally backed over and killed my sweet English Setter Scamp. I remember with equal agony how completely unforgiving I was as we sat at the little round table in the close confines of her Garden City condo and she broke the news to me.

More recently, I and my sisters will recall a Christmas gift of a "fake fur" jacket to my mother. Remember those? And the way she reacted, you might have thought it was mink. Mother broke into one of those squinty smiles Drew had noticed and happily modeled the Target .....that's Targe' of course....coat for us all.

Pastor Joel spoke of prisms during Mother's funeral services. I think again of that description as I have so many times since. My mother's strength, stubborness if you will, versus her weakness and frequent dependence on my dad......my mother's love of clothes and shoes and fashion but the cruel irony of her later near inability to dress in anything other than sweatsuits.......my mother's frequent tardiness but her arrival at Matt's graduation a full hour early.....my mother's sedentary life and yet her childhood chore of watering turkeys (ongoing apologies to my mom that I was so sure in her confusion she had somehow inexplicably inserted herself into an episode of "Little House on the Prarie")....my mother's seeming few friends..... yet her impassioned love of those she had....my mother's unending correction of my/our grammar....my doing the same with my children today.....my mother's oft evident disdain for the kitchen.....mine today.....my mother's fierce devotion to her family.....my lioness like protection of my children.....my mother's love of Clemson and football....my hopes that Drew will attend or even play there.

When did the torch pass? When did I absorb so much of my mom? Why is that suddenly less bad than I once thought it would be? Instead of rebuking the piles of newspapers in her den that drove us all crazy, I now think of how voraciously she read and how much she absorbed of two newspaper publications and numerous magazines every day. I remember the maddening two and a half hour meals because she ate so interminably slowly, but now my wish would be for just one more dinner that might last who knows or who cares how long.

Sunday afternoon I sent Kate off for a few days with Diane. Likely my precious daughter and this one of my beautiful and beloved sisters will be together this Wednesday when Diane's and my mother's, Kate's grandmother's, birthday rolls around. Perhaps this daughter and granddaughter can share an August 1 story, a memory, a laugh, a tear, a "Patism."

We are still missing you, Mother.....still figuring it all out with you gone. But it is getting better. I stood alone for a moment at your grave on Sunday. I know my sisters and our dad had been there earlier, but this was my minute, our minute, yours and mine......our moment in time. Diane, Donna, and I think of you all the time, but never quite so much as on August 1.

Photo by Frank Mottek. A quick post script, I chose this photo for my post, then noticed yesterday, August 1, 2012 there was a full moon. Happy Birthday, Mother.....

Catfish and White Chocolate

I have blogged before that I find nicknames fascinating and fun. My feelings about nicks versus propers have definitely evolved. In my earlier years I always said that I would never want my children to have nicknames. I thought their given names should be the names they were called. Why go through the stress, time and trouble of choosing the perfect name only to use a different one I thought? But, as they.....whoever they are....always say and as fate would have it, you can never say never. Alas, both my children are called nearly exclusively by their nicknames. And I have come to think there is something about a nickname that says you have arrived. So many iconic sports figures had the great nickname to complement their game. Great generals, world leaders, CEO's so often sport befitting nicknames. The beguilingly beautiful Kate Middleton now taking the world by storm has seemingly embraced a nickname. Even our newly adopted pup Audrey aka Batgirl, Wonder Woman, W is now, courtesy of our 21 month old grandson, Aubeeeeeee. She has 'dee'finitely arrived.

Yesterday, Drew and I watched new Today show cohost Savannah Guthrie proudly report on her brother's Green Mountain Boys air national guard unit. In addition to the famous nickname of their group as a whole, all the flyers had individual nicknames, some decidedly less than flattering. Let's see, there were Catfish, Pooter, and Booger.....shall I continue? My very quick son very quickly said, "Ooh, I would want Catfish." Good choice, My Little Man, considering the other alternatives.

This week at our local high school mini football camp for youth, Drew was dubbed "White Chocolate." White Chocolate..... I've had to think about that. He is definitely sweet enough is my precious boy. We are often complimented on his polite mannrs and respectful attitude. And, isn't it true that there is no nicer compliment for parents than to hear their child's manners are what they should be. But White Chocolate ? What does this mean? Fast, runny, slow, goopy? Aromatic.....Drew does have a decidedly boy odor at times. I might call it odiferous rather than aromatic. Thick.....I believe anyone who knows my super slim Drew would find that a definite misnomer. Gritty.....now there's one I hope Drew is or will be. Smooth.....he certainly can be. Melty.....I think not. They called Walter Peyton "Sweetness." Is that where Coach was headed? Are we talking here about Drew's moves or his personality or perhaps both?

Lancaster's legendary African American football coach Bennie McMurray thinks my son is White Chocolate. Wonder how he would have felt about Catfish?

Mamma Mia Mayhem

So my fourteen year old daughter is definitely looking nineteen these days.....not a good situation from any point of view. Saturday, a new twist. She and I were walking through South Park, the mall of choice (her choice, that is) in nearby Charlotte. A kiosk operator shouted and motioned in our direction, as he called, "Sisters, come on over. I have something you will love." Kate was mortified and nearly ran past the smiling.... then not so much .... kiosker. Once I managed to catch up, I asked my oh so sensitive, not to mention still quickly moving, daughter what was the problem. "Momma," she said, "I can't believe he thought we were sisters. That makes me so mad." "Why?" I asked. "I should think you would be pleased, maybe even proud if someone thought you and I were sisters. Wouldn't you like to think you had a younger looking mom?"

Kate hesitated, then said, " Well if they think you are my sister that might be okay. But if they think I am your sister....that would be horrible." What did she say? My Junior Beta Club President, AP Honor Student daughter (ummm except perhaps in algebra), certainly you might think in line for the "words gene", sometimes has trouble putting an even remotely logical thought together. But after continued and determined query we finally understood each other. If I look young enough to be her sis, that is okay. But if she looks old enough to be mine, that in her mind is another and totally different matter altogether.

At Kate's high school orientation night last spring, a Lancaster High School assistant principal asked Kate if I were her sister. Kate decided then and there she should attend Indianland High...or AJ....or Buford....anywhere but Lancaster.

I sympathize with Kate's conundrum. It is hard to be a barely teen caught in a college coed body. I think I was in a similar predicament, although with me it was not so much the body that looked older than my age, it was my face. I was often in my high school years mistaken for an older girl. Kate is finding, as I did, that can be a blessing and just as easily a curse.

What I didn't tell Kate was that the kiosk person wanted to sell something and the assistant principal was trying to score points with a prospective parent. She wouldn't have wanted to listen anyway. Her humiliation was total and complete. Someone said she and her mother looked like sisters. The motivation didn't matter. That they simply dared to publicly utter the words was more than enough devastation for my teen daughter.

The trouble is I am not sure who is having the greater identity crisis in this symbiotic mom and daughter thing. Kate tells me on the one hand, as in when she wants her nose or belly button or ear cartilage pierced, that I should be more cool, more hip. But, on the other hand, if I look kind of...well, sort of.... with it, that is totally unacceptable to her.

So, as my teen and I continue to navigate the often treacherous waters of a mother/teen daughter relationship, I find myself wondering not so much who she will become, but who I at the moment am. Funny, I thought I had this figured out years ago.....

Que Pasa.....

So, it was not our best night at the local cantina Mexicana. Allow me to set the stage. We eat there twice a week....at least twice a week. Waiters, hostesses, owner, probably dishwasher know us by name. Kate actually grabs the marker from the hostess and ceremoniously circles her own table and waiter selection as we arrive in the tiny lobby. Of course, Kate probably earned the privilege as she has done everything from 'shadowing' there for a school assignment to, on a recent visit, teaching the owner 'The Wobble.' That wasn't pretty, but she definitely is doing her part to share a touch of Americana with this Mexican contingent. Perhaps a career in the UN is in her future. But back to the blog......

Last night happened to be one of our bi-weekly Mexican dinner nights. We had a delicious meal, including our new favorite guacamole prepared tableside. All had gone well. Adrian had even asked if they would be willing to sell their mucho good margarita mixer to go, and they graciously complied. I think as much as we are there if we had asked to be given the youngest child of the owner, the affable Fernando would have graciously complied.

As we rose to leave our favorite table and our favorite waiter, Adrian with jug in hand, and indeed it was a large jug of mixer....Fernando said it would make 125 margaritas....of course we saw not just one but several parishioners of our church. May I say as a child of a Baptist upbringing, some days it can be a benefit to be Methodist.....

One friend, enjoying the Mexican cuisine minus the margaritas, looked over at the jug somewhat disapprovingly, or perhaps jealously, and coyly remarked that the party must be at our house. Then, as she glanced at me, she commented...."Looks like maybe the party has already started!" Puzzled, I followed her gaze and glanced downward only to see that both of the meager two hooks and eyes on my new shirt had somehow become disconnected. My lovely new summer blouse was entirely, and I do mean entirely open.

Our friend gamely commented, "I guess your dinner was free tonight." Trying to make the best of an increasingly bad situation, I verbally responded, "Actually, since my shirt came undone, we had to pay double," while internally questioning por que' I seem to be experiencing so many wardrobe issues of late.

Why do nights like this and wardrobe malfunctions like this and other embarrassments like these always happen at places you frequent and never in those spots whose doors you will never darken again? I noticed in entertainment news recently that Madonna had flashed both her upper and lower endowments during concert appearances. I had wondered upon reading the story why a fifty something singer would feel a need to do this. I stopped myself to consider if I tonight, in one of my twice weekly cantina appearances, was just as bad. With my sometimes ADD thought processes, my mind flashed.... so to speak... to the country song, "Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off." Scary, isn't it, how true to life country music can be?

Well, the blouse is off to the tailor for more, many more snaps. Adrian is planning a margarita party, and I am sure next week will bring our usual two visits to Mariachis. I can't wait!

Banana's and the Beach

All who read Dee or know me know that the beach is in my blood. In this sense, I am truly my mother's daughter. The sand and sea revitalize me. I feel my spirits soar whenever I can grab a few days at the coast. So it was that, although not exotic or luxurious, I could not wait for our mini Memorial Day vacation. Much of our trip was business as usual....the pool, the sand, the surf, the fights over who would sleep where or whether it was Dunkin or Krispy for doughnuts.

This year, in the midst of the madness, I discovered a new spot....one that reminded me what it is and why it is that I love the South Strand of the Carolinas. Nestled in the Wachesaw area just south of Murrell's Inlet but not quite to Pawley's Island, specifically at the Wacca Wache Landing.....I am not kidding.....the Wacca Wache Landing, was Hannah Banana's Sunshine Cabana. I just knew driving the long road in canopied by beautiful Southern trees (wish I had a more thorough description than 'tree' but an arborist, I am not) that we were on the path to somewhere special. And special it was. Surrounded by boats.....some more accurately yachts.....and elegant southern oaks....and moss.....and decks for outside dining, a two man band playing guitar and harp guitar, supposedly one of only twenty six harp guitarists in the western hemisphere (who cares if it's a tall tale), and harmonica and belting out everything from Steely Dan to Jimmy Buffett, from Making Whoopie (not sure how to spell whoopie...) to Cheeseburger in Paradise I loved it! We sampled crab bites and potato pancakes. I savored a Wacca Wedgie Salad with blue cheese, bacon, skewered grilled shrimp and, of course, a margarita.....who could resist with Buffet...well, almost.... in the background.

Go in shorts or swimsuit at lunch, almost as casual at dinner. Note the menu entry that a grilled cheese can sink their tiny kitchen into total chaos in the on season, so a $25 surcharge will be assessed and the "Life is Good" signs because here it truly seems to be. Sitting at our deeply shaded table and peering out across the still as glass water, it almost looked like Deliverance .....as a friend of mine says, "the good Deliverance, not the bad Deliverance."

After our sumptious summer supper, we explored the Wacca Wache....love writing that.... Marina with its fidgety resident new momma cat and the weirdest turtles I have ever seen. Unfortunately, and I shall blame the one margarita, I failed to realize until after the purchase that Kate's new tee shirt referenced 'everything being legal at Hannah's unless you get caught'....oh well. Maybe this one can mysteriously disappear in our washer..... I cannot count how many of her clothing items have mysteriously been eaten in the rinse cycle......those disgraceful cut off jeans, that way too bikini bikini, her deep vee tee. Someday she will catch on.....

Back to the beach.... sandwiched between the oh so touristy kids' arcade and slick track, the pier and the cafeteria, the outlets and the mall, even Dunkin and Krispy, we found a southern coastal treasure....thank you, Hannah Banana! You are a local secret no more.

The Tassel Tradition

I am a traditionalist. I love classic clothes, classic homes. I love pen in hand and beautiful note paper as opposed to the keyboards and e-mails of today's writers. I suppose I am a throw back of sorts. I love the graduations of spring, ceremonies always seeped in the traditions of decades. From the music to the march to the tassels, I love it. And so I looked forward to this year of 'graduation' ceremonies as Kate finished middle school and Drew elementary.

First on our busy Graduation Tuesday itinerary was Drew's primary school graduation. I proudly attended the early morning ceremony. Sitting between Daddy and Adrian, I eagerly awaited the pageantry. Yes, even for 11 year olds I never imagined that I shouldn't expect graduation tradition. As the principal asked attendees to stand and honor the graduates, I steadied myself for the always emotional but especially so when one of your own is pro- or re-cessing Pomp and Circumstance. As the doors swung open and the 5th grade processional began, I stood a little straigher, head held a little higher and thought.... and thought.....what is that music? Is it....surely it isn't.....but it is Fame. You know, " Fame! I'm gonna live forever; I'm gonna learn how to shine. I'll catch the moon in my hands. Baby, remember my name......Fame." I suppose on some level it was inspiring and probably far more familiar to these fifth grade fledglings, but where was my pomp...my circumstance....my tradition?

Same day, now evening. As we drove to Kate's graduation ceremony, she excitedly announced, "Mommy, you know that Tim McGraw song you like so much? That is what they are playing as we enter the gym." Kate, surely you don't mean, "Live Like You Are Dying? "That's it...that's it, Mommy! I knew you liked it." Like it, I do, I love it....but where is my Pomp and Circumstance? Even for middle school, I should think a processional just isn't a processional without "P and C."

All week as we celebrated both Kate's and Drew's accomplishments, I had this nagging feeling. Something just wasn't as it should be. Something was amiss. Something had changed. One of life's most recognizable rites of passage had seemed a little....well....unrecognizable.

As Friday evening, the end of the work week, school week, and in this case school year arrived, I sat outside enjoying the beautiful late spring early summer night. I thought back, considering the oddities of this season of graduations. Suddenly, I heard it.....faint at first.....then building.....building with the growing breezes as a summer shower approached. There it was, rising above first bleachers, then homes, then trees.....Pomp and Circumstance emanated softly but clearly from the local high school football stadium as graduation began. Here finally was my tradition, and with it that moment I had fought all week ...that first of quite a few tears as I thought of my son and my daughter and their own tradition of tassels to come.

Maybe it is just as well that this year, my Pomp and Circumstance came in the privacy of my own back yard.

Memories, Mirrors, and Mother

Mother's Day, 2012....the second Mother's Day that I and my sisters have been without our mom. And anyone who has, as we have, experienced this particular loss knows that Mother's Day is one of the most difficult of the holidays that follow.

Mother's Day and the season of spring in this our year two are beginning to bring me happy memories. The disconsolence and despair of 2011 are beginning to be replaced by remembrances of moments with my mother. It's God's cycle of healing and hope...."a time for every purpose" as my memories become mirrors, reflecting my mother back to me.

Mother's Day had a very specific, almost ritual like routine in our mother's world. We daughters did not miss church with my mom on Mother's Day. In some years, one or more of us drove in excess of 150 miles to arrive just in time to hurry down the church aisle, rushed family in tow, and slide into our designated pew at Pageland First Baptist for the 11:00 Mother's Day service. We grumbled sometimes as the years went on that our mom seemed to forget we too were now mothers and that this special day was in our honor as well as hers. But, Mother's Day was her day. And as my sisters' and my families grew, on this day to honor all moms, we each year faithfully filled that center pew, the Blakeney pew, to overflowing with Pettits and Bonners and Joyes. Mother loved it. She basked in it. I honestly believe she informed Pastor Joel that she expected him from the pulpit to single out her family, her visiting daughters, because he always did. I am certain other parishioners had family present. They were all around. But the minister almost always welcomed us by name.....Denise....Diane....Donna....and my mother's Mother's Day was complete. For it was in her daughters that she found her sense of self.

Memories.....mirrors....

Service over and it was home for Sunday lunch. Our Hickory Street home always greeted us on Mother's Day with the competing scents of our mother's fragrant long stem roses, a gift from my dad, and southern green beans (you know the soft ones) on the stove. Unfailingly, some generous Pageland soul provided other vegetable sides or a decadent dessert or salad to complement the core menu my mother had planned. Planning the menu, up until her last year or so, was Mother's job and no one else's. I remember a couple of times my sisters and I tried to take that responsibility. Mother quickly let us know that she wasn't sure who had put us in charge of her Mother's Day Sunday dinner. As my mother's health began to fail and she allowed, however reluctantly, my sisters and me to do some of the planning, we were ever more appreciative of what our neighbors and friends in the Watermelon Capital always contributed to our menu.

Memories...mirrors....

Mother's Day signalled oncoming especially special times in the life of my family. Graduations from whatever school, and with the wide disparity in ages of grandchildren, someone was always graduating....from high school, from middle school, from elementary school and kindergarten.....I even graduated from real estate school...... graduations were ever on the horizon in May. Most recently, Mother was so proud to be a part of Matt's graduation from high school that she was in her designated seat an hour before the ceremony started. All who knew my mother knew what a feat and more importantly what a gesture of love and pride that was. This year as both Drew and Kate 'graduate,' the former from elementary school, the latter from middle, I find myself wishing Mother were here, wondering if she would have found a way to their ceremonies and shared in their mother, her daughter's pride of passage.

Memories...mirrors....

Hannah Our Dancer's recitals often closely follow Mother's Day. This was another occasion my mother simply refused to miss. In later years, when she attended such a select few events, this one remained always on Mother's calendar, circled in red and never to be overlooked. Hannah's recitals took Mother back to the days of Diane's and Donna's dance. Yes, it was her granddaughter's amazing performances, but even more, I believe Hannah's recitals transported Mother back to days she felt better and did more, back to the days her own dancer daughters were young.

Mother loved all her grandchildren in ways special to and different for each. But I think there was a unique and singular place in her heart for Matt, her first, and for Hannah, who inherited Donna's love of dance and whose talent brought joy and pride and memories to my mom.

Mirrors....

Mother's Day for us also heralded the soon to be arrival of summer and, in days of her better health, more frequent trips to Garden City Beach. Especially on more recent trips, my mother hardly left the condo. It didn't matter. She was there, at the beach, in her tiny corner of the world, and she was happy. She found a contentment there in the smallish condo that changed notably little in thirty years. Now this, this is the gene I inherited from my mom.....that is along with the hips and hair I might prefer that she had passed to another sis. But my mom and I were and are decidedly kindred spirits in our shared love for the coast.

Memories....

And, of course, right around the corner from the summers kicked off by Mother's Day......the start of Clemson football. Whether Mother was walking with cane or wheeled in a chair, if the Tigers were playing she wanted to be there....there in the Valley as Hartwell breezes blew her popcorn all over herself and surrounding fans.....there even when weather advisories forced stadium evacuation......there when the inconsistent Tigers had their heads handed to them by visiting opponents..... there so that long time stadium friends could hear her precious Davis sing the alma mater and national anthem almost before he was talking. And, on those Saturdays when she absolutely couldn't make it, Mother still wanted Daddy to drive to their Anderson hotel, so they could be closer to Clemson even if only able to watch the game on TV. Of course, Daddy did just that.

Thank you, God, for sending Mother's Day memories to mirror my mom. I wish this Mother's Day could find Diane, Donna, Daddy, and me back on that crowded Pageland pew with Mother as, my apologies to Pastor Joel, her mind wandered to thoughts of her green beans on the stove for lunch, Hannah's recital and Garden City, of her beloved Tigers and graduations to come. O Mother, I so wish......