Jiggly

My perhaps slightly too honest, perhaps slightly too verbal ten year old son hurt my feelings today. I was relaxing beside the pool, thoroughly enjoying Pat Conroy, the glorious sunshine and exhilarating beach breezes when Drew said the unthinkable, "Mommy, you're jiggly." I won't get so much into detail as to share the exact body part on which he was commenting. Let's just say it was not one of the parts one might hope would be a little umm.... "jiggly." Here I was thinking I still looked fairly good in my swimsuit, all things considered of course. In another one of those "moments in time," Drew burst that bubble (more like that myth) in a nano second and with a mere three word sentence...."Mommy, you're jiggly." In the immediate and somehow innate moment when a male (no matter if he is ten or fifty)realizes he may have said something he should not have said to a female, Drew started backpedaling. "You feel good, Mommy..... I love you, Mommy.... Is that a new bathing suit, Mommy....Too late, Drew. Mommy has already crashed from exuberant unawareness to excrutiating reality, just like that (picture the snapping of my finger).

I tried to salvage my dignity and not notice that Drew's comment was probably overheard by all the teen-age hard bodied spring breakers lounging around the pool. I contemplated the possibility that "jiggly" might not be all bad. I definitely got "jigglier" after the birth of my two children born to a forty something mom. I wouldn't give anything for the "jiggles" they gave me and still give me. And yes, I am sure that I added yet a few more "jiggles" when I hit fifty, but again, I am happy....loving a career change, my children's childhoods, new friendships and many of the other joys my fifties have brought me. I actually feel pretty good about myself, or should I say felt pretty good about myself.

I have said frequently that I wouldn't in a million years want to be back in my twenties....unless I could possibly go back those three decades knowing what I now know. Those were not fun days, even though the "jiggles" were many fewer and much farther between. My "jiggles" of today come with years of experiences and battle scars, with wisdom earned the hard way, a diploma from the school of hard knocks.

Drew wasn't too honest....he was just honest. I guess there's nothing wrong with that. A few "jiggles" are nothing to be ashamed of, right? Suddenly, I desperately needed a coke, rather a diet coke, or better yet a break from the sun. Surely I have had enough sun for the day, maybe even for the week. As I stand to go in for that cool drink, and maybe for forever, I hold my head high. These "jiggles" aren't really so bad. I think I wear them fairly well. But where in the heck did I put that cover-up?

Can You Dig It?

Drew is a digger. I like that about Drew. He is literally and figuratively a digger. He whiles away happy hours at the beach in the sand digging and digging, deeper and deeper. And when the tides destroy his work, he cheerfully starts again on a new project, digging and digging, deeper and deeper. I see lots of younger children digging at the beach. I rarely see kids of Drew's age so intent on their digs.

Drew digs even when there is no sand to be dug. Questioning everything, he always wants to know who, why, where, when, what. Full of questions and inquisitive to the core, not much gets past Drew. Whether with a shovel or a computer or pencil and paper, Drew is always digging. Should he hear of something he doesn't know, chances are he'll google it. Isn't it great that google has become a verb? It's an action word, much like digging. Drew's digging and googling have me wondering if diggling should be a word. I'll see what Drew thinks.

Beaches

I love the beach! It doesn't really seem to matter....Montego Bay or Aruba, BVI's Peter Island or Pawley's Island, Puerto Vallarta or Litchfield, Emerald Isle or Garden City, where I am currently spending a few days. I love the water. I love the sand. I am rejuvenated by the smells and the sounds and the majesty of the oceans.

Some of my best and fondest memories are set in water locations. We honeymooned at the fantastic Round Hill in Jamaica and slept in a cottage once occupied by Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward. My children must have inherited the "beach gene." They adore Jamaica and Paradise Island in the Bahamas. Of course, the focuses of their attentions are the plane ride down and the giant slides once there, whereas my focus is usually the fabulous seafood and the nectar of the gods (or island drinks, if you prefer). I love the staggering fish tanks that are the breathtaking aquariums of Atlantis and the amazing green of the lush mountains of Jamaica as they slope to, seemingly paying homage to, the turquoise Caribbean water.

Whether standing in the Jamaican surf at Round Hill in water so clear I easily see my feet or cheering the 4th of July boat parade through Murrell's Inlet, I am in my element at the beach. I loved picnic"ing" on a private beach with my husband at Peter Island. I love Sunday Brunch at Sea Captain's House in Myrtle Beach. I love the photo ops and flying kites. (I have learned flying kites isn't as easy as it once was.) I love a great read in a short striped chair and long week-ends with my sister at her house on the North Carolina coast. I unexpectedly loved "fishing off the company pier" at Springmaid. (For readers who may not know of my first career and/or the Springmaid Pier, this last statement may beg further clarification....) I love the shabbily chic Pawley's Island and the classic and historic elegance 'South of Broad' in Charleston. I love swimsuits, although in the last few years I have become increasingly enamored with cover-ups....imagine that! I love straw hats and sunglasses, flip flops and thong sandals, beach bags, beach towels and the heady smell of suntan lotions. I love the beach!

I dream of a fisherman's cottage at the ocean....I can see its sunny rooms with fabulous views and hardwood floors and tile, its den with bookshelves overflowing. Just two bedrooms, small by all accounts, my perfect beach hideaway.

On a recent morning at my mother and dad's (now my dad's, I suppose) condo at the South Carolina coast, I sleepily opened a kitchen cabinet looking for a coffee cup. I was greeted by a white mug personalized in green with the simple "Pat." My mother....my mother's mug in a place she loved, really her one and only getaway place for the last twenty-five years. A new reason to love the beach....I feel my mother's presence here.

Clientology

I think it is time to share a little about my new career, on occasion referenced in previous posts. I am a realtor....at the same time the most rewarding and most devastating career option known to man, or in this case woman. A lesson in oxymorons, a pendulum swinging from fabulous highs to lowest lows, an ongoing experiment in clientology. And no, I don't know if clientology is a word, but it should be....the psychology of the agent/client relationship.

There is agency law to protect the public. There aren't any laws to protect the heart of the real estate agent. Because we routinely put heart and soul and time and talent and money out there, well, let's just say we frequently set ourselves up for heartache.

This week though, I am experiencing the rewarding side of clientology....and loving it. A buyer client whom I first met over a year ago decided at that time not to purchase. But many, many months later when the time was right for her to buy, she came back to me. She didn't forget the hours we spent or the research we did or the many houses we toured. She didn't forget the investment I made in her.

This client is amazing. I wonder if she knows how she has inspired me. She is a devoted single mom. She works. She is finishing her undergraduate degree and plans to get her masters. She has run a marathon. She is a veteran. She is young, beautiful, bright. She is absolutely unstoppable. And this week she will be a homeowner. She gets it. She gets me. She knows I have and will move heaven and earth to help her take this huge step. All I ask is that she deal with me fairly and honestly.

That she has.

I wonder if she knows how much I value knowing her. I wonder if she realizes what a lesson in loyalty she has taught me. I wonder if she knows that I will actually truly miss the househunting and the conversations and the time spent with her.

There have most assuredly been "lows" in my job and my life lately. A very challenging housing market, clients who seem to find it easy to be less than honest, personal crises, oh the list could go on. But this particular client has made me at once forget all the bad stuff and remember me why I thought I wanted to be in this crazy business to begin with....why I thought I would be good in it. She has reminded me what a special experience it is to help someone achieve the "American Dream." She has reminded me about trust, about integrity, about loyalty. She has inspired me to be a better agent and to build even stronger client relationships.

I wonder if she knows that she has shown me the very best of clientology. And, just as we stand to leave the closing table, and I am thinking it doesn't get any better, she looks at me and says, "Do you ever look at houses just for fun?" This is a really good day to be a real estate agent!

Mysteries

While recently going through some of my mother's things, I delightedly and excitedly stumbled on what I thought had to be a gold Clemson 'College' class ring my father had given my mother. What a treasure! What a significant piece of my heritage and my past, an appropo emblem of the courtship and love of my parents and their mutual love for Clemson! I quickly scooped it up and claimed it for my own before my likewise treasure hunting sisters could stake their claims.

As I donned my 150 reading glasses and gave a closer look, I was thrilled to find the ring was inscribed. As I squinted to make out the tiny etching, I found myself predicting what meaningful profession of love might be there....For Pat...Love Always, Bick......Tiger By Marriage.....Winthrop Girl, Tiger Heart..... okay maybe I am stretching it just a little. As I finally made out the inscription, much to my surprise, it read Julie - Olin. What? Perhaps I really needed those 250 strength readers I've been considering lately, those that pride and vanity have not yet allowed me to purchase. I looked again, and there it was again.... Julie - Olin. As you already have no doubt correctly surmised, my recently deceased mother's given name was Patricia, Pat to those who knew and loved her; my father Billy, or more often Bick. So.....who is this Julie.....who is Olin? Someone of less decorum might say, "What the......!"

My father cannot recall or is not sharing (hmmmmm....) anyone of either name with whom his or my mother's path may have crossed. So, again, who is Julie? Who is Olin? Or is it Julie Olin (one name, one person)? And why was this ring carefully tucked away with my mother's things? Did my mom date Olin? Did my father court Julie? Did my mom and Julie vie for the affection of the decidedly debonair (he must have been so, right) Olin? Much less interestingly, did my mother meet Julie at Winthrop, and perhaps on a sorority week-end they somehow got their rings mixed up? If that's the case, will Julie please come forward and give me my mom's ring?

Did my mother for some reason lust after this ring until desire overtook her and defeated her usually quite stalwart integrity and she finally stole it? I most certainly hope not.

Who is Julie? Who is Olin? How did this ring come to be in my mother's possession? Did my dad simply receive a ring ordered for my mother but incorrectly engraved and they never realized? Unlikely, wouldn't you think?

There is a story here. Do you know it? I wonder if Julie or Olin or even Julie Olin might on occasion read Definitely Dee....

Daughters and a Moment in Time

Today was a moment in time. We had carefully marked the calendar date and set aside this Spring Saturday morning. My sisters and I found our ways home to be present for the laying of our mother's grave marker.

We have waited for this moment since January. We waited until all daughters could pay tribute. Days came and went without this final tribute, because all could not be here. But today presented the opportunity we needed, and so it was. My mother's daughters and our daughters gathered.

We stood graveside with my father, all of us quiet and thoughtful. The marker was laid and dusted. The simple and elegant granite glistened in the April sun. Roses and lilies graced the stone. The ever near emotions of these last months flooded over me and over us yet again. My dad, so strong, so handsome, the dedicated husband of fifty years now left behind in a pensive, private semi-circle of his daughters and their daughters. Lip quivering and shaking ever so slightly, he was surrounded by the now women in his life, one generation and the next, with but one notable absence, the woman without whom today's circle would not have been.

Outwardly, we do well. Others comment on our strength. Inwardly, our hearts remain broken. For as daughters and granddaughters, we instinctively need our mother and grandmother. Even in those times, and there were most certainly times, of complete and total disconnect,there is a craving for the family's matriarch.

Our mother loved having daughters. She revelled in dance and piano recitals, pageants, and the like. I don't think she ever knew even a fleeting moment's longing for a son. Although Mother adored her four grandsons, it seemed somehow fitting that only daughters and granddaughters joined my dad to share this morning's simple service.

Daddy reached out for my hand. I quickly seized it and squeezed it, needing the comfort of my father's reassurance and his strength. Perhaps he needed mine. I heard telltale sniffles outing the seemingly strong daughters now without their mother. I looked at my own daughter and niece. I knew someday, inevitably, they too would face this moment in time.

The beloved soft-spoken minister of our home church broke the silence with scripture and prayer. He spoke of joy. My mind raced through things I should have and could have shared with my mother. Regret.....without doubt the cruelest emotion. I loved you Mother, maybe more than any. I just didn't always show it best.

On this breezy, almost balmy Saturday morning, I hope you felt the love of your three daughters, their two daughters and the husband with whom you made this family. I hope you shared this moment in time.

Finding My Voice

I am finding my voice. For me, this is a very personal and intimate journey. You see, I have almost lost it.

I have been diagnosed with dysphonia or spastic dysphonia, a medical malfunction of the vocal cords. This affliction has been at times demoralizing and difficult for me. I have always been a person of great confidence and, many would say, of great poise. I spent a career in the world of human resources, required to speak frequently and forcefully before groups of people. Throngs of listeners, whether in the occupational circle of my colleagues or the wider expanse of varied community audiences, challenged me to be well-spoken and effective. I was.

Then came an unexpected career change and, perhaps coincidentally, an unexplained voice change. Was I affected emotionally? Maybe. I was devastated to leave a career and a company and the people that had in triumverite formed the only work life I had ever known. Was my voice affected?

Was my confidence shaken? Possibly. After twenty-five years of doing something, perhaps you begin to think no one else can do it as well as you. Perhaps when you learn that is not the case, you are taken aback. Was my voice affected?

Had I simply "used up" my voice conducting countless large group meetings without much needed magification of my voice? In an effort to be heard, had I yelled too much? Was my voice affected?

Was God punishing me for not using my potentially powerful voice for greater purpose? Maybe. Would He take that voice from me to get my attention? I just don't know. Was my voice affected?

I lost my job. I lost my beautiful and beloved niece. I even eventually lost my mom. I lost my voice. And, for awhile, I lost my way. Doctors believe it is neurological. I don't know.

What I do know is that in my pen and on my keyboard, I am finding my voice. In my writing, I am sharing the best of me. My vocals may be shaky. My written word is stronger than ever. I am a writer. I always have been. Botox injections into my throat are helping my voice. Composition is helping me communicate. I am finding my voice

I believe people are listening beyond the shakiness in my voice. I hope they are hearing my substance and my strength. Don't mistake my vocal quiver for a lack of passion or compassion. My voice may on occasion shake. My faith and my resolve will not. I will speak through my amazing children and the life lessons I am teaching them. In my new career, I will speak through clients who recognize my integrity and my dedication. I will speak through my blog. I AM finding my voice.