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.