RECHARGED

RECHARGED

The house is quiet. It is early morning, one of my favorite times of the day. I have brewed myself a cup of breakfast tea. I had awoken with a sense of purpose but alas the Christmas lights were nowhere to found. So now I sit and write and sip my tea. It is a pleasant sensation.

The girls returned late last night, or should I say early this morning, as is their habit when going out for some fun. I could hear their laughter as they regaled their father with the nights activities...it may be more accurate to say drama. He almost always awaits their return. I am sure to hear all about their girls-night-out, this morning at breakfast. It was a pleasant cacophony...I must admit, even at that hour. But now they slumber.

Even the dogs sleep in this morning. It is uncharacteristically cold for my hometown. I certainly feel these recent Nor-Easters have worn out their welcome...I only have so many warm sweaters. Though I must admit feeling a bit chilled beats having rivulets of sweat streaming down your backside. Ah, Texas!

At any rate, it is rare to have these moments to myself. I really am an introvert and I have always been most comfortable with my own company. Getting married, having children, and having to work, slowly chisels away at that innate trait. It is still there only it has been shaped into the semblance of extroversion. It is sometimes quite difficult to get through the work-day, much less a whole week, when all you really desire is quietude and creative physical activity...painting projects, writing, gardening, home improvement projects, etc.

Ah, and now I begin to hear the stirrings of life: a squirrel skitters across the roof and my dog Lola barks at it's unseen nemesis. This produces a domino effect...the others begin to stir and soon I will sit at my dining table, laughing, smiling and completely loving every boisterous moment. The quiet moment will be gone but it serves it's purpose...I am ready for the day!

Nostalgia

Ahhh...to be young again.  Spring has sprung and summer is hot on it's tail.  That means spring and summer fashions are splattered all across the pages of various magazines.  I am a fashionista at heart.  Always have been.  I can remember being 18 and feeling a rush of excitement each month when the Cosmo issue came out.  I desperately yearned to be able to dress like the models brandished on the pages...alas, I was dirt poor. Well, maybe not dirt poor, but I certainly couldn't afford the high couture peddled therein.  That little detail, however; did not keep me from finding pieces that came very close to the originals.  Thus began a love affair with bargain brands.  It is a love affair I am still in the throes of.  The difference being that today, as a woman with a decent paying job, I can afford the likes of Ann Taylor, White House/Black Market, Chico's, and department stores like Dillards,Macys, and Nordstrom's.  And of course, now there are a variety of high-end outlets to troll.  There is nothing that compares to the feeling of reeling in a huge catch like say a pair of $300 Ann Taylor suede boots for about $100.  It's even better when friends give me gift cards for special occasions to my favorite fashion locales and, as in the case of the boots, my out-of-pocket is a mere pittance ($50 of the $100 for the boots).  I rarely, if ever, pay regular price for my fashion.  There is such a rush in hooking a great deal on clothes, shoes, and accessories.

But getting back to my wistful sentiment, it would really be nice to be young again.  Not only would I feel and look stronger, healthier, firmer, but I would be able to wear the current fashions available to women in their 20's and 30's.  This year, on Dec. 4th, I will turn 50.  And while I do wear platforms and high heels now, I can't help but acknowledge the encroaching cessation of that singular pleasure.  Today, as I peruse the pages of various fashion magazines, Cosmo still among them, I ardently wish I could wear the youthful fashions on display but the reality is that I must relegate myself to more age appropriate fashions.  Now I'm not talking matronly or staid but certainly not something twenty and thirty year olds can get away with.  For example, I can get away with wearing this as opposed to something like this which I would absolutely love to wear in this searing Texas heat.  Oh well, I suppose I will have to experience youthful fashion vicariously through my daughters, all three of whom are in their twenties, just as I do other aspects of their lives.  Thank goodness for them, they keep me young at heart.  At least as far as fashion is concerned, they are following in their momma's high heels.               

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First Love

He liked me, a lot...enough to drive over 20 miles in the opposite direction of our high school to pick me up every morning to take me and my best friend Kelly (his younger sister) to school.  I could tell right away that he liked me but I don't think it was quite so obvious to him.  In fact, I think he fought it the whole time, in part due to outside influences and in part due to a different type of influence, one that he was not able to overcome in the long run until it proved too late, which was sad because I would have married him.  Later, many years later, I learned that he and his wife (a friend of mine) had three sons.  I thought it ironic because I had had three daughters.  What were the odds that he would have three children, all male and that I would have three children, all female?  If we had married, would we have had three children together?  Would they have been three of the female persuasion or three of the male variety or would they have been a mix?  We'll never know.  It's ironic too, that years later, while in my forties, he happened to bump into my brother, asked him about me and said, "She's the one that got away". 

He was mean.  You know how we always tell little girls that so-and-so in her class doesn't really hate her when he pulls her hair or picks on her, it actually means he likes her, well that's how his meanness manifested itself?  He picked on me any chance he got.  Told me things like, "Your ass is big as Texas", when I wore my favorite pair of jeans that I bought back home in San Antonio because the state of Texas was stitched on a back pocket.  But the appreciation in his eyes belied the statement.  Or the time when he went through my purse, dumping it's contents on the floor and stole a tampon thinking it was something he could hang from the rear view mirror of his truck.  Kelly and I laughed so hard we came close to peeing our pants.  Or when he laughed his head off at me after I touched that electric fence around the hog pen just as Kelly yelled to me not to touch it.  Too late, I was fried.  Then, there was the time I was hanging out with Kelly at her house (which was all the time) and he asked me to go to town with him to meet up with his friends.  We drove less than a mile and he turned around and took me back.  He offered no explanation, just said, "Never mind, not this time" and took off down the road, tires kicking up red dirt and rocks.  That one hurt.  That one told me he was letting small-minded people and their ignorance into his head.  It was, after all, the 1970's in a small town in southern Georgia.  He had green eyes and dirty, dish-water blond hair and my hair was, as I liked to call it, strawberry-brown (lots of red highlights and medium brown tones), and my eyes were brown.  My last name was of Spaniard descent and his of Irish.  People couldn't look past my outer appearance, all they could see was difference...so he ignored his heart.

When he wasn't listening to his friends and the adults in his life about how wrong I was for him, we had moments of splendour, maybe not in the grass but definitely on hot vinyl seats, and the freshly vacuumed carpet outside Kelly's room.  We held hands, we kissed until our lips were raw.  We talked about who knows what for hours.  He held me in his arms.  Did I mention, he had green eyes?  When he grew a mustache, kissing for long intervals became painful.  I always felt as if I had just raked my upper lip across a carpet...carpet burn, ouch!  But I kissed him through the pain.  I really liked kissing him.  We went on dates, usually double dates, with Kelly and her current beau.  Riding around in his truck, parking in dark, secluded areas, or taking in a movie at the outdoor theater, these were the things we did together.  Some nights when I spent the night with Kelly he would come to her door and call me out.  Sitting just outside her door we would kiss, and talk, and kiss some more.  We were very fond of kissing.  Then, one day, we were separated forever.  I had to leave Georgia, my parents destroyed any love they had once had for each other...but that is another story, for another time.  There was nothing he and I could do about it.  If we had had more time, I believe he would have overcome all his doubts, as he eventually did but it was too late by then.  And so, I became "the one that got away".  He will always be, for me, the first taste of love.   

         

Write Something!

It's time to write...what the hell about, is beyond me.  I recently read a Pinterest pin...directives really, on a poster here that basically advises one to write, just write, about anything apparently, but I find even this small, seemingly unassuming edict difficult to do.  It supposes the ability to think coherently, which of course is necessary in order to write.  At least that's my thinking.  At any rate, it's very difficult to form any cohesive thoughts at 10 o'clock in the morning on a Monday, what with the constant walk-ins, the phone ringing, and people visiting each other to catch up on what grand and wonderful things they did this weekend, ad nauseam.  Did I mention that I'm at work?  Some of these fine folks like to repeat their weekend feats three and four times just in case you missed how wonderful and fascinating they are.  I don't understand  why bosses aren't roaming the halls, scratching their heads, in search of their wandering chroniclers.

Well, I suppose this is a start, it is writing after all.  Nothing grand, like say writing a paper on how to cure cancer and the like but it is a start.  The difficult thing will be writing on a daily basis and trying not to bore the hell out of people.

Oops...meant to publish this yesterday.

     

First Kiss

The only one who could ever reach me
Was the son of a preacher man,
The only boy who could ever teach me,
Was the son of a preacher man,
Yes he was, he was, ooh, yes he was

Dusty Springfield. “Son Of A Preacher Man”

The year was 1977, December 4th. I opened my eyes, instantaneously cognizant of the fact that I was waking up a 14 year old. I was also very aware that my whole world, the world I had known for the last 14 years at any rate, was irrevocably changing. Mom had just driven us over 1200 miles to a small, odoriferous southern town in Georgia named Jesup. Less than 24 short hours ago I had said goodbye to my best friends, my family, and the hometown I didn't realize I loved so much until forced to leave it. Yes, me and my brothers were forced to leave. What can you do when you are only 13, 11, and 4 years of age...besides cry and pout a lot...not much else and it didn't work anyhow. I had lived a somewhat sheltered life until then; I didn't realize how sheltered but I would soon become very aware of it. But that is another story.

Jesup, smelled. I had never smelled anything quite so disqusting, and I had definitely been exposed to some pretty rotten smells even at the tender age of 14: namely, my baby brothers diapers. I was nine years old when he was born. Changing his diapers became one of my chores, funny thing is...I didn't mind. He was such an adorable baby. At any rate, Jesup's odor was entirely alien to me. The worst smell I had ever been exposed to in San Antonio came from Mitchell Lake...the sewage plant. But this malodor was entirely new. I soon learned that the smell was produced by the Rayonier Paper Mill and on humid mornings, and it seemed most mornings were, when the wind was heading in the right direction, it would waft through the tall Georgia evergreens, permeate the thin walls of our shack, and furtively seep into our lungs. I kid you not, it was a veritable shack of a house we lived in. Talk about an open floor plan...step through the front door and bam...you were in the livingroom, diningroom, and kitchen all at the same time, all in about 900 (maybe 1000) square feet. Needless to say, our new living arrangements were going to take some getting used to. The rest of the shack consisted of two bedrooms and a bathroom. I lost my virginity in that bathroom (well sort of). It was in that bathroom I first learned how to use tampons (don't gross out girls, it's a part of my history)...little did I know: there were plenty more firsts to come.

I was sad. I missed my friends, my old room in our modern brick home, and my family...grandma Monie, great-aunts: Lala and Maya, and my cousins. I would be starting school with strangers in a few days time and this knowledge made me sadder, and more homesick each day. I spent a lot of time in my cubby-hole-of-a-bedroom (as bad as I thought I had it, my brothers had it worse: their bedroom was the livingroon/diningroom/kitchen) writing in my diary, reading, and trying not to hate my parents too much (that didn't work out too well...I blamed them for all the misery in my life). My saddness quickly lessened though when I met the boys next door...brothers, Sonny and Greg.

I first met Sonny one warm afternoon as I played a little one-on-one basketball with Darlene (a girl who lived down the street from us and would eventually become my middle brother's wife). He was all of 6 ft. and gangly as a 17 year old boy could be. He already knew Darlene but he was curious as all get out to find out who the new girl was. And once he fixed me with those emerald eyes I didn't waste any time showing off my mad basketball skills. I stole the ball from him as he dribbled to the basket, he hadn't seen that coming and complimented my abilities. I pretty much knew I had piqued his interest at that point. So, we started talking, getting to know about one another. Funny thing was, he was taking things slowly, which was fine since I liked him quite a bit but then I met his younger brother, Greg.

Now Greg was quite a few inches shorter and stockier than Sonny, and his eyes were the same brilliant blue as the waters of the Meditteranean Sea (swoon) and he wasn't the least bit interested in taking things slow. One fine warm Georgia day, the boys were outside, behind the church their father was pastor of, lifting weights. Our little shack sat directly to the left of the church so I had a good vantage point to take in the exhibition. I had only briefly spoken to Greg outside of church after service at least once so we really weren't as well acquainted as Sonny and I were. As I looked out my bedroom window, Sonny noticed me and waved for me to join them. I walked over to them and Sonny came to stand by me, it was Greg's turn on the weights so I turned to Sonny and we talked while Greg impressed me with his muscles. The boys cast each other looks that made me feel there was some undercurrent of competition going on between them that had nothing to do with who could lift more weight. When Greg was done with his set he came to stand by me while Sonny took his turn at flexing his muscles. This went on for some time, the boys taking turns, coming to stand by me, talking, lifting, competing.

Finally, the boys were finished. Their mother had called out to them to let them know that supper was ready so I began to pull away from them so that they could go in to eat. I waved goodbye to Sonny and Greg then began to walk to the front of my house to the front door. I don't know exactly how it happened though as I walked away I heard the small sounds of a scuffle and suddenly Greg was running up behind me to walk part of the way with me. He rushed past me and stood directly in front of me so I came to a complete stop and wondered what he was doing. It was at that moment that he leaned forward and very softly, as I watched in wonder, lips parted, kissed me. I felt it down to my toes. It was my first kiss and I knew right then and there that I would definitely want to do some more of that. Later I learned that the boys had scuffled with each other because Sonny had also wanted to kiss me. Well, it may not have happened that night with Sonny, but he definitely got his turn. Very quickly, I learned to like my new home.

A Brief Letter To My Girls

Dear Daughters,



I'm currently reading "Things I Want My Daughters To Know" by Elizabeth Noble and it put me in mind of the reason why I started this blog. I had actually been wanting to do this for almost 2 yrs now...I know, I'm a procrastinator. Anyhow, I don't want to wait to tell you (my girls) things about myself until I am on my death bed or dead and gone and possibly not have the opportunity to answer any questions you might have. I know that I could kick myself for not ever asking the "old ladies" (my great-aunts and grandmother for those who don't know the affectionate moniker) about their lives. I wish I had. I miss them so much and wish I had stories of their youth that I could pass on to you girls. So, I promise not to leave you behind without leaving a little piece of me to pass on to my grandkids (I'm just saying...for the future you know...no hurry). :D



Love, Momma.