Happy Birthday, Jaybird!

Today is my friend Jay's birthday. He has once again caught up to my great age, which we will share until  I age past him, at which time I will surely be mocked by him again for my decrepitude.

Old friends are like that. You may not have seen them for a year or four, but the rhythms of childhood and teenagehood run deep. And the banter between us is a serious business.

Jay and I have known each other all our lives,, In a small town, friendships are like osmosis. You come to know each other without any real effort. His home was a block away. His church visible from my bedroom window. And despite the differences of our denominations, we were drawn closer by an even tighter bond. Our dads were great friends. Therefore, so were we.

I didn't know what to make of the Howell boys at first. Having only a sister, they were far outside my realm of experience. Their matching crew cuts were a curiosity. In the time of David Cassidy shags and Bob Sherman helmets, their hair was buzzed right down to the scalp. And sometimes, to make things more curious, they wore matching sweaters. (If I have imagined this detail, please forgive me. The two Howell boys were two peas in a pod.)

I really got to know Jay when we started going to the same school in fourth grade. We rode the same bus, were in the same class. And we co-existed until we graduated. We actually conferred over homework, seeking or offering help on math problems or double checking assignments. He was one smart cookie. I was proud of my grades, too, but would never have had the audacity to NOT STUDY THE NIGHT BEFORE. This was assured me that he was smarter than I was.

One of our primary kindnesses to each other was to bring homework home to the other if we were sick. One day, when I was out with some virus or other, and likely in 5th or 6th grade, I opened textbook he brought me so that I could stay on task. There between the leaves was a poem. Something along these lines:
                                       Roses are red,
                                       Violets are blue.
                                       Hurry back to school.
                                       Randy misses you!

It was on. We passed notes like that for years. Randy (Earley) was always the subject of the poems I received. And Susan Barrett was the subject of the ones I crafted for him. I don't remember actually discussing those notes out loud. They just appeared, but they were as regular as the seasons.

Jay and I had many shared experiences: Bible School and the church softball team, Hassle House and Youth Retreats, ballgames, the State Fair, and the Beta Club. We traded comic books - his were all superheroes (love Aquaman!) and mine were Archie and Richie Rich, so we got the best of both worlds.  And though I suffered from the insecurity that comes from braces, and glasses and a few extra pounds, he never made me feel less than.

I was welcome in his home; I can remember the comforting smell and look of it as if it were yesterday. I snapped peas with his mom and visited his grandmother. I played football in his front yard and basketball in his backyard. And I always felt comfortable in my skin, respected and liked. And I respected and liked him. He was genuinely the brother I never had. Through Jay's friendship, I learned what it meant to be an equal to the opposite sex.

This is no minor observation. My relationship with Jay was foundational. Being able to be comfortable with first him, and then males in general,  enabled me to hold my own in the male dominated workplace I experienced at IBM. It taught me to adroitly give as good as I got; always an equal, never a shrinking violet. And it helped me seek and enjoy a relationship of equals with my husband, and now with my grown sons.

And isn't that what we all want from childhood friends? Loyalty, trust, humor, kindness, and inclusion?

I don't see Jay much these days, but when something happens that I should know, even though I am outside the circle of former classmates that maintain a closer relationship, he will pick up the phone and call. To do me the honor of offering comfort as well as information. You can't get that in Messenger or a text.

So I thank you Jay, for being you.  Happy Birthday, Old Man. Consider that NCSU football victory your birthday present. I'd like UNC basketball win for mine in March, when I pass you once again.

Requim for Amana

Amana in the End Times. 

May the Lord of Voltage and Ohms give thee eternal rest,

Thou box of chill,

Thou maker of ice.

Thee who labored these seventeen years, almost unfailingly,

Who, when serviced by the Sears layer on of hands, he, who in turn inevitably asked

“Dost thou have an extended warranty?”

You, who despite the lack thereof, tolerated said service and bills of $175 each time and merrily hummed back to life to chill again.

We honor you.

We thank you.

We ask eternal rest for your weariness.

Freedom from the many hands who carelessly flung you open,

Who rooted in your very depths for imagined plunder.

May you be granted peace.

You, who tolerated magnets, postcards, permission slips, and general grime on your sleek exterior,

You who nourished a family and their ever hungry canines,

You who proudly withstood the assaults of the Locusts (a  careless hoard of teen aged boys) 

Who searched for soda, and delights to feed their insatiable hunger, those very souls who inevitably left thy doors ajar!

Despite these things – you continued to serve unerringly.

Amana and some of her Bling 

When the older son of the family tried out the mantle of veganism, you chilled Hemp Milk, patiently, though it tasted like bathwater.

And  the younger, who constantly, constantly sought seltzer water, you quenched his thirst with grace and freedom from complaints.

When the mother tried out beet juice and black cherry juice for the various insults of age, you offered these to her without fear of the stains that could forever mar your pristine interior.

Likewise when the father stumbled home from work on the occasion of a a Friday evening, you were there for him, whispering those holy words: This Bud’s For You.

You served us tirelessly.

When you, Amana, were called upon to host a Great Thanksgiving, or other family get-together, you managed to  Cool

Enormous turkeys,

Endless pies,

Potato salads,

Deviled eggs,

Sides of all makings,

Always, always making room were before there was none, like a miracle of loaves and fishes.

We marvel at your generosity and hospitality and wish we could ourselves

Be more like thee.

And when precious daughters joined the family, you welcomed them in your steady, unassuming way, ever a Martha.

We express our thanks to the Reports of Consumer, who directed us to you.

They knew what selfless duty thou would provide and awarded you their CHECK RATING.

We selected you above all others and you were borne into our new home on the strong backs of the movers so that you might greet us upon our arrival

As you did so again and again.

We admit freely our sin of familiarity. We seek penance because we did not glory in your tireless service, day after day, appreciating your faithfulness.  

But now, Amana, we honor Thee above all other appliances and thank the engineer who designed you, and the assembly line that birthed you, and the technician who installed your icemaker and yes, even the man of repair. Because through their knowledge and skills we knew thee well.

So, 

our friend of 17 years,

Soon the men from the Depot of Home will visit,

Bringing in another  to replace  irreplaceable you.

They will carry you out on their broad backs,

To we know not where.

But we can hope there is some place for you in the afterlife,
Where your parts may be recycled,for it would please us greatly to know that  Thou were not simply dumped in a mass grave.
Yet even so,  the veil of mystery keeps this from us.

So go soon, our friend, and be delivered from us,
that thou may take eternal rest,
oh good and faithful servant.

Amana with an early subset of the Locusts, celebrating the Holidays

Amana welcomes Lilly

Amana Welcomes Rebecca 

Father's Day 2018

Zack and Jack, Sunset Beach 1991

Dear Daddy,

It’s been more than ten and less than a score of years

Since we slipped you under the sweet southern soil

With a sharpened Barlow tucked deep into the pocket of your best Sunday suit.

I never thought I’d see you again.

But this week, the week before Father’s Day, I did.

1.

I saw your freckles on my younger son when he strode along the ocean’s shore. I saw them all about his chest and neck and face, but on his shoulders a dense sprinkle of cinnamon colored spots, Daddy, they were yours.

2.

And in the older son, I saw your careful mind, weighing and measuring the pros and cons of a new car. He used an electronic spread sheet, Daddy, to capture what you would have noted in your strong, even hand on the crisp page of a yellow legal pad.

He was deliberate and exact and when he makes his selection, it will be solid. Like yours.

3.

I saw the love you had for Mama in the eyes of my sons when they gazed at their wives.

I saw in them

You and Mama

standing side by side, at the edge of the Atlantic, in the breaking waves, staring at the great, wide ocean, holding hands, alone amidst a sea of people.

Just as the worlds around my sons and their wives, shrunk and narrowed for each pair into a space that could only hold two. They married well, Daddy. They married well.

So Daddy, this Father’s Day I miss you. But I sure was happy to see you.

Mary Frances, Nat, Jack, Sunset Beach 1988

Janice 1971-2018

Janice, with her life-long friend, Nancy

On the Loss of a Cherished Book Club Member

Words

Slipped through the ether

To tell me

Our friend had

Slipped from her body

And into the next chapter.

Lover of those with blood ties and without,

Champion of the lost and found,

Steward of business,

Thinker, Traveler, Epicurean, Adventurer,

Reader of the written word,

Friend,

Partner,

Daughter,

Sister,

Aunt,

Step-mother,

She is no more.

But how can that be

When her Cheshire Cat

Smile

Still remains?

And her laugh,

Her throw-back-her-head-and-howl

Laugh

Still echoes?

Her joy,

Her infectious, sparkling joy

Casts a light that death can not dim.

Her body fought,

Her cells wrestled,

Her spirit never flagged.

Yet the battle was lost.

So,

I will let go of her,

I will release the sparkle of her eyes,

I will forgo the warmth of her embrace,

I will not search out her body in a room,

Or her face in a photo.

I will not listen for her voice.

But I will hold onto

That smile,

That laugh,

That joy

Which will stay with me,

Solid and sure and true,

Until the final page is turned.

Janice - Virginia Creeper Trail 2015

A Buge by Any Other Name...

The name confusion began when I was born. My mom reports that her intent was to call me Carol. The Jacqueline was a tip of the hat to my dad, Jack, nee Jackson. But, alarmingly, I looked like my 37 year old father. Or rather, he, plump and balding, looked like me. So Jackie, I became.

Jack and Jackie - twinsies

I've known alot of Carols, some delightful, some definitely not. And I've know a slew of Jackies, Jacquies, Jaclyns, etc. and shared a certain kinship with them, and Mrs. Kennedy of course. I rather liked the name, I saw it as sporty and a good fit for my jeans-outdoor-book-please-causal self. It was quick and tidy to jot down on school papers and it stuck pretty well, even if it did continue to draw comparisons with my aforementioned-balding-plump dad. Whom I loved dearly, another plus.

My name stuck until 5th grade, when the debacle happened. When I eagerly  opened my 1971 yearbook, Challenger, thumbed to the page for my class, scanned down for my name and found.....Jacqueline Driggers? What? There was no explanation. I had never heard of a real Driggers and still haven't with the exception of the torn page of a New York City phone book "liberated" by my friend Nell,  with a mysterious entry for Jackie Driggers.

Jackie Driggers

Regardless of it's origin, the nickname stuck. To this day, So though I moved 100 miles away, and over 40 years have passed, when I am "home" in Seaboard or it's environs, I still answer to Driggers. Always, Driggers.

Here, though, first in Chapel Hill, then in Durham, I've remained Jackie  except with the addendum of MacHardy. And a few variations.

When my younger son hit his college years and really began to tower over me, he began to remark that I looked like a little gnome, scurrying about my business. So yes, I became Gnome. Sometimes Mama Gnome. And  I still sometimes answer to Gnome.

But in my family, even that name has been eclipsed by a new moniker. It happened like this.

In 2013 my older son began dating his (now) wife, who is a whiz at board games. Especially word games More especially Scrabble. In a a valiant attempt to train for potential Scrabble encounters, he took our Travel Scrabble to the beach. (Training for Scrabble. I never said we were jocks.)  He also took  a list of 2 letter and 3 letter words, words with Q, with Z, with X. And we began to play. He and I. Mano a mano. Doing my part to help with Cupid's sting.

Generally he beat me, but in my recollection. I held my own, but was quick to contest a dicey word. And indeed, the boy played BUGE.

"It's not a word!" I insisted.
"It is!" he demanded.

Ultimately, the ensuing throw-down fight ("WHAT DOES IT MEAN? USE IT IN A SENTENCE!") resulted into a dictionary dive. It was nowhere to be found, and that, I thought, was the end of Buge.

All sense of sportmanship was lost, resulting in my college graduate son and I slinging nonsensical  barbs. "You are a buge!" which became truncated to simply "Buge!" which then somehow became the name I am most called by my sons.

So much so, that when I saw my first born this week, and returned a box of junk that had washed up at our house, he took out his newly rediscovered label maker and labeled me.

It stuck.

Buy the Tricorn!

At Williamsburg there are great spots to browse, including an open air market. When I was there this week , I enjoyed wandering among the items for sale - all with a colonial bent. I strolled among lavender scented soaps, chocolate prepared from a historically accurate recipe, toy drums and muskets, wooden hoops and checkers. 

A family browsed nearby, parents and two daughters. The mother had walked a bit away towards the home goods and the father was engaged with his girls. "Look, mom!" the older,  eight-year-old-ish daughter called. She stood, dressed in a fluffy pink coat, her brown hair slipping from its ponytail with a wide grin on her face. Perched jauntily atop her head was a black tri-cornered hat. She stood beaming, waiting for her mother's approval. 

Her mother looked up at the girl and in an exasperated voice said. "Take that hat off! That hat is for boys!" 

Well. 

To say every feminist hair on the back of my neck stood on end is to underestimate my reaction. Like a bull ready to charge a matador, I saw red. My breathing increased, my heart rate soared, and I drew myself up 2 inches beyond my normal height. 

Unfortunately, there was little I could do. But I could not remain silent. 

I sidled up to the mom, out of earshot of the daughter.  "Your daughter looked so cute in that tricorn. If I'd been lucky enough to have a daughter, I would have bought her that tricorn in a heartbeat!" 

The mom looked over at me, unhappy about my interference. By then, the daughter was within hearing range. Mom responded. "Oh, her dad is trying to make her into a pirate!" 

I parried, "There were some kick-ass female pirates." The mother did not deign to answer, but the girl gave me a lopsided grin. 

Mom bought something for the household and they soon walked off, the daughter giving the tricorn a longing look over her shoulder. 

This whole exchange took maybe 5 minutes out of my day, but the moment has stayed with me. There is no one moment that defines us as women, but there are many individual moments that add up to tell us who we are, what our roles are, what we can accomplish and what limits us. 

And generally speaking, we women can do most everything men can except have a prostate exam, father a baby, and pee standing up. 

We can most certainly wear a tricorn or be a pirate.

Heida Reed of Poldark plays Elizabeth Chynoweth

When I was a very young girl, I thought the options open to me were teacher, nurse, or secretary. My sister was already set on being a nurse, so since I didn't like the idea of being beholden to a boss I chose teacher. But when I got to high school, I was able to evaluate my skill set. I was good at math. So I talked to my math teacher about a new(ish) field, computer science. She lent me her college textbook and encouraged my interest. 

I had always been told I could do anything I wanted to, because I had been treated like an individual, not buttonholed into a "girl" role. My parents encouraged me in math, before I even knew girls "were bad at math."  I rode shotgun with my dad on the farm.  I got Legos when Legos were for boys. I never questioned my ability to be successful. My parents gave me the gift of teaching me to believe in myself.  Despite the warning from my  best friend's sister that I would change my major after my first Calculus class (most enjoyable A I ever earned) I flourished in my classes. 

So when our girls - and I mean "our" in the sense of "our village" - "our community" - "our country" - when our girls want to succeed and in fact, exceed, we need to be ready to say YES. YES, you can do math. YES, you can compete. YES, you are worthy. YES, you have every right to do and be WHATEVER YOU WANT! 

I'm proud of my grown boys in so many way, but  one of the things I'm the most proud of is their feminist bent. They, too, hold fast to the dream, to the promise, to the reality that men and women are created equal. There is no one reason why. But one element of their villages' message can be found in the book The Country Bunny and the Little Gold Shoes by DuBose Heywood. Written in 1939, this book tells the story of Cottontail - who wanted desperately to be one of  the five Easter Bunnies, but is told "to go home and eat a carrot."  So, she cleverly teaches her 21 baby  bunnies to  pitch in and care for the home so she can help at Easter. She  achieves her goal. 

This book was given to my older son when he turned 4 by our neighbors, the Mohars.  Bob and Kathleen were part of the tapestry that defined to our sons the role of women and men in society. Because it really does take a village. 

My message, my urgent message to you is to tell our girls they can do anything they want! Give them positive female role models. Read to them about women astronauts, scientists, lawmakers, and PIRATES. Show them that their place is the world is BESIDE the men in their lives, not BENEATH (!) them. SPREAD the good word!

Don't have a daughter? I don't care. You do have girls in your life. You are part of their tapestries. Your behavior towards women and their capabilities influence their perception of what they can and can't do. Ask them about their favorite subjects, encourage them in their team sports and BUY THEM THE  @#$%&^% TRICORN!

Unexpected Blessings of the Unexpected

 My son got married this past weekend. Preceded by a rehearsal and rehearsal dinner. Preceded by a lot of planning. (Clarification, most of the planning was carried out by the Bride and the Mother of the bride. But still.)

So when things got cranked up on Friday, I genuinely expected it would all go as smooth as silk.

I expected wrong.

Friday, I was blessed to have a church friend stay with Mary Frances according to her preference so she could save her energy for Saturday. That went well.

And our trip to Winston Salem was safe. Praises.

But as we walked into the lovely Moravian church for rehearsal setup the sole of my right shoe suddenly and dramatically separated from the upper, nearly sending me sprawling. I couldn’t even walk without tripping. I was a circus clown flapping around. I had to have another pair of shoes.
So I quickly googled shoe stores near me and found a SAS store 3.8 miles away.

In the meantime, Earle realized that I needed a micro HTMI to mini HTMI cable. Or the 110 slide Powerpoint Presentation of photographs of the bride and groom growing up that I had spent umpteen hours preparing for the reception would not be playable from my computer.
So after a brief discussion, with an hour to go before rehearsal, we set out.

I had been high strung all day, nervous as a cat in a dog house, so entering a new shoestore staffed by two welcoming ladies with no other customers was, I’m not gonna lie, satisfying. They grabbed every brown pair of shoes in the store, engaging me with wedding questions all the while. They gave Earle directions to the Best Buy and off he went. I purchased a nice pair of tasseled loafers and waited, eating chocolate from my sales ladies, for Earle’s return. Which didn’t take long.

When he pulled in front of the store, I checked my watch. We had 30 minutes left. Awesome!

Except it wasn’t.

He hadn’t found the Best Buy. But he was determined to save the day (and to insure all my PP efforts paid off.) So we pulled out our phones and searched. We headed back out. He had ALMOST gotten there the first time.

Except. Rush hour traffic. Lots of it. We were awash in a sea of cars.

It took time. So much that Zack got worried and called. I was waiting in the car while Earle ran into Best Buy.  Earle was in the store, had found a cable and was caught behind a woman chatting with the saleswoman about how happy she was to find Polaroid film while the line grew behind him.

Back in the car my anxiety cranked and cranked and cranked. We had T-10 for the rehearsal. Earle at last reappeared, jumped in the car. According to Google maps we’d be back to the church in 15 minutes.

Except traffic. MORE of it. Nail-bitingly bumper to bumper.

My anxiety grew.

We eased towards the church. And then -  FULL STOP. At the third cycle of ONE stoplight I about lost it. Not knowing whether to vomit or cry, I texted a friend and asked for prayer. I was missing my own son’s rehearsal. 100 times worse than missing anything I could think of. I was crushed.  My husband, who usually rants at traffic, was mollifingly quiet.

At last we made our way forward and found to our dismay it had been a three car accident. Maybe being late wasn’t the worst thing that could happen after all.

Defeated, we arrived at the church at 4:30 pm to find everyone clustered around the foyer. Their genuine concern and reassurance in the face of our frazzled and regret filled entry warmed and lifted us. My older son’s wife had stood in for me in the first run-through and shored me up with encouragement. I received hugs and shook hands as I offered apologies. It was messy, it was embarrassing. It was love. Because in our deepest times of vulnerability, when we feel like failures or ridiculous, we are lifted up and buoyed by family, old and new, who accept us where we are and as we are, who assign the purest motives to our mistakes and who welcome us, regardless. In that moment, our two families became one.

Other small mishaps tried to make us stumble. But they didn’t.
Earle ultimately bought the wrong cable, frustrated when the one he wanted wasn’t available. But my older son, Nat, got the slides playing on the Mother-of-the-Bride’s laptop.

The salmon from the rehearsal dinner tried to upset the tummies of some of the wedding party. But the magic of over-the-counter medication saved the day.

My Mother-of-the-Groom dress’s zipper threatened to stick, but finally relented. The lace bodice sagged once the corsage was added, but the wedding coordinator, Nancy, magically appeared with safety pins and the Matron of Honor and the Bridesmaid used them to snugly pin me in.

It was a beautiful mountain top moment when we gathered at the rear of the church. Nat ushered me to my seat, followed by my husband. I caught sight of family members and friends along the way which warmed me even more. Minutes later, the Groom, his best man and “best boy” entered the sanctuary from the front. My heart soared. The music soared. Time for the Bride.

Rebecca, looking both radiant and ethereal, entered on the arm of her father. She was poised and graceful. But as she approached the front of the church where I sat, I saw her blinking. I saw feeling and tenderness in her expression. I could feel the echo of those feelings in myself as my own tears began to gather.

The Father-of-the-Bride gave her away and the moment became more touched with grace. I could not see the Groom’s face clearly, but I could see the Bride’s. The tears were threatening to spill down my cheeks and I wondered if the same fate would befall her. The Officiate began reading the words of I Corithians: 13. The stage was set for Maximum Emotion.

Except.

Somewhere behind me a cell phone went off. And it was loud. And it had a musical ringtone.  And it was playing something by Guns and Roses. And it went on and on. And it was at my son’s wedding. And it was my Sister’s phone.

The tears lost their hold on me and I could barely keep myself from laughing. A quick glance at the Bride told me she must feel the same, for though the ceremony and the covenant were solemn and sweet, surely the pure joy of life and love infused it. Life happens, and we carry on anyway.

When the ceremony came to a close and Zack and Rebecca were declared husband and wife, and shared a sweet kiss to the delight of all, when the wedding party made their way back down the aisle and the parents of the couple followed, I found a happy knot clustered in a room off of the foyer. I apologized, laughing about my sister’s phone and the bride reassured me that it helped her. That it helped keep her together. As it did me. And I think it did for the Mother-of-the-Bride, too.

Because you can’t plan these glorious, unexpected, lives we lead. But we can celebrate the good, cherish the sacred, feast upon the joy that is offered us each and every day in surprising and miraculous ways.

Even though our emotions may karoom around like a bumper car in a carnival.

Because it’s all good. Even when it’s unexpected.

Congratulations, Rebecca and Zack. All my love to you both. 

The Bride and Groom surrounded by me and my girlfriends.