Blessed are the Cheesemakers

I had a wonderful week with my in-laws. It's a unique situation...maybe not so unique, but still very special to me. If you read my blog (TWO...count them...TWO readers) you know that my husband, Brian, passed away when we were very young. That's been 19 years ago exactly tomorrow. Hard to believe that so many years have passed. His family, the Johnsons of the Wildwoods, have never let me forget that I belong to them. Just the other night, over margaritas at Pepito's, my mother-in-law, Carmen said those exact words "You belong to us." She's an amazing woman whom I love and admire greatly. And she loves her some margaritas. Incredibly refined and always in control, one margarita unlocks the door to her "long hair" side. I love that about her. She shines. And funny!...she makes me laugh until my sides hurt. She opens her house to me and I feel like I'm home.

And then there's Ray...my father-in-law. He comes and goes but when he's there, he's there. Warm, big-hearted and full of stories about his military life, his gunshop, and anything else that involves explicit, technical mechanical details or a man named Beaudreaux. The man is always working on things. And he always fixes them. He loves his family and hands out hugs and kisses unlike most men I know.

Kristin, the baby of the family, has grown into a young woman. My first date with Brian was taking Kristin and my little sister, Pam, to see The Fox and the Hound. It was so sweet. She was so tiny and slight. Full of questions. Now she's a beautiful young woman with two girls of her own, Bella and Anna Marie, and well on her way to making a life for herself and her two girls as a single mother. I have no doubt that she can accomplish this.

And then there's Diahn, the middle determined child. We befriended each other in high school and it never ceases to amaze me when she says she thought that I was cool...ME...in high school. And how she loved it that I let her hang around with me and my cool senior friends at lunch. My friends and I were anything but cool.

We were the anti-cool.

The negative of cool.

We were...well, let's face it, we were cool repellent.

But when I'm with her, my sister-in-law, we are anti-cool together. We remember. We laugh. We drink a little and laugh a lot. We sing. We throw out Monty Python one liners like crazy.
And we catch up on every detail imaginable that we've missed. Never miss a beat.

I am different, yet the same when I return to Tuscaloosa, to the Wildwoods. There is a part of me there that is separate from my other life. A part of me that I left there. It's so good to remember that girl...that life. And even better to find her among sweet family, and bring her back to life, back to my family in Louisiana.

She Was Marvelous

My Grandmother, Learon Laverne Cooper, passed away this morning. She was 86 and I will miss her terribly. These are some things that I loved about her.

She always talked about herself in third person.
She made the BEST biscuits in Louisiana, possibly the WORLD.
She loved AquaNet.
She loved DippityDo.
She cooked for an army, which my family definitely is, and loved to see us eat.
She cut a special piece of chicken just for me, from the pulley-bone, and called it a "frog."
She cooked "Grandma peas" just for me (black-eyed peas).
She loved me the best of all the grandchildren.
She gave me a bionic woman action figure for my 11th birthday.
She made me a giant Raggedy-Ann doll for Christmas on my 10th birthday, she made my prom dress and my first wedding dress.
She loved polyester.
She was a strong, independent woman and has been on her own since my Grandpa died at the young age of 43 and has taught me perseverence.
She loved to travel, alone.
She loved, loved, loved her family.
She was a faithful, consistent, calm, strong Chrisitian woman.
She loved chinese food and we went to "Imperial Gardens" together often for lunch.
She was a breast-cancer survivor.
She was a dear friend to me and always listened to me.
She told me her stories and sometimes her secrets (my favorite...her best friend, Mr. Pickett, whom everyone thought she would marry one day, was gay...I knew it!)
She loved coffee with cream.
She was the best seamstress...ever.
She cooked everything southern style...bacon grease, Crisco and butter...lots and lots of butter.
She liked to gossip a little but always finished up her stories with "bless her/his heart"...a southern disclaimer.
She was soft when she needed to be and tough when she needed to be.
She was the most forgiving, non-judgmental person I have ever met.
She was my Grandma and she was marvelous.

I love you, Grandma.

Malarky

That's what the previous post is. M-A-L-A-R-K-Y. Tough love is necessary. Tough love is hard. That's why they call it tough. I get it now.

What If?

This is just a random thought that's been floating around in my head this evening, so I'm setting it free to float around in blogland.

What if tough love is total bullshit? Could it be that it's the easiest thing for us to do in the guise of the hardest thing for us to do? What if the right thing to do is for the stronger to love the weak, those who can't take care of themselves, and help them no matter what? Wouldn't that be the truly hardest thing to do? And if you say that you can love them, you just can't let them pull you into their drama, what does that mean? Isn't love a verb? If you don't put it into action, isn't it just an empty word? Suppose there's been a twist in our culture, a twist that we all buy into because of the Oprahs and Dr. Phils and years of self-analysis, one that's actually backwards, one that says "I" deserve to not be bothered, "I" deserve to be free of other's problems and "I" deserve to be happy at the cost of losing someone else that might be assigned to me? Have we taken this too far? Do we live in a world where it's every man for himself? Isn't putting someone elses needs first the ultimate sacrifice? Would doing that make me a martyr? Or isn't that the definition of a christian?

Just a thought. Sometimes it seems as if my life is filled with such useless routine that I'm truly missing something important.

Something simple.

Stay awhile

I wrote this Thursday night about my Grandmother. She recently broke her hip and is in the hospital. She is 87. I've been sitting with her some, feeding her and holding her hand. She's so frail. She's always been so strong and independent. Her husband, Elsie, died of a massive heart attack when he was 42. She never remarried because she said simply, she never found anyone else who could fill his shoes. She raised six children and endured the heartbreaking loss of her youngest son ten years ago. She's a breast cancer survivor. A heart disease survivor.

Strong willed and oh, so opinionated...sometimes she seems a bit calloused because it's hard to see her soft side buried underneath all her grit and determination. But it's there...I love you, Grandma.

Here's to strong, surviving, independent women.

Matriarch

Beside your sterile bed, I pull up an uncomfortable, green chair.
Not a lush green, not a green that screams of vibrant life and birth,
but a sad excuse for a green.
Tell Crayola that hospital green should be it's official name,
washed out and devoid of it's greeness.
You color is gone, too.
Your hand rests limply in mine,
and how is it that your skin, once as taut as a trampoline,
stretched from spring to spring, has multiplied?
There's too much of it now.
It gathers in folds around your knuckles and on the top
of your hand. A forked royal, purple vein runs
the length of it, from the wrist to somewhere between
your middle and ring finger.
It fades away there.
Your rings are gone from those fingers.
Your silver wedding band and the other one...
the one with six, colorful birthstones all in a row
for each of your children.
I want to find them and put them back where
they belong, dress you up and curl your thinning, hair.
Fill out your cheek bones with the coral you love.
Stay awhile longer, Grandma.
You haven't told me all of your stories and
I haven't made the time to listen to them.
I promise to pay attention and fill in the blanks
with colorful details and vibrant greens.
Stay awhile longer.

43

Yesterday was my birthday. As I get older, the best birthdays are quiet ones spent with my family. I have a lot to be greatful for. A wonderful husband, three amazing children, two beautiful grandkids. A quirky little house that I love and loyal friends. My daughters wrote me poems for my birthday. Here they are. The first one is from my oldest daughter.

You have always been there for me when I needed you.
There were times when I didn't know what to do.
Even though you and me are growing older,
I will still cry on your shoulder.

I'm writing this poem because you mean so much to me.
I love you as much as a sailor loves the sea.
No matter what you do;
I will always love you

Even though you are a little quirky;
And usually, you're not that perky,
You are still really cool;
But only if you remember to sign me up for driving school!

I will always love you no matter what
And I"ll always be there for you if you're in a rut.
Well, I'm running out of things to say,
Oh yeah, Happy birthday!
Love,
Stevey

And here's the second one, by my youngest daughter:

Caring, loving mother.
Melinda
Adoring, loyal spouse,
Melinda
Personable, funny best friend,
Melinda
You mean so much to everyone.

Love, your favorite daughter
Sara

You can definitely see the differences in their personalities. Stevey wrote hers two days before, put some thought into it and also a friendly reminder to sign her up for driving school. I particularly love the line "like a sailor loves the sea". Clever. Her last name is Sailors. Not to be outdone, Sara wrote hers quickly on the morning of my birthday and signed it the way she signs everything she gives me...love, your favorite daughter. Nice to know she sees me as "personable"...? Good girls, both of them.

My husband gave me a beautiful, black sleek wine cellar with five bottles of different wines. The sweet man really knows my heart.

All in all, a wonderful birthday. We stayed in and had chinese food delivered from our favorite place, Lucky Palace. Forty-three feels good. I do have about fifteen or twenty pounds I'm trying to lose before summer. And I'm still struggling to write and publish this year. There's a lot of good ideas churning around up there, as usual, but getting them down on paper is another thing entirely. I'm hoping my counselor can help me get to the root of my procastination and angst.

She's doing a lot of talking about boundries.

What are those?

43...almost fifty, geez. Know what I mean, D?

New life revolution

Wow.

What a year.

Lots of love, lots of drama, lots of soul-searching. I haven't posted in awhile because my family has been going through some crisis. I say my family, specifically I mean my son and his wife. It hasn't been pretty. But the good news is that I'm done.

Done in a good way. Done enabling and being the middleman for a grown man and his grown wife. Tomorrow, I'm going to call a much recommended counselor and make an appointment. It's time to shed my baggage, my co-dependent tendencies, much guilt and much anger. It's time to make some goals and see them through.

I have things I want to accomplish. Writing, for one. I want to be published in something other than a college literary journal. I have new, creative avenues I want to explore and many places to visit. I have daughters who are with me for only a few more years before they make their way out into the world. They need me to be on top of my game and I need me to be on top of my game. I need to see them, who they are. I've spent way too many years getting by, coping and missing out on the joy of life. Way too many years not believing in myself. Way too many years taking care of everyone except myself.

Time for a change.

It's time for a new life revolution.