Basically Betty

Trouble in Tennessee

As Mom was dying, we talked about our usual varied topics of conversation and then some. 

She was always interested in my long term plans and I was able to tell her more specifically than usual about my goals, hopes and dreams.  We covered all manner of things; the garden I hope to plant when I have a patch of Earth to call my own, recipes I hope to perfect, places I hope to eventually call home.  Mom never traveled much and I travel a lot so we had fun with me setting the scene and trying my best to make a place she’d never been seem real to her. 

We talked about the travel I knew I had booked for the rest of 2008 and through 2009 and she loved the fact that this year, the good Lord willing, I’ll go to South Africa for the first time, to the north of England and back to my beloved Italy several more times. 

While we spent time together all through the fall, Mom knew I was working on a presentation for an educational conference that was in Phoenix in November, she knew I was heading to Madrid to teach in the largest Pilates studio in the world (15,000 square feet) in early December and she knew I was supposed to go to St. Pete for Christmas but, and hopefully, if she was still alive, that I would be keeping up my every other week vigil and spending the holidays with her in North Carolina. 

In early December, a good 5 weeks after she died, I booked 10 days of work in Signal Mountain, Tennessee.   I’m on the plane on the way back to Seattle right now and I must admit, it’s weird.

A couple times these past 10 days in Tennessee, I reached for the phone to call Mom.  I’ve gotten good at being in Seattle and not doing that but when I travel, I’m still used to calling her when I’m waiting at the boarding gate or waiting at baggage claim. 

As my work ended at 1 pm today, I experienced a strong urge to call Mom. 

She didn’t know about the Signal Mountain work and I felt really strongly at the end of my day the urge to call her and tell her all about the similarities between Chattanooga and Pisgah Forest, between the Tennessee Valley and the Ohio Valley, and about all the wonderful people and one icky one that I met while there. 

In a way, I feel like things are getting out of control, like too much of my life is happening without her. 

She didn’t know about the Signal Mountain work and she didn’t know about the new house I’m moving into Friday and she didn’t know about the article that featured my work in the Chattanooga paper and she doesn’t know that her dear friend Elaine McCoy who lives in Chattanooga read it and called Pooge to get my number and she doesn’t know that I called Elaine we had a lovely, long and rambling talk as if the 20 years between then and the last time I saw her seemed like 20 seconds, and she doesn’t know that I’ll be going back to Virginia and Tennessee to work again in July. 

I really hate it that Mom doesn’t know those things.

When I think about people who found their passion long after their parents or their loved ones passed away, and they never had the joy of sharing their success and happiness with them, I realize that I’m lucky that Mom lived to see me find my way.  She generally knows what I’m doing and she generally knows that I’m happy and she generally knows that there’s no stopping me but I really really wanted to call her from the tiny airport in Chattanooga and I can’t and it’s weird and I feel like too much is happening without her. 

Love and Prayers From Here to There.

My sister Joann had a birthday on the 16^th.  Her husband Bill had one the day before hers, on the 15^th.  On Bill’s Birthday their well pump broke and they spent the day trying to get the help they needed to get it fixed.  On Joann’s Birthday, she drove down to Florida where she’s apparently on a tour with more stops than a politician on the campaign trail.   Happy Birthday you guys!

When Joann and I were kids, birthdays were never a huge event in our family but they were definitely more structured and celebratory than having to spend the day messing with the well pump or driving 12 hours of interstate.

When Joann had her first child on Mom’s Birthday, August 11^th, our family definitely exploited the rare and beautiful quality of Mom being able to share her special day with her beloved grandson.  Then, a few years later when Joann had her daughter on the same day, we had 3, count ‘em three, births to celebrate on that single day and there was just no denying that a major bash was in order and every summer, I’d try to go home for what was referred to simply as “Birthdays.” 

When Joann’s kids, James and Veronica, were little, Mom was featured equally with the kids on their special day but over time, a shift occurred. 

As the kids grew up and developed friendships outside the family, the intensity of the celebration for them within the family was diminished because their friends had parties for them and the big family celebration was no longer their only opportunity for gifts, togetherness, hilarity and calamity.  To fill the gap, more focus fell upon Mom and the older she got and the more, well, interesting she became, the more elaborate her August 11^th celebrations. 

Mom always had a strong church family surrounding her and they always pulled out all the stops and had big cakes and big parties for her, matching her big personality and her big hats. 

Going back to the 1960s and 1970s, Mom’s father was still living and Popa would take us all out to his favorite restaurant, Aunt Hattie’s, for our family celebrations.  We spent many a birthday, anniversary, good report card (those were for Pooge, not me) celebratory meals there.  Mom loved Aunt Hatties. 

And it’s still there, right off the tarmac of Albert Whitted Airport in downtown St. Pete only it’s not a restaurant anymore, it’s part of the college campus that’s taken over the south end of downtown but the building still says “Aunt Hattie’s” on it and the parking lot is the same.  I like seeing that.

I’d like it better if Bruce Boore’s family still ran it and we could still go there and I could still get a toy out of the treasure chest after cleaning my plate and we’d all saunter to the car, the big family-sized car Mom always drove, afterward for the short drive home.  But no.  We’ve got the building with the name and that’s all we’ve got and that will have to do.

I think my sister is enjoying her mid-fifties, with Mom gone and Joann finally able to make her own to-do lists without the needs of an aging parent guiding the day, it’s going to be fun to see what she does, how she goes, who and what she’ll find time for. 

With Bill enjoying his new (everything old is new again) job as a Sheriff’s Deputy, he’s working 3 – 4 days a week and loving the purpose of it, making new friendships and serving his new community.  It seems they’re both set and that definitely made Mom really happy.

No matter how old we get, we’re still somebody’s kid and no matter how old our parents get, they’re still our authority figures, leaders and counselors.  The years, as they fly by, don’t seem to change the essence of our interactions.  Joann, even in her mid-50s, was still Mom’s little girl and Mom, in her mid-80s, was still our protector, arbitrator, boss lady. 

I’m somewhere in the mix but not traditionally placed. 

Mom always told me that she tried to guide me when I was younger, she really did, but she gave up because I was unguidable, unmanageable, I’m sure incorrigible and often a huge pain in the neck.  Fortunately, I never got into serious trouble but day in and day out, there was never a dull moment and for a long time, until Joann was in her pre-teens, she was just as much of a stinker as I was.  I swear.

And if the three of us girls ever got stuck, it was never long before Daddy came home and solved the problem.

I recall telling this story recently so if I’ve already written about it, I apologize.  The chance that I’m repeating myself is never reason to not repeat myself so here I go, potentially, again. 

And, just so you know, this has nothing to do with birthdays.

Pooge was probably in junior high and I was probably in 5^th or 6^th grade when I saw a fruit rat laying on one of the branches of our big Ponderosa Lemon tree in the backyard and it wasn’t moving but it was definitely still alive.  I got Pooge and together, we watched it to see what it was going to do.  It wasn’t long until Pooge called for Mom and Mom came out to the backyard and the 3 of us cooed, tapped, waved our arms, stomped the ground and generally made fools of ourselves trying to get the thing to move. 

Our revulsion at its very existence turned to compassion when we thought it might be injured, ill or somehow frozen in time and space. 

And there we stood in the backyard, 3 smart human beings, transfixed by a rat. 

But everything changed when Daddy came home. 

We heard his big truck rumble around the corner and pull into the driveway.  Just like every other day, Daddy came through the open garage door and into the dining room.  When he realized we were all out back, he came out and we told him what was going on, or rather what wasn’t going on. 

Without uttering a single word, he went back to his truck then returned to the back yard with a shovel.  He walked over to the Ponderosa Lemon tree, shovel in hand, he grabbed the leaf end of the branch that the rat was laying over and he pulled the branch down then he let it go with a whap and that whap was sufficient to send the rat falling almost lifelessly onto the grass and then Daddy, with shovel poised, brought the hammer down, so to speak, and the rat who’d held us, 3 smart human beings, transfixed for longer than I care to recall, was slaughtered, silently and swiftly by our super efficient Father. 

Daddy looked at all of us like we were nuts, he hosed off the shovel, he trashed the rat and then he got in the shower and when he got out of the shower he cooked us dinner and we didn’t speak of the rat again. 

We did, however, make a silent pact that we would never again lead to destruction another creature of nature, bearing the responsibility for bringing such innocence under the swift and merciless sword of our Father, who art in heaven, rat slayer be thy name. 

I honored that pact for a good number of years but, frankly and at the risk of being targeted by PETA (it’s only a matter of time) I have severely injured more than one dog who was trying to eat me and I have, under extreme duress and in retribution for a dog who couldn’t do it herself, thrown a cat into Tampa Bay and I’m pretty sure it couldn’t swim.  Daddy lives in me and it feels good. 

Happy Birthday Pooge  & Bill!

Love and Prayers From Here to There.

If Mom weren't already dead, this week's trade of Rocco to Boston would surely have killed her.  Trust me when I say that it's a very good thing she is not here to see this. 

Here's what she'd say.

She'd acknowledge the obvious by saying that he will be closer to home and he'll be able to spend more time with his family, especially his little brother.   

And then she'd put her lips into the position of a perfect horizontal line and she'd stare straight ahead.  This was her look that telegraphed "I do not want to live in this world and I do not want to talk about why I do not want to live in this world." 

And she'd hold that look on her face for a while, long enough to come to terms with Rocco being traded and not only traded to but those dreaded Red Sox.  

And then, in a day or in a week or in a month or never, she'd get over it.  But just barely.

No.  It's good she's gone.  This would not have gone well.   

Love and prayers from here to there.