Tag: legacy writing

Legacy Writing 365:263

People who’ve met my dogs as they’ve gotten older have no idea how much they used to play as youngsters. I do have some photographic proof from their early years with us. We’d adopted Margot in the fall of 2000 after we lost Pete and Stevie in August of that year. We hadn’t planned to get another dog so quickly, but not only was I going crazy when I worked at home in a silent house, but our friend Denece sent the link to Margot on a rescue site, we went to meet her, and the rest is history.

We had to travel a lot that fall, which meant boarding for Margot, but she was a good girl and never held it against us. Then in January, Lynne told me about a friend who’d rescued a dog from a street in her neighborhood. Aimee had a Jack Russell, Bandit, who was not amused about a second dog in the house, so Lynne, knowing we were eventually going to get Margot a companion, asked if we’d take a look at this stray. We took Margot with us, and while Bandit repeatedly jumped several feet off the floor to see TWO dog invaders to her backyard through a window in the door, Margot and this dog got acquainted. Actually, I should say that Margot and this dog greeted each other like long-lost sisters, because their bond was immediate and forever from the first moment they met.

So Guinness came home with us, and in all their years together, they’ve exchanged harsh words only once, and that was when Guinness dashed across the bed and trampled Margot, who was sleeping under the covers. They played together, got in trouble together (it was two years before I could stop buying new bedding on a regular basis because of two little chewers), and Margot trained Guinness to walk on a leash, to go in and out of the crate without complaint, to sit on command for treats or on walks, and to inhale her food.

But the playing… As they’ve matured, Margot will romp only in the early mornings or just before bed, which means no one sees this side of her but us. Everyone else thinks she’s All Emo, All The Time. Guinness and Margot both still play with toys, but it’s a solitary activity now. When other dogs play, Guinness has earned the moniker “The School Marm” because she stands next to the boisterous members of the pack and barks, as if scolding them: NO MORE FUN! I believe she thinks she’s playing, but the other dogs ignore her and from us she just hears, Shut up. SHUT UP. shutupshutupshutup

Tuesday night, our world was turned upside down when Tim came home with a new dog toy for Pixie and Penny to play tug with and this happened:


It’s Margot! She darted from behind my chair to get in a standoff with Pixie! So shocking that I grabbed my camera immediately.


Pixie is all, “WTF? What am I supposed to do about this?”

Legacy Writing 365:262

Years ago, my mother repeated an urban legend about newlyweds. The husband and wife were in the kitchen putting together a meal when he asked, “Why do you always cut an end off the roast before you cook it?”

She thought for a minute and said, “I don’t know. My mother always did it.”

This prompted a call to her mother and the same question.

“I have no idea,” she said. “My mother always did it, so I did it, too.”

Of course, it was time to call Grandma, who laughed and said, “I don’t know why you do it, but a large family called for a large roast. My pan was too small for it to lay flat, so I cut the roast into two pieces.”

We cackled over that story because we knew that even if it was fabricated, there was a kernel of truth in it. There are probably countless things we do without knowing why–we’re just emulating our role models.

Of all the houses my family lived in, and all the holidays we celebrated together, there is one tradition that I still keep. For some reason, before we sit down at a full table with friends and family for any celebration, I feel compelled to take a photo of the table. Sometimes there are people in the photo; sometimes not. But I’m pretty sure there’s not a turkey that ever hit the table (or a ham that hit the floor, Guinness) that didn’t get its Kodak moment. My mother always said she wanted to “make memories” for us, but I also think that a child who’d known poverty and a newlywed who’d known hunger probably came to see a full table as a victory and something to celebrate in and of itself.


This is probably Thanksgiving in Georgia when I was seven; I’m taking my cue from there being only four plates on the table, so possibly my father was in Korea. That china is long gone–Debby knows where!–but I still have some of the crystal stemware you can see on the china cabinet (and of course, still have the china cabinet in my own dining room). The menu: turkey and cornbread dressing, peas and potatoes, gravy, sweet potatoes, corn, turnip greens, cranberry sauce, pecan pie (I am not a pie eater), and what looks like carrot cake or some kind of spice cake–which I do NOT eat and never would again after throwing up school cafeteria spice cake in first grade.


Edit: My brother David recognized the dining room in this photo as different from the one above. Same table and chairs, but not the same state and city–and I’d have been much younger in that second photo than when the top one was taken. My parents are getting ready for a Christmas party. The table is arranged so that people can move around it getting cookies and egg nog which Daddy is ladling into a cup for the picture. Beyond him is the living room with the tree and presents and the ALL IMPORTANT TV (at least to my siblings, if you recall this post). I’m fine with those cookies and fruit, but that appears to be a coconut cake, Debby’s favorite, at the far end of the table.

There it is: photographic proof that my favorite dessert in the world, chocolate cake, or at least yellow cake with chocolate frosting, is NOWHERE to be seen on two different important holidays. Nobody needs to be telling me the baby was “the favorite” anymore.

Still, the baby will continue to take photos of our repasts “just like Mother” did, because I like making memories with the people I love, too. There will be chocolate cake.

Legacy Writing 365:261

One of the things the nomadic life of an Army brat teaches is that it’s okay to make friends, but don’t get too close. After twelve to twenty-four months, you’ll be moving on, friends will be left behind, and new friends made in another town or at another Army post far away.

When we left South Carolina, my Sunday school class gave me a little silver charm–my first silver charm–a car. “So you’ll always remember to come back,” they said. I was years and years away from being able to drive a car, but I did always feel like there was a road back–even after my charm bracelets, including the car, were stolen in an apartment break-in many years later.

One of the friends I made was Lisa; she’s pictured here with her little brother, Chris.

Their dad was Clarence and their mother was Colleen. Of all the families I’ve forgotten, for some reason, I remember them very well, including plenty of private details about their lives that I’m not inclined to share publicly. Colleen loved music and loved to sing, and I believe she played piano. There was one in their home. Another thing I remember about Colleen was that she called my dad “Sarge,” a shortening of his rank that I’m not sure he liked, but he accepted it from her.

Lisa was younger than I was, and both of us were too young to write letters, so once we moved away, that was the end of our friendship. However, since Terri’s from that small town, I did see Lisa again a couple of years later when we went back to visit. At that point, a year or two age difference was like–I’m grown, and you’re still just a kid! So things were a little strained at first. I remember sitting with her on the piano bench, attempting an awkward conversation, when she finally asked me if I liked a new singer she’d heard on the radio, Karen Carpenter. INSTANT bonding over that sweet, sweet songstress, and all the strain was gone; we were friends again.

I don’t believe I ever saw any of their family again after that visit. I recently found obituaries online for Clarence and Colleen–they both died in 2005. But in my head, Lisa still looks as she does in this photo, they are still a young family, still enjoying music together–and when I think of them, it’s yesterday once more.

Legacy Writing 365:260

Today is my father’s birthday, and if I told you how old he’d be if he were alive, you’d be pretty sure he couldn’t have a 35-year-old daughter.

In this photo, he’s playing a harmonica. I remember the day well, because my sister and her then-husband Roger were visiting. Roger could really play the harmonica, and he had several, so at one time or another, all of us picked up one of them and had a go at playing. Until my father did this, I’d had no idea he knew how. His skill wasn’t in Roger’s league, but he still could play, and I remember being delighted that you can know a person all your life and still learn new things about him. This is something I still enjoy about the people I know and love–as long as the things I learn are good ones!

My Runway Monday fashion–to be posted later–is meant to be a nod to the creative talents of my forebears, including my father. For now, I’m going out into the world with my camera to celebrate his birthday. I know I was very fortunate to know him not only as a father, but as a multifaceted man with the eye and soul of an artist.

ETA: Those are stickers on the refrigerator, and by looking at the photo HUGE, I can see that they’re Snoopy stickers. The only ones I recognize are the Red Baron and Snoopy skateboarding, and I dedicate that last one to my father’s first grandson. =)

Legacy Writing 365:259

Unless Lila is visiting or I’m working on designs for Runway Monday, dolls are generally not scattered around my house. They stay packed away. However, it happened that the other night there were three Monster High dolls in the living room as Tom, Tim, and I ate our dinner while watching The Young and the Restless, which is what we usually do on weeknights. The Monster High dolls are fun because they’re posable, so while I watched the show, I was putting them in dramatic poses as if in reaction to the storylines. It was only later that Tom said, “Are they supposed to be See No Evil, Speak No Evil, Hear No Evil?” It was entirely unintentional, but that’s how they ended up. Which is kind of cool since one of the show’s major romantic pairings began unraveling a few years ago thanks to a little statuette of monkeys in those same poses.

There probably wasn’t a soap opera through the decades since I was about twelve that I didn’t watch occasionally–at least enough to know the core characters and families and the names of their towns. Some I watched for years, left, and came back to. Some I saw only a few times, most likely when friends or my sister watched them. But I’ve been a Y&R viewer since its beginning, with the exception of the years I worked before there were VCRs. That’s kind of scary since the show just celebrated its 10,000th episode.

I watched Y&R sporadically when it was brand new–I think my sister was a viewer and told me who everyone was–but I wasn’t hooked until the summer that my job was being a “companion” to Tanya. Tanya was like my kid sister, but that summer we bonded and became friends while watching the poor beautician Jill Foster become a paid companion to the alcoholic, manipulative Katherine Chancellor. The soap has been on since 1974 (in fact, its first episode shares my birthday, March 26), and that relationship still exists, though it’s gone through many transitions through the years.

Tanya with me in my parents’ kitchen. She’s pregnant with her oldest daughter in this photo.

Though Tanya and I haven’t seen each other for a long time, we do touch base occasionally. No one else could ever replace my little sister in my heart. She might have been younger than me, but she taught me many things. One of the first and best of those lessons came from her reaction to some Mean Girls who were saying bad things about her. I was furious and wanted to retaliate, but Tanya shrugged it off, refusing to give them any of her attention. She showed a maturity and grace I still try to draw from all these years later in the face of hatefulness and gossip that hurts and maligns someone I love (or is directed at me). I don’t always succeed, but I do try–maybe with a little private venting to people I trust. 😉

Tanya is also a September baby, so good birthday wishes go out to her a little late. If you ever read this, Tanya, thank you for being there during my young and restless years.

Tanya shooting me on the day I graduated from college.

Here’s looking at you, kid. You’ll always be my family.

Legacy Writing 365:258

From my earliest years, I struggled with insomnia. Even after my parents were in bed and all the lights were out, I’d get up and wander through the house. I didn’t get into things, I just made my rounds like a fretful guard dog. You worry too much and You think too much. These are things I remember hearing even before I was fully sure what they meant.

When I was a teenager, though my mother didn’t have the benefit of aisles full of self-help and metaphysical books to guide her, she gave me some advice.

“Don’t try to bore yourself to sleep. Don’t try to count sheep. Don’t think of the dullest things. Envision the most beautiful place you can. Fill it with every detail that makes it inviting. Picture yourself there being happy and delighted.” It was good advice, because at some point in the process of mentally creating such a sanctuary, I’d drift off to sleep.

Over the years, I also learned to start stories in my head: stories that caught my interest, kept me engaged. Again, without realizing it was happening, somewhere in the narrative, sleep would overtake me.

When all else fails, I’ll summon some image from the past and contemplate all the things about it that bring me happiness. This is one of those images.


Debby on the bed with Josh wearing his father’s uniform hat.

Legacy Writing 365:257

One time I went to the city where Terri lives and dropped in on her unexpectedly. We were catching each other up on everything when she asked if I was hungry and offered to make me a sandwich. When I said yes, she made me ham, cheese, lettuce, and tomato on a sandwich roll–much better than anything Subway could do. But while I was eating it, a piece of lettuce went down the wrong way and I started choking. I think that may be the only time my life has ever flashed before my eyes, and horror dawned on Terri’s face as she realized I couldn’t catch my breath and might never. She started banging on my back, and all I could think about was how I was going to endure death by sandwich, like Mama Cass.

Of course, that’s a myth. Mama Cass didn’t really die by choking on a sandwich. As you might have surmised, neither did I. I highly recommend if you have a near-death experience you try to do it with someone like Terri, because as soon as I could breathe again, we went right back to our conversation. No sense prolonging the drama.

None of these photos has anything to do with that moment in our lives, but September 13 is Terri’s birthday, so I thought I’d dig into the photo archives.


Taken during the same period of our lives as the Sandwich Incident, that Auburn Tiger on Terri’s sweatshirt is trying to kill me. It’s like she thought she was in my will or something.


She and Daniel, both wearing Auburn apparel, are obviously high-fiving each other over some football moment that reflected poorly on the Crimson Tide.


I believe I gave her this sweater that Christmas, and she looks a little bemused, probably because it doesn’t have a Tiger or anything else Auburn-related on it.


This is a photo that Terri must have given Mother of Daniel, age six, standing in front of the South Carolina hospital where Terri was born.

Even though you won’t see this for a while because you’re gallivanting around the Northeast, happy birthday, Terri! And because it’s your birthday, just for you, War Eagle. That’ll have to do for another year.

Legacy Writing 365:256

Today is my dear friend and (sometime) writing partner Jim’s birthday.


“Yay!”

Jim and I have been friends for fifteen years now.


“Huzzah.”

In all those years, I have never sung to Jim in my Tina Turner voice.


“Bummer.”

So today…


“Are you? Well, ARE YOU?”

Nope, not going to do it today, either.


“You are a beast.”

I know! I hope you have a very happy birthday, Jim. Thank you for fifteen years of making me laugh my tonsils out, sharing deep and serious conversations, and talking me down when my stress buttons get pushed by politics. You’re the greatest.


“Water? I hardly know her.”

Legacy Writing 365:255


It’s a mystery how the vivid blue and white gift of a clear sky can become the backdrop of something so inexplicably horrible that it shakes the best of humanity to its core.

Of course I remember. I remember all too often with a sadness that seeps into me. I try not to let it seep out of me. Sad things have happened, and I want to recognize and mark those things, I want to remember, but I don’t want sadness to be the all of me, the all of what I show the world. I’m right to be sad. I’m right to mourn. But I’m more than sadness and mourning.

On that day, I made sure first that the ones special to me were safe. I got to hear the news that a lot of people didn’t, a Yes, I’m here, we’re here, from Manhattan with Tim and Timmy and Michael and Jean-Marc and Jon, from Washington, D.C., with April and Nick and Trey and Tyler. We’re here. We’re okay. Phone calls and phone calls and phone calls for the woman who hates being on the phone, but the Do you know? Did you see? Are you watching? Did you hear? with family and friends all across the continent.

Eleven years, and I know probably some of my memories have lost the sharp edge of accuracy but the feelings have not dulled, only found a place where they are not all, where they can only overwhelm me in moments, and only occasionally.

And in all the madness and confusion of that day, THIS. This reminder that a tiny gift can bring a giant love.

Steven is eleven today, and that is a reason to celebrate.

Because the national events of that day are woven into our hearts, into our souls:

We mourn.

We create.

We heal.

But we don’t forget.

Ever.

Photo credits and explanations: 1. Today’s Houston sky photographed by me. 2. Photo of newborn Steven from my mother’s photos. 3. Photo of Steven now courtesy of his mother and grandmother. 4. Photo taken at the World Trade Center site in 2003 by Lynne. 5. Photo of Liberty Garden taken at the University of Southern Mississippi Gulf Coast, in Long Beach, 2004 by me. 6. Photo by me of Rolando Briseño‘s “Twin Tortilla Towers” taken at Houston’s Art Car Museum in 2009. 7. Tableau created and photographed by me on September 11, 2012. The Egyptian dog sculpture I bought in NYC on my first visit in 1997. He holds orange calcite, which helps heal grief and promotes joy and peace with others. The snow globe celebrates the Manhattan skyline as it used to be. The rose quartz, a gift from James, helps remove fear and anger and brings gentleness, forgiveness, compassion, kindness, and tolerance. The backdrop is an unfinished painting by Lindsey. 8. Photo taken at the World Trade Center site in 2003 by Lynne. 9. Photo of Manhattan from Liberty State Park taken by Tom’s parents in September 2004.


Thank you to everyone whose images help me express some of today’s feelings.