Tag: legacy writing

Legacy Writing 365:233

Happy birthday, Greg! If you were here right now, we’d put a birthday candle in your dog-gnawed roll.

Do you remember your very first visit to The Compound? It was in November 2005, when Borders set up a benefit signing for us at Meteor to raise money to send to NOLA post-Katrina. You had a couple of Scotty books to sign (and that weekend, Tim and I proofread the galleys of Mardi Gras Mambo for you, I think), at least two Chanse books, and others including Midnight Thirsts and Shadows of the Night. We were signing at least two TJB novels as well as The Deal and the newly released Three Fortunes in One Cookie (RIP, little takeout cover).

I’m not sure that we raised a significant amount of money, but your visit and all the other good things it led to over the years bring to mind “it’s an ill wind that blows no good.” Lots of visits between New Orleans and Houston, good times in Manhattan, book signings, connections for us all to new writers who’ve filled our anthologies and become our friends–I won’t thank the hurricane, but those things are reassurance that we can rise above and move past adversity.

And so–onward, to celebrations like birthdays and more books!

Legacy Writing 365:232

Saturday night, Lila informed me that I am old. She’s right. I’ve earned every gray hair that I ask Tim to color dark brown, every wrinkle I refuse to see in the mirror when I brush my teeth, and every anniversary of my thirty-fifth birthday. But inside me, there’s still a girl for whom summer means:


Being outside all day with friends like Daffy (Daphne the cat).


A pool in the back yard with a hose swung over a pine tree to keep the water level up and provide a little extra splash.


A sensible bedtime–freshly bathed with teeth brushed–and after hours of untroubled sleep, I could wake to another day of no bills to pay, car issues to think about, meals to cook, and that nagging feeling that I’m not the best person I can be.

Enjoy it, Lila!

Lila watching The Lion King.

Legacy Writing 365:231

August 18 is Tom’s parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary. They put together the most wonderful book of photos and their written memories of their first meetings, their courtship, and their wedding–a true gift of legacy writing for all their children and grandchildren to cherish. I snagged a couple of photos to share here.


Mary and Jerry on their wedding day.


There are so many good photos that show how gorgeous her dress was, and she and her mother together created it on this old Singer machine. Just seeing this picture conjures up the sound of my mother’s Singer machine as she made curtains, kids’ clothes, and Barbie fashion. And I’m sure Mary and Mother did all that sewing without nearly the amount of cussing that happens in the room with me and my Brother machine!

Happy anniversary, Mary and Jerry!

Legacy Writing 365:230

It’s hard to believe Amy and Richard’s son Jonathan is ten years old today. I remember when Tom and I went to meet him as a newborn in the hospital. This photo was taken at their house when Jonathan was less than a month old. Happy birthday, Jonathan!

We don’t get to see them much, but that’s understandable. Even though we live only about twenty miles apart, they are busy with the millions of things raising four boys entails. I know that two of the qualities that make Amy such a great friend–her ability to listen, to really hear what someone is saying, and her knack for building people up, for recognizing and verbalizing their best qualities–make her a great mother. She’s doing exactly what she should be doing, and I admire her and Richard for the enthusiasm and thought they put into their family.

You may not be able to see it in this not-so-great photo, but on the wall behind Amy and Richard is a picture of their oldest son Bryce with Rex. They were the family that brought Rex through his earliest years before he came to The Compound to be Tim’s best friend.

Legacy Writing 365:229


And you live life with your arms reached out.
Eye to eye when speaking.
Enter rooms with great joy shouts,
happy to be meeting.
And bright,
bright,
bright, bright as yellow,
warm as yellow.

And I do not want to be a rose.
I do not wish to be pale pink,
but flower scarlet, flower gold.

And have no thorns to distance me,
but be bright,
bright,
bright, bright as yellow,
warm as yellow.


Even if I’m shouting, even if I’m shouting here inside.
Even if I’m shouting, do you see that I’m wanting,
that I want to be so so
bright,
bright,
bright, bright as yellow,
warm as yellow.

 

A very happy birthday today to Camden–a great son, brother, nephew, cousin, and grandson. (And extra special to me, because he loves the Beatles.) You’re a good man, Charlie Brown!

Granma with Tyler, Rome, Evan, Morgan, and Camden.
The whole Kid Crew at Granma’s house: Cassidy, Tyler
Amelia, Rome, Morgan, Evan, Camden

Lyrics: “Bright As Yellow” by The Innocence Mission. Thanks Sarah, Gina, Dalyn, and Debby for letting me dip into your photos. And in the photo I took of Camden crying, his mama is picking him up, not shaking him!

Legacy Writing 365:228

Twenty-two was a hard year. There’s a reason why they call those years the “turbulent twenties.” We’re no longer teens, and we’re not quite adults. If we’ve gone to college, we’ve been able to put off a lot of the experiences and decisions that come with adult life. But even those people who get jobs and start mimicking “grown-up” behaviors right out of high school may start to hit snags in their twenties.

There’s also a reason they call it the “me decade.” We’re making choices, figuring out who we want to be. Sometimes they’re bad choices. Sometimes we behave like people we wouldn’t even want to be friends with, much less be. It’s all part of learning how to navigate in the world. We’re supposed to focus on ourselves, make mistakes, learn, and shape ourselves into people we can stand to see in the mirror for the rest of our lives.

When I was twenty-two, I began to see that I’d made a lot of decisions that propelled me in a certain direction, and it wasn’t necessarily the direction I wanted to go. For several years, I’d behaved with the maturity of someone much older in an effort to meet expectations or please others–often not in my own best interests. It seemed like a good idea, but I don’t think there are shortcuts to maturity.

Sometimes we’re forced into growing up fast–the death of a parent, a pregnancy, a bankruptcy, and sometimes we embrace growing up because we want certain things–a spouse, a child, approval, love, money–but there are still some developmental steps we shouldn’t jump over.

When I was twenty-two, I was fortunate to have good people in my life who wanted the best for me. But sometimes they thought it was best to protect me. Sometimes they had their own agendas for my life. That can limit a person’s growth; some of it is even destructive. Nobody gets through this life unscathed–a person can have a lot of buffers, including money, success, and acclaim, but there’s never been a real buffer for growing pains. They come from inside us.

When I was twenty-two, I felt trapped by some of my choices. I took missteps and delayed things I should have dealt with. A lot of my behavior was self-defeating. Some of my choices had consequences that would last long beyond twenty-two. I got through it, occasionally with constructive assistance from people who wanted me to be okay, to be strong, and to succeed.

There’s a phrase that’s become popular, though I first heard it in, of all places, wedding vows on a daytime drama, when a bride made a promise to always give her beloved a “safe place to fall.” We can’t and shouldn’t try to run other people’s lives, make decisions for them, or shame them into doing what we think is best, not even under the guise of protecting them. If we are truly to love, mentor, and support them, sometimes the best thing we can offer is a safe place to fall.

Then when they get up and try again, we let them stumble. And walk. And run. And fly.

Legacy Writing 365:227

Speaking of high school–we were, right?–I was looking at this photo of my senior class:

and I was kind of proud that I could still name 48 of the 60 people pictured, since I can’t remember the names of most of my neighbors. I know our graduating class had more than 60 people, so I got out my yearbook. That didn’t help, because there are 67 senior portraits and three people listed as not having a photo, which brought the total to 70–and I know we didn’t have that many (it was a small graduating class). Then it occurred to me to wonder: With all these memory albums,

several yearbooks, binders full of photos, booklets, and programs for band contests and concerts, plays, and proms, why do I not have a program for my own graduation? And since I have my mother’s photos and folders full of various family documents, why didn’t she? After all, she photographed practically every hour of that day. It seemed weird that one item was missing.

As I stood in the middle of my house, perplexed, I heard my mother’s voice in my head say, “Check your diploma.”

So I dug that thing out, and sure enough–dammit, she’s right again–tucked behind my diploma, not only did I find my graduation program, but also the bill from when my mother and I were checked out of the hospital four days after my birth. You’ll be relieved to know that it was paid in full–all $7.00. Bless the U.S. Army.

By the way, the program didn’t really clear things up. One person is listed who didn’t graduate (hi–you know who you are, and I still remember the details, and it still sucks) and one person isn’t listed who did graduate (hi–you got in touch with me a few years ago–thanks–and how are you now?). Then there’s someone in the group shot who isn’t in the yearbook, and there are names on the program that I don’t remember and have no photos to match. THIS is why historians have such a bitch of a time compiling accurate records.

But at least it’s on the record that I was worth SEVEN DOLLARS at birth. I wonder how much I’ve depreciated.

ETA in 2022: That program and the bill were STILL tucked behind the diploma. I’d totally forgotten all this. I moved them to one of my photo album/scrapbooks.

Legacy Writing 365:226

This is one of my favorite photos, and if I’d had a brain in my head, I’d have used it back during Mardi Gras season.

I don’t know who took the photo, but that’s my brother David pulling his grandson David (ake Dave) in the wagon. I may not have the details right, but I believe this is in the small town near my brother’s home in the High Desert. ETA: Nope, was in Salt Lake City.

I don’t know how large their parade was, but I’m sure it had all the high spirits and enthusiasm of any Mardi Gras celebration with only a tiny percent of the public intoxication and probably none of the nudity. There’s still snow on the ground, after all!

I guess kids love parades, and I must have seen parades when I was a youngster, but I don’t remember a single one until the homecoming parades of junior high and high school. I feel abashed because I honestly don’t remember if we had homecoming parades in college. I was probably too busy being studious to bother with all that frivolity. Are you buying that? Yeah, my parents didn’t, either.

Anyway, I did my share of parade marching in high school. Among those photos, this is a favorite–not of me, though I am back there making sure the Honor Guard is ready–but of a few of the majorettes at parade rest. I’m sure this scene has played out a million times through decades of high school bands all over the country.

Legacy Writing 365:225

August 12 is the birthday of Mark G. Harris, who not only did the first Runway Monday with Tim and me, but was also a contributor to Fool For Love and once endured a hurricane and its aftermath with the residents and dogs of The Compound and RubinSmo Manor.

We venture out to see the damage, and Lindsey bites Mark for practice in case it’s the Zombie Apocalypse.

Monday is the birthday of Lynne’s late sister, our friend Liz. It’s always really hard for me to call her that, because when she was young, she got the nickname “Toota.” That and “Toota Bob” are all I ever called her, even when everyone else started calling her Liz.

I like dipping into Lynne’s old family photos because they remind me that even though our childhoods were in two different worlds and many miles apart, certain iconic scenes are repeated. Tom’s family photos are the same. Here are a few featuring my big-sister-by-choice.


Liz, Lynne, and their older siblings Amanda and Chap. Good looking kids!

I love this photo because I, too, had an older sister who wanted to be a cowboy and got a holster and guns one Christmas, like Liz who’s shooting the photographer. It looks like Lynne might be the one telling her who to shoot–always so bossy! Then in the middle is pretty Amanda, who’s reached that part of the teen years when you realize there might be memories you want to hold on to. I, too, had a scrapbook, but it was a hobby that had all but died by my adolescence (historians place the blame on photo albums) until it exploded into an industry again in the 1990s, this time for adult hobbyists. It’s still going strong.


All grown up now, and Liz looks distressed that I’m flinging myself at this dolphin at Six Flags.


Here, Jess is (barely) being held by his great-aunt Lil at the bar in Lynne’s parents’ kitchen with me, Liz, and Craig. I can’t remember having all that hair.


Aunt Toota with Jess. She endured a lot of health problems and was one of the most stoic people I ever knew. But feeling bad could make her moody and sometimes caused her to keep strangers and even people she loved at arm’s length. However, kids were always drawn to her because she had a way of making you feel safe, like everything was going to be okay. I know this because I was one of the first kids whose silly butt she had to haul all over the place and look out for. I miss her, and I know her family misses her, too.

Legacy Writing 365:224

August 11 is the birthday of our friend Marika. If you enjoy the Project Runway doll posts, you have Marika to thank. The concept was hers back in 2008. If you hate the Project Runway doll posts, blame me. I’m the one who keeps doing them as a creative outlet.

Marika loves mules. So…

August 11 is also the birthday of Lynne’s late husband, our friend Craig. Since in my lawn chair post, I used a photo from the time we hunkered down at Green Acres during Hurricane Rita–and by “we,” I mean that Lynne, Craig, Greta, and Sparky hosted Tom, Tim, Mother, me, dogs River, Margot, and Guinness, and Lazlo the Cat–I figured I’d post a couple of more from that time in Craig’s honor.

Other than cooking, eating, talking, and staring at the sky, here’s how we passed the time.


Craig and Lynne.


Tim and me.

We lost power for a day or so when the hurricane passed through, and we were so engrossed in a card game one day noonish that we didn’t even realize the power was back. We love our cards.

We still use all Craig’s favorite expressions when we play cards together. It keeps his memory close and makes us laugh. And I believe Lynne still has the special towel she made for him when he turned fifty: the Old Fart Crying Towel. That ended up being awarded to anyone who whined about an unlucky hand at progressive rummy.