Tag: legacy writing

Legacy Writing 365:173

June 20 is our friend James’s birthday. This is one of my absolute favorite photos, though I don’t know who took it. It’s John and James standing at the gate of James’s old apartment that he lived in when I first met him.

The friendship that grew between James and me had its birth in a shared loss, and ultimately, it transcended that. Like the very best friends, the things he’s brought to my life have all enriched it. I love to hear him tell stories. We’ve shared art and movies and books and trips and more good meals than I can count. He helped me learn that not all change is bad. That sometimes things have to be cut away to allow new growth.

He’s introduced me to new people and enthusiastically welcomed my friends into his life. I could wish nothing more than that everyone could have someone like James–though he’s, like, one in a zillion. Happy belated, DP. Thank you.


Steve V watching over James as he plants a little tree.

Legacy Writing 365:172

This is our third Houston home: this time, we rented an actual three-bedroom house with enough space for us to breathe. Oddly, a few months ago when I went into the Northwest suburb where it’s located, I almost never found it. Everything has changed. Old access roads no longer exist, and new roads look so different. Even when I found the house, it didn’t look right. For one thing, that iron gate wasn’t on it when we lived there. Tom agreed that the house looks different from how he remembered it. I know the landscaping has totally changed.

The house is larger than it looks from the front, and it had a good-sized backyard that the dachshunds loved. For the first time they could be outside unleashed and run as much as they liked. There was an uncovered patio, and sometimes I set my little Mac out there and wrote.

Some things I remember about living there:

  • We didn’t have enough furniture to fill it, so we bought a twin bedroom set with a dresser and an additional dresser/hutch for the guest room. We bought a daybed for the other bedroom. My mother moved in with us for a year or so. Though she put most of her stuff in storage, we used her living room and dining room furniture. The only stuff left from all that are the twin beds and the dressers that went with those, which are now in Lila’s room in Lynne’s house at Green Acres. I do wish I still had the daybed. Lynne made a lot of furnishings for the daybed with some Ralph Lauren sheets that I loved. I still have those. We put the pillows on the window seat in our current dining room and she turned the daybed’s dust ruffle into a dining room curtain for us.
  • Either we took some of the roaches with us from the dreadful apartment or there were some already there, because we had to do battle with them the entire time we lived in the house.
  • Before Steve R died, he made arrangements for where his cats should go. That didn’t happen as it was planned, so the cats ended up living in the daybed room with a gate up so they could get out if they wanted to, but the dogs couldn’t get in to bother them. Dachshunds are burrowers, so at night they’d get under the covers with Tom and me, and the cats would wander the house, even coming into our bedroom to say hello, and the dogs never knew it.
  • Someone used a crowbar to try to break into my car, doing a ton of damage to the door. When the crowbar didn’t work, they broke one of the windows. The grand total of what they took: a pack of cigarettes. That was a pricey pack of cigarettes for my insurance company and me. They snubbed my cassettes–obviously didn’t share my taste in music. And they took all my photos and files that were being used to create a booklet for Steve’s memorial service, plus whatever was in the glove box, and spread them all over the driveway. Nothing was damaged other than the car.
  • That house was the first place large enough that we could do any real entertaining. It’s where we lived the first time our friend Amy visited us. When the dogs ran in from the back yard, Pete charged her and she jumped ON the dining room table, I think bypassing the chair completely, so he couldn’t bite her. Later, they became best friends.
  • We were living in that house when Cousin Rachel called to tell us that her mother, Aunt Drexel, had died. I vividly remember standing in the kitchen, talking to Rachel on the phone, and feeling so sad and far away. I really loved Aunt Drexel.
  • One time my mother was going to chop up a leftover pork roast in the food processor to make barbecue from it. She forgot to put the lid on, and pork went everywhere. From then on, whenever they heard the food processor, Pete and Stevie ran into the kitchen with high hopes.
  • We kept getting onto Stevie for turning the trash over. Then one night after we left to go somewhere, Tom ran back inside for something and caught Pete IN THE ACT. We’d been blaming the wrong dog.

Legacy Writing 365:171

Some photos give me all kinds of memory cues that no one else would guess. This one’s from my mother’s Kodak Instant camera (spits out Polaroid-type shots immediately), and it was taken sometime in the week before Mother’s Day back in the Late Stone Age. I know that because my then-husband is across the table from me reading our local newspaper and the ads proclaim “Mother’s Day BARGAINS.” It would be Lynne’s first Mother’s Day without her mother, who’d died in September of the year before this photo was taken.

That kitchen is as familiar to me as the one I live in now, even after so many years have passed since I was in it. The trivets, the coffeemaker, the empty ice tray on the counter (no doubt left by me, because for some reason, it was always me who had to “take up the ice,” as we called–and still call–putting the ice in glasses before a meal).

It’s after the dinner hour. Everyone else has already eaten, because my ex and Lynne are sitting in other people’s spots at the table–and no one else is there and eating. I imagine the two of them showed up later in the evening and Mother brought out the leftovers and told them to fix a plate. It’s fried chicken, by the way, along with mashed potatoes and green beans. (Those things are visible when I embiggen the photo.) They’re both drinking iced tea (you’re welcome for the ice). I don’t know where he was coming from, but Lynne was coming from her house, because the first thing I wondered about were all those flowers on the table. I’m betting Lynne brought them out of her own garden (she’s always grown amazing roses), and Mother put them in multiple vases so she could send some home with me.

As for me: I’m trying to get shots of those roses with my Canon, and no one is paying any attention to me. They’ve obviously gotten used to the way I constantly have that thing in front of my face. I’ll bet if I looked through my own photos, I’d find shots of the roses. I’m sitting in my usual spot at the table–I still have a specific place that I always sit at my own table, and if anyone else takes it, I get twitchy.

My hair makes me laugh. For many years, I had the same hairstyle: parted in the middle, hanging down straight on either side of my face, length from mid-back to waist. But I’d finally decided that I wanted bangs to be cut and feathered back. Lynne offered to do that for me. It didn’t exactly work out that way, and it seemed like forever that I had those two stupid hanks of hair that hung without any style at all on each side of my forehead. Blech.

So it’s all there: the comforting familiarity of home, my parents’ way of offering food, a newspaper, a place to relax. My way of hiding behind a camera; Lynne’s way with flowers. This is how I want people to feel in my home–like they’re home, in a place where they can relax and be themselves.

And I continue to have a complicated relationship with my hair.

Legacy Writing 365:170

It’s that special day of the year we always celebrate: Sir Paul McCartney’s birthday!

In fact, in 1988, we even got all dressed up for it and invited all our friends to a big party. [Oh ye who read here, be ye not stupid. HIRE A PROFESSIONAL PHOTOGRAPHER for an important event, no matter how tight your budget is. Scrimp on wine or something. Okay, maybe not wine. But something.]

Tom’s family, including Grandma, gathered with Tom and me to wish Sir Paul a happy birthday.

Not to be outdone, my family did the same.

Tom, Mother, and David joined me in recalling our favorite Beatles stories.

Oh, look–a shot of me with my very own Fab Four!

Joey and Jess: pretty sure they could be the next Lennon and McCartney.

Lynne was so excited that she baked and decorated not one, but TWO, birthday cakes for Sir Paul.

And Kathy L demonstrated the proper way to express Beatlemania.

My favorite photo of the day is this one, in which two miscreants were caught in the act of defacing Sir Paul’s limo. You can tell the one on the right has been in trouble before by that scrape on his face.

Family and friends still send Tom and me cards and flowers or call or email to note the occasion. Tom and I even exchange gifts.

Because some people want to fill the world with silly love songs.

Legacy Writing 365:169

One of the gratifying things about being my father’s daughter is when I get email from someone who remembers him with affection and admiration. His time as an assistant principal took place during the years when parents knew–and often demanded–that school discipline could include corporal punishment. This is one of those polarizing topics, but I can honestly say that I’ve never received an email from anyone saying, “YOUR DAD BEAT ME IN SCHOOL AND I HATED HIM.”

I don’t think anyone could say my dad beat him, though maybe someone hated him. I don’t know. It’s not like there was a constant stream of boys being sent to the office or as if paddling was the number one option of punishment. But I’m pretty sure most kids would have opted for one lick of the paddle instead of staying in detention after school, which was torment of the most boring kind.

I still have my dad’s paddles. He always made the offer that a paddle could be signed by anyone on whom it was used. Most of the signatures on both paddles belong to girls. Girls didn’t get paddled for punishment in that high school, so if they wanted to sign the paddle, he’d acquiesce by giving a female student the lightest of taps and then only with a witness present. Usually a male student’s paddling also had a witness, even if Daddy asked his office assistant to step into the hall. The doors had glass panels in them.

On the other hand, if a kid wanted to talk to my father about a problem, my father made sure that discussion took place in private and remained private. When I was talking recently to friends about “what would you do if a young person told you something you thought his or her parents should know,” my response was that I decided long ago that kids could tell me anything, but if it was something I knew would be in their best interest for a parent or a person in authority to know, I would go with them and stay with them as an advocate and intermediary on their behalf. I believe this is something I learned by example, because I know my father never betrayed a confidence. If he shared information with my mother–which I’m pretty sure most people know happens with married people–he did so knowing that she, too, was not inclined to gossip or–literally–tell tales out of school.

Neither of them ever told me anything about my fellow students, dammit. I had to get the scoop like every other teen: inaccurate gossip from other students.

I’ve blurred and covered the names on the paddles in the photo, and I shot them with a pencil to give a sense of scale. If any former student ever wants to know if your name’s there, I’ll be glad to look for it. Frankly, I wasn’t always happy to share my father with you guys–I’m selfish that way–so it’s nice to hear from you and know that you appreciated him.

Legacy Writing 365:168

Today I decided to think of a “best day,” any random day that I’d say is one of the best in my memory. Oddly, the first one that came to mind was the Alabama-Notre Dame football game in 1986. I really am not a football fanatic–trust me, I know football fanatics; I come from a family of them. But that day had all the elements to make it fun.

We drove to Legion Field in Birmingham for the game. I SWEAR I’ve told this story on my blog before, but damn if I can find it. On that hour drive, cars full of fans would pass each other and blow horns, wave, and yell. Red and white shakers rippled from windows and car antennas. White shoe polish on back windows urged, “Roll Tide!” and “Go Bama!” and “Beat the Irish!” and my very favorite, the answer to Notre Dame’s “luck of the Irish”: “FUCK LUCK!”

This is one of my very favorite photos I’ve ever taken, and it’s from that day: Tom with my roommates, sisters Rebecca and Rhonda G.


Dig Rhonda’s and Tom’s aviator shades.

I loved Notre Dame, and my heart jumped when their players ran onto the field with those gold helmets. They had beaten us in four previous match-ups, and the following year they’d beat the stuffing out of us again. But on that game day, I got to see the boys in the crimson jerseys prevail, as Bama beat the Irish 28-10.


A sweet victory for Tom and me to watch from the student section.

Legacy Writing 365:167

The reason why I know my mother was nicer than everybody else’s mother is because I have searched her photo archives–and mine–in vain for a photo of me missing my front teeth. If one exists, some sibling must have it with an eye toward using it to blackmail me should I ever become the next [Insert Famous Author Name Here].

I was looking for gap-toothed me because of a story my sister told me Thursday night about her grandkids. I didn’t ask for permission to share with the Internet, though, so I’ll just tell you my story. Debby, who I’ve previously told you made multiple attempts on my life during our childhood, knocked out my front teeth.

Yes, they were baby teeth. Yes, they were already loose. Yes, it was an accident. But whatever. It’s one more check in the “Tried to KILL ME” column.


Anyway, while searching, I grabbed this blurry photo of my third grade class. Our teacher, Mrs. Norton, had to work hard–very hard–to undo all the damage done to me by my second grade shrew teacher. That red arrow shows Mrs. Norton by the window.

At first, I didn’t think I was in this photo. Then I finally realized, Oh, yeah. There I am–that little boy on the back row.

I don’t remember one single classmate’s name. And it’s not because I’ve turned thirty-five a bunch. I didn’t even remember their names when I was a young girl writing in that memory album my mother gave me. That’s how emotionally screwed up I was–that I didn’t have a single friend in class for an entire year of school. If any of my classmates remember me, it’s only to Google my name along with key words involving that Unfortunate Incident that occurred just after school started. The Unfortunate Incident was how Mrs. Norton knew she’d inherited a big mess from a bad teacher.

Thank you, Mrs. Norton, for being patient and kind. And all y’all from third grade: That wasn’t me who did that. It was some other girl with a boy’s haircut who sat in the back of the class. Now go look at cat videos or something.

Legacy Writing 365:166

It’s amazing what the mind recalls. June 14 marks the twentieth year since our friend Steve R died. And though I’d have to put effort into remembering what I did yesterday, I vividly remember the details of that summer day.

I recently told a friend that when someone I love dies, for a while afterward, it’s as if time slows down. And though unexpected death is shattering, most of my experience with loss hasn’t been that way. In fact, it has been my honor to be present when several people left this world, and I do mean honor. Whatever one’s beliefs, there’s something quietly sacred in those moments of a last, peaceful goodbye.

They are also private moments, and though I’ve written about Steve’s death in poetry, mentioned it online, and shared some of the details with friends and those who love him, I hope I’ve never infringed on that privacy. Today I received a card written by his mother, from both his parents, and it reminded me again of their integrity, their sweetness, and their love for their son. They still miss him. They always will. I will, too.

After leaving the hospital that day, our friend Geraldine and I went to tell Geof that it was over. We picked him up from work, tried to eat something, and ended up at Geof’s apartment. I remember Geraldine whispering to me, “Whatever he wants to do, just do it.” I nodded, and that’s how I somehow ended up doing a Tarot reading for Geof at his request from the cards pictured. (Geof loved anything Egyptian, and the Egipcios Kier deck is based on Egyptian symbols, letters, and hieroglyphs.) Tarot cards are not something at which I have any actual skill, but I’ve always considered them a way for a person to self-evaluate, much like meditation, dreams, journals, even therapy. To me, it’s another tool of discovery.

Although getting out the Tarot cards was a good distraction for us all–a chance to stand back from the emotional intensity of that day–I remember Geof’s reading as being extremely difficult and complex. When I took these cards out today to get a photo, I couldn’t understand why. They seemed pretty straightforward as I flipped through them. Then I looked at the book, and I noticed how small the print is, how dense the information, and I realized that it’s those words again–they’re always adding layers and possibilities, conflicts and challenges, more questions than answers.

Honestly, I don’t know why I love words so much.

I just do.

Thinking of you, Steve, and sending boundless love your way, and all good thoughts to Geraldine, Geof, and all those who miss you still.

Legacy Writing 365:165

Since I recently shared a picture of my nephew Daniel with his bicycle, this one caught my eye as I was paging through a photo album. Josh was around four here and living on an Army post in Kentucky. I was visiting, and some things I remember that happened during that trip include:

  • One of the twins–I think Gina–injured her finger in a door, and her parents took her to the emergency room. This explains why, in photos from that morning, Sarah’s hair is an uncombed mess (the one who went to the doctor was groomed; the other was left with Aunt Becky, who didn’t think to brush her hair). Being left with Aunt Becky might also explain why Josh was on his bicycle without a shirt. Kids didn’t wear bike helmets in those days, but I could have made him get completely dressed. Sorry, buddy. At least he’s wearing shoes and a belt. He looks so blond here, and SO LITTLE on that bike. I like the contrast of badass cruiser handlebars with training wheels.
  • This may be the visit when a babysitter was brought in, and the grown-ups went to see a new movie that came out that summer called Star Wars. That movie managed to infiltrate just about every part of our lives, including our language. We loved it.
  • It was definitely where I was when the news broke that Elvis died.

Legacy Writing 365:164

I have many bins of letters and cards stored here. I know I save too much, but one time I did do a purge, and I can still remember which letters I threw out–and some of them would be useful to me now that I’m trying to set a novel during the time they were written. They’d help get me back inside the mind of a ‘tween girl of that era (the Cenozoic?).

I do have almost everything from my family after I started being able to control what I kept during moves (moves are great for purges; hell on archives), including delightful early correspondence from my nieces and perhaps occasionally a nephew (bad correspondents, those boys). I know people don’t often write real letters these days, so it tickled me when our great-niece Morgan recently sent out several to some family members that included photos.

I haven’t seen her for more than three years; she’s done serious growing up since then.

There’s no way, in this heat, I’m going to search for letters from her mother and aunt when they were the age Morgan is now. But I do have photos of them at that age–from the year that my father died, when Debby brought them and Josh to spend Thanksgiving with Mother, Daniel, and me. I gave the kids free possession of my closet, and these are the girls’ “modeling shots.” They are better at modeling than I was as their photographer. And they did know how to smize.