Dressed in red, donned with pearls, hair curled and quaffed, Dorothy received her visitors with a warm smile and a tight squeeze of each hand to her cheek followed by kisses. “Oh, darlin’! I’m so glad you came.” It was her 95th birthday celebration and family traveled from all over Texas to share their love and well wishes with Memaw.
We arrived just before the party time to relish in a few moments of Memaw’s attention. Her greeting is a soft sing-song of words with phrasing such as, “How are you?” jumping in tone up, down and up again instead of a stair-stepping which ends in a question sound. It’s that gentle Southern phrasing that makes the exchange so light (tone up), lovely (tone down) and pleasant (tone slightly up again).
Even at 42, I feel an eagerness to please my Memaw. I offer stories about the boys – funny conversations we’ve had, work they’re doing in school, observations about their personalities. I don’t really know what else to share.
There is a hidden theme behind sharing what I consider are my “success stories” (kids, husband, work); an unspoken need to apologize or prove myself. Perhaps there is lingering doubt or disappointment. Were one able to hear my subliminal messages, they would include, “See how handsome, smart or well behaved my children are? I was part of that. That was me!” And the reality is that I KNOW there is no need to feel this way. She loves me. And yet a steady flow of insecurity runs through my veins. And I know it’s there of my own creation. No one in my family – especially not Memaw – has ever passed the kind of judgment that I thrust upon myself in light of the choices I’ve made and the life I’ve lived. Somehow being in a room full of people that have known me since birth prompts me to evaluate and relive each phase of my life.
40 years ago: A cross-eyed survivor of meningitis. The apple of my parents eye with my siblings wrapped around my pinkie. They are my personal playmates and assistants. The world is mine for the taking. So far so good.
35 years ago: A kindergartener with her first taste of love. Can’t remember his last name but Joey punched me in the stomach and because of it, I knew he liked me. Early sign of poor judgment. I apparently like to boss my brother around and poke fun of the ‘shy’ one.
30 years ago: Competitive swimmer. Boy crazy. Minority Anglo chica in a Texas Valley school district earning distinguishing marks as “talks too much”. Parent teacher conferences challenge the teachers’ ability to give me enough work. First real scare at the threat of being beaten up. Home is a battle ground with brother but feel terrible when he’s ‘jumped’ in the football stadium bathroom. We move.
25 years ago: High schooler attending an ‘All American’ school with outstanding all around programs with red, white and blue school colors. Became a professional juggler: theatre, volleyball, cheerleading, beauty pageants, swimming and theatre, theatre, theatre. Still boy crazy with an eye for older ones. Biggest lies I ever told my parents. Biggest fights with my brother. First drunk. First heart break.
20 years ago: Graduated college on Saturday moved to New York on Tuesday. Exciting! Lonely. Broken heart number two. Quick learner. Found temping paid the bills and pick-up volleyball in Central Park was Saturdays’ obsession. Learned that business was more about who you know than what you know. Found several Mr. Rights at the wrong time and a few Mr. Wrongs along the way. Date rape. Really lonely. Broken heart three – just ticked me off. Soothed my soul at the theatre, art museums and opera. Established some of the best friendships, dined on some of the best cuisine and partied like it was 1999.
15 years ago: Found my second passion: American Sign Language. Focused. Worked to earn my national certifications (CI/CT) with Registry of Interpreters for the Deaf. Interpreted an off Broadway show. Another Mr. Right at the wrong time. Buried the truth along the way and started to lose myself. Met Mr. Really Wrong cleverly disguised as ‘the one’. Trapped but thought love would see me through. What an idiot!
10 years ago: Expecting, sad, lonely and afraid. Stuck in New Jersey. Leaned on friends, gathered my strength and left but not for me, for BigGEE. One day I’ll tell my son of how he saved my life. In Texas – embarrassed, depressed, overwhelmed. A mother. Then, 9/11. How would we make it through? Put one foot in front of the other and one day behind the next. Hugs. Lots and lots of lots of hugs with a bit of room to cry.
5 years ago: Re-married to a sweet high school friend. Feels just like yesterday. A second son, LilGEE. A cross-eyed apple of his parents eye with a brother wrapped around his finger – sometimes. They are my joy and my two final heart breaks.
So I visit with Memaw about kids, husband and work while my life flashes before me and she listens to every word with great interest. She then asks where my husband is wanting a hug from him too. She loves him. She loves me. Memaw loves – period. That’s just the way it is. Memaw loves. And in my heart, I apologize for anything that I have ever done or said to bring her disappointment, sadness or pain; even though I know there’s no need.
I think if we could glimpse what God’s love for each of us is like it would be like those slow, sweet, gentle exchanges with my Memaw. He would first JOY in our arrival. He then would intently listen to whatever story we chose to share. And while we visit, he would gently reach his hand into our minds to stop the internal, self depreciating dialogue.
I believe Memaw would want that too.