"Dear George, remember no man is a failure who has friends.

Thanks for the wings, Love Clarence."

I Lost it at Starbucks

After my 6th trip in one hour to the big box stores in search of a hot Christmas item for KK, I stopped at the Starbucks counter at Target on my way to the parking lot. I couldn't score the elusive game I was in search of, but a latte was

available for my consumer consumption. Instead of the normal overeducated coffee baristas that normally man the counter, two older ladies who seemed transplanted from Jersey took our orders and had plenty of wisecracks and Christmas cheer to spare.

I must have looked miserable as I moved to the pickup counter to grab my white chocolate mocha, Tina looked at me and said "Are you okay hon?" She stepped out from behind the counter and gave me a hug and without even knowing what was bothering me gave me a squeeze and said "you know everything is going to be okay." I quickly gulped in a deep breath of hair, grabbed my to go cup and blindly ran out of Target. The kindness of a stranger was again overwhelming and I lost all composure - everything I had been trying to hold in for the past week came pouring out.

I called the manager later in the day - I'm sure he was rushed and harried - but I had to impress on him how much it meant to me that at 9:00am the customer service at my favorite store was over the top - they probably think that lady in the red sweater is whacked - but I don't care. I got weepy again trying to stress how much it meant to me. His impatience finally broke and he said he would make sure he would pass on my sincere thanks. I hope he did - the wisecracker from Jersey had the biggest heart and the warmest hug.

I Want to Be a "Rock Star" Mom

I always find comfort when I hear movie stars, professional athletes, physicians and others in the public eye (who have demanding jobs and schedules) say that their most important job is that of being a parent. Julia Roberts (she's my age : 0 ) went on Oprah recently to tout the most important role of her career, motherhood. I guess it makes me think - wow, a person living a privileged life - wants exactly what I do - to be the best mom or dad. If they accomplish that all these other accolades fade away. I realize that maybe I'm not missing out on anything after all.

A few months ago, I dropped my daughter off at school on a Monday morning. She skipped off to the front door wearing a zippy white, brown and plaid skirt, her Mary Janes and an Old Navy t-shirt that said "My Mom is Rock Star". I felt like a rock star that day... the night before I had prepared her snacks, filled out permissions slips and water bottles, ironed her clothes and laid out her lunch money, library books & ballet bag for the entire week. We arrived at school on time and I felt good about myself. We had our act together and were both prepared for another week in the world.

Four hours later, I was eating lunch at my desk and got a phone call from the school nurse. My daughter had thrown up in the school cafeteria! Did she have any other symptoms? Could it be strep? Has anyone else in her class been sick or gone home early? My mind raced to calling the pediatrician's office on my speed dial, getting someone to cover me at work for the rest of the day and thinking of what would I do about the next day - she couldn't be at school in a 24 hour period after getting sick.

I drove to her school quite dejected thinking of the shirt she was wearing and how what a joke it was - a mockery now because I was feeling quite unlike a "rock star" super mom at the moment. When I arrived she confessed that she had eaten ranch dressing on a chocolate chip cookie. Maybe it's a stomach bug and the combination she had eaten was too much to take I thought, but I still worried about the rest of our week and how it would unfold. I couldn't bear to look at the sassy shirt any longer.

We went home and changed out of school and work clothes and she was imprisoned on the couch for the rest of what would be a low-key afternoon. I had to talk myself out of beating myself up from worrying about my boss and job, and slowly began to realize that it's okay to come out of overdrive and just simply be mom for the afternoon.

As a parent, I worry everyday over parenting her - that I don't get to spend enough time with her - that I don't read to her every night, that she is living in a single parent home, that she eats a good breakfast and enough fruit and vegetables each day, what would happen to her if I died early, not having $$ to have decent life insurance to leave behind if something did happen to me, making sure she goes to college, not having a father figure in her daily life, that she lives a good, moral life with me as a role model, that I don't have enough $$ in my bank account for an emergency fund, that if she could she would be a night owl, that if I accept a movie invite from a friend that I feel guilty spending time away from her. Sometimes all that alone is so overwhelming to me.

So to hold it together I try to keep everything moving forward in one direction at a safe, speed. Try to keep us on a routine so our family life runs smooth and we don't notice the person missing from the picture. We had to paint a new photo of what our family looks like and we are both finally getting used to it.

Who doesn't want to be a "rock star" mom that has fun with their child and makes super parenting decisions. I do. I want to be on top of everything in her life, give her piano and violin lessons, get her a math tutor, be involved in her community and set a good example at all times and want the correct words to come out of my mouth in teaching moments. But in a total "rock star" mom fantasy world, I would love to fly her to Chicago and treat her to lunch at the American Girl Place and spend the afternoon looking at the dinosaurs at the The Field Museum. Or take her to Serendipity's in NYC so she can have a Frrrozen Hot Chocolate and jump on the piano at FAO Schwarz. Or watch her swim with a dolphin on a Disney cruise.

Like any parent, I naturally want to give my daughter the world. But naturally all she needs is a mom who is loving, patient, and kind (especially after hearing chocolate chip cookies dipped in ranch type confessions). It's intrinsic that we know this, but good to remind ourselves that your child doesn't care if you are a rock star or a person of privilege to be able to provide the basics - love, boundaries and a happy home.

The Kindness of Strangers

There have been many instances in my journey where I have had to rely on the kindness of strangers. In all of the instances, as the receiver of these acts of kindness, the acts directed towards me always touches me to my very soul.

In the months that followed our separation, my car started a rapid decline in health. The Jeep Grand Cherokee, which had once been a status symbol of our financial union, had over 270,000 miles on it. It had served me well. The SUV was medium sized not monster sized and I loved to drive it.

At 270,000 it started having some minor aches and pains and in a car like this they were not always the most inexpensive fixes. I found a local dealership that would help me. The car and I would limp in, I would drive it through through the service bay and get out and hand my keys to the assistant service manager. Over the months that ensued I found myself driving the familiar route once or twice a month and a few times, AAA would be summoned for transport.

I'm not sure how the service manager found out, but somehow he knew I was going through some hard times. Once I arrived at the end of the day to pick up my Jeep, walked up to the window to collect my bill and all the service fees had been waived and I had only been charged for the parts. Knowing the bill was wrong, I asked for the service manager. He quickly appeared inquired if everything was alright with my car and I told him my concern. He laid a hand on my shoulder and told me that "Yes, the bill is absolutely correct." Trying to hold back tears to save us both the embarrassment, I could barely mouth my "Thank you so much" out to him before blindly walking to my car. This happened more than once.

Once one of the mechanics said in passing, the black Jeep is back again? And I saw the Service Manager cut his eyes at him and I'm sure that later he got a good dressing down. How did this service manager get to be me and my Jeep's personal guardian angel?

One morning with my 4-year-old belted into her car seat, I pulled into the familiar bay and I saw him give a nod to the mechanics and they surrounded my car. I hadn't even turned off my engine yet. Two young men had opened my car doors, taken my keys, filled out my service report, gently unbuckled my daughter, removed her car seat and back pack and upon seeing my eyes water with grateful tears they quickly shuttled me and my belongings to the front of the Courtesy Car line ahead of many those waiting. It was like I had my own personal pit crew everytime I arrived. I could almost hear the paging system blaring "Woman about to cry in service bay - take care of her fast!!" If I wasn't so desperate at the time, it would have almost been comical.

It meant so much to me at the time, because I did need the extra help, but I didn't understand why they were helping me and not the next person. Needless to say, thanks to the continual breakdown of my car, the men in the service department didn't stay strangers for long. However, their kindness touched and humbled me in a way I can't describe.

It doesn't end there - I have had gift cards appear mysteriously in my mailbox, help with odds and ends and a group of nameless friends at church knitted me a prayer shawl. My family supports me in a never ending fashion. I have been stripped and humbled in ways that I didn't know possible; maybe this is the lesson in all this for me. I once had been hopeless and I found my way out. Through the help of my family and the kindness of strangers, my faith and hope have been miraculously restored.

Continuance

Stuck in limbo
Caught in between
So much legalese
I don't know what it means.

My BP is rising
Anger is spiking
Hopes are dashed
Emotions splashed

I'm so disheartened
Feels like no one cares about my plight
my futile disgusting one woman fight

So much of my life feels at stake
Lady Justice is not only blind
but on a prolonged coffee break.

My Grandmother's Quilt

I automatically reach for my quilt every morning when I wake up. To ward off the coolness of the morning I cover my shoulders for a few more minutes. The quilt gives me physical and emotional comfort that no other covering can. As I feel its softness and the worn pieces of material that hold it together, I always think of the love that was put into making it. Every morning it's like I get a hug from someone that loves me.

You see the quilt was made expressly for me by my grandmother when I graduated from college. She brought it all the way to Knoxville from Big Rock, Tennessee. I remember her handing me the bulky package to unwrap and although I knew what was inside I was surprised when I opened it and saw how beautiful it was. So many quilt pieces and so many sweet stories from the clothes that made the blocks upon blocks of my quilt.

It would have been a surprise, but during one weekend visit my grandfather swore my to secrecy and tiptoed into the room and pulled back of sheet and my quilt was revealed. He grinned sheepishly, I think he even giggled mischeviously - loving that he let the cat out of the bag and that I was so thrilled. It wasn't until years after he had died that I told my grandmother that story. She loved hearing about his trick and she smiled and called him a rascal. Just another piece of the quilt that made it so special.

I have slept under the quilt now for 17 years. Sometimes when I'm away from home I just don't rest as easy without it covering me. The weight of the materials against by body is perfect. When I fled my marital home in fear, it was the only possession besides my contact case and solution that I took with me. I slept through many restless nights in the days, weeks and months that followed but the quilt gave me a comfort that nothing else could.

Today, I treat it gingerly. I spot clean it. Each morning I fold it up carefully and put it on the cedar chest at the foot of my bed. I reach for it everynight when I finally decide to let go of the day and lay down. Some of the quilt pieces are loose and the edges are becoming frayed. I probably should have taken better care of it and appreciated it more.

A few months ago, I realized that the quilt had become fragile like my grandmother. It's not holding up as good as it used to but I do what I can to piece it back together. The maker of this beautiful quilt has suffered a stroke and heart attack in the past weeks and we had to make the painful decision to move her into a long term care facility. She has a few items in her room, remembrances of her family to give her comfort, but nothing as special as the quilt she made for me.

Every weekend when I change my bedding I examine my quilt and I notice a little bit more wear and tear, a few more pieces trying to break free and wonder how much longer it will last. Every time I visit Grandmother, she's a little bit more confused. She's always happy that I'm there and I always make sure I take the time to just sit with her and hold her hand, and I'm always comforted by her warm and loving touch.

Andrew's Bald (elevation 5860 feet)

The day I spent hiking up to Andrews Bald was one of the best days of my life. How could I consider this short hike in The Great Smoky Mtns. National Park one of the greatest days of my life and place it on my personal best list? It's wasn't a momentous occasion like the birth of a child or a wedding or a job celebration or even finishing a marathon. Just simply a day spent in the quiet company of a good friend in a place with the most spectacular views.

Have you ever had a day that you would like to relive? Do it over to make the memory last? I haven't gone back to this trail but I think about it, and the day spent on it, often.

We both needed a break from school and had made a last minute decision to go to the mountains for the day. We entered the park and drove by the Sugarlands Visitor Center. As we headed up the mountain we cruised by the visual landmarks - The Chimneys, Mt. LeConte, Newfound Gap - we had briefly discussed hiking to Alum Cave Bluffs, but decided to head as high as we could and see what we could find.

We found the trail leading from Clingman's Dome on a lazy fall day. The mist that normally surrounds Clingman's Dome eluded us here. The Red Spruce and Fraser Firs that lined the trail and ringed the bald artfully framed the bottom of the beautiful vista. The trail was relatively easy - a four mile round trip hike - two miles in we came what I can best describe as a meadow on a mountain top. Not rough or rugged but grassy and smooth - no trees that blocked the views of Fontana Lake and the North Carolina mountain range that faced us. The day was sunny, the wind was light & both gently brushed our faces.

We didn't talk about anything earth shattering rather I think we were both aware that my friend was graduating the following spring and we both knew that our joined paths would soon branch away from each other. We talked about nothing in particular. At times we sat in silence and just took in the view. We pointed out things the other didn't notice. For a while we sat back to back propping each other up. I looked at the wildflowers and wondered how this place existed without my prior knowledge to this day? It was so beautiful. I soaked up my Vitamin D quotient for the rest of the year.

I don't know why I get so nostalgic when I think of the day. Maybe it represents the transition my life was getting ready to take. Maybe it just simply represents the happiness that I was experiencing in my life.

Andrews Bald is definitely one of my "Wide Open Spaces" - a place in the clouds / a foundation of stone / But what it holds for her, she hasn't yet guessed.

In my journey to find the pieces of myself I have lost - I'm finding comfort in returning to the places I have loved the most. The beach - the mountains - old friends I have lost touch with - letting new friends into my life. If I could relive that day - I would pay more attention to the path that led me to the meadow - the stones I stepped on - the protectiveness of the trees. And I would have opened my eyes wider to path that led me away from this mountain top that I have always loved.

Andrews Bald - elevation 5860 feet - the memory of this day helps me to revisit the elevations of my life and find the simple girl who I used to be.

Where you stumble and fall there you will find the gold.

Sam Keen

I AM A RHINOCEROS

To dream that you see a rhinoceros, foretells you will have a great loss threatening you, and that you will have secret troubles. To kill one, shows that you will bravely overcome obstacles.

The nature of the rhinoceros is to be alone, walk alone, live alone, intent on its own affairs and more or less oblivious of what does not concern these.

__________ __________ __________

Last night I dreamed of my father. I have not dreamed of him since the week of his death three years ago.

I tried to follow the jumbled pieces of the dream and I finally allowed myself to just be a spectator. I was working in a school, preparing a classroom. The setting changed to the Leatherwood United Methodist Church in the Land Between the Lakes area where my father grew up as a boy. I was sitting in a pew on the right side of the church with my daughter and sisters and we were watching the tragic comedy of his wedding to his third wife Annie unfold. She looked grotesque, she was wearing an overdone wedding gown too young for someone her age to wear and her face was painted with Tammy Faye Baker makeup that was running down her face. The acolytes were friends of theirs. They were drunk and promptly fainted with the backs to the altar. One was holding a large gold cross, the other a candle snifter. I remember thinking how inappropriate the whole affair was when sensing this my father turned to us. He looked like Orson Welles in "Citizen Kane" and he addressed us by succintly stating "I am a rhinocerous." I heard him say it twice.

I woke up confused. I was relieved that I was able to dream about him again. Since he died I feel like I haven't been able to fully accept his death. In the beginning this feeling was unpalpable as if his dying was yet another long absence from my life that I had experienced since childhood. As I drove into work, I realized that this dream was not about my father but something my psyche was trying to communicate to me. My father had merely been the messenger. I went to a dream interpretation site and typed in rhinoceros. I gasped when I read it's interpretation. No mistruths lie between me and my psyche.

I do have issues troubling me. I find myself in legal limbo in this never ending custody case involving my daughter. I have this unrealistic fear and anxiety that the police are going to pull up at my doorstep and take her away or serve me with legal papers. I keep my blinds closed and the sunshine and unknown intruders out. He has caused me to live in fear again. And yes, I want to kill that fear and overcome this obstacle. He has threatened to take away the one thing I treasure most. I know it's unrealistic. I know his words are false. I can't voice these fears to anyone and make them understand.

Right now I walk alone.

I am a rhinoceros.

Nightmare in Shining Armor

He left a message on my cell phone.
His tone acidic.
More threatening, ugly words.
Venom spewing.
Spoken solely to cause intentional hurt.
Attack her weakness, he thought.
Try to scare her and inflict more pain.
He would always say to me...
"The Opposite of Love is Hate."
He meant all these words as a threat.
It was all he ever did.
Threat, threat, threat.
Bully, bully, bully.
Brag, brag, brag.
He told me he was getting married.
To a woman with 4 kids.
She would be our daughter's mother he said.
They would be her brother and sisters.
Our daughter would be flower girl at their wedding.
I was not invited.
As if I would want to witness another unsuspecting woman walk onto his battlefield.
I feel euphoric. Please make it to the altar.
What's "The Opposite of Indifference?"
The target will slowly be moved from my forehead.
Onto hers.
A heavy burden is lifting.
The fog is slowly fading away.
I'm finally awakening.
He will become someone else's worst nightmare.
A nightmare in shining armor.


He was never patient. Never kind.
He was envious. He would always boast.
He was proud. He was rude.
He was self-seeking. Always angry.
He kept records of my wrongs.
He is evil. He speaks no truth.
He never protected me from himself.
He never trusted me. I lost my hope.
He did not persevere.
Love can fail.

When I left him I gained back the three that will forever remain: faith, hope and love.

Because the greatest of these is love.

He will never take that away from me. No one will. Ever. Again.

Safe Landings

On the day the unthinkable happened, I watched the news coverage in horror with the rest of the world. However, when I heard that two of planes that had crashed into the World Trade Center, the Pentagon & a field in Pennsylvania were American Airlines, I quietly panicked.

The first night I couldn't sleep. My eyes wouldn't close and I couldn't lie still. On September 12th, I desperately searched the internet and the newspapers and watched CNN for any reports that contained the names of the crew lists of either flight.

I had been walking around my house in a daze masking the near hysteria I felt. I told no one that I had been holding my breath that someone I deeply cared for was not behind the controls on either American Airlines plane.

On the 13th, I walked my dogs at midnight and I made countless deals with God in the dark via endless, quiet prayers for his safety, for his family's love and peace of mind and to please just let him be safe and grounded somewhere. Heat lightning towards the west freaked me out and I had a panic attack in the darkness with only my dogs to calm me down. I came back inside and watched CNN for hours until four in the morning.

The crew lists were published on the 14th and as relieved as I was not to read his name - glad that he was safe, I was also extremely disheartened to read the bios of the pilots who had been taken by surprise that day, because I could tell from what I read that they were good family oriented guys like him.

I wanted to write him a letter and let him know how thankful and relieved I was that he was safe , but I hoped that if I crossed his mind he would know that I felt that way. I didn't write the letter because I have always wanted to respect the boundaries of his marriage and not be intrusive in his life in any way.

Watching the coverage again five years later, I still find myself wondering where he was that morning. Was he on a flight that was unexpectedly brought to the ground? Was he preparing to leave home for a three day trip? Maybe he was off and on a lake somewhere doing what he loves to do best. I knew that he was safe and my panic was unfounded, but it came from a place of caring. How he was effected was my next concern.

It's been disappointing for me to see the profession he chose so radically changed by hurdle after hurdle, flight interrupted because of security breaches. I'm sure he have managed to pull good from this and apply it to what he is doing. Through those dark September days, a few people knew my fears and understood my concerns.

Those people remember when I put my hand in his without hesitation and stepped up in the cockpit of a few Cessna's and flew to the Lakefront Airport in New Orleans, Dothan, Callaway Gardens, BNA, BHM or landed next to the river at Downtown Island Home. I trusted him with my life - completely. Many years have passed, but when I think of flying I immediately associate it with him. Watching him take flight has been one of the greatest privileges in my life.

Every concourse I walk through - Baltimore, Chicago, San Francisco, Minneapolis, Orlando, Nashville, Dallas - I look for him, wondering if one of the guys in uniform carrying a flight bag and wearing the airline pilot cap will be him - hoping that if the guy turns around or if I catch up it will be him.

I know - that just happens in the movies. But in real life we just hope for safe landings.

"Just when the caterpillar thought the world was over,

it became a butterfly..."

Anonymous

One on One with Sakhmet

Over the years my sister (personal life coach - everyone should have one) has given me affirmations to say each morning to boost my self-esteem. In the midst of a debilitating child custody suit, my self-esteem hasn't plummeted but it hasn't been totally where it needs to be. So she suggested that I pick out a power symbol to identitify with to get my mind where it needs to be - thinking positive and feeling courageous and strong.

"Pretend that you are a Mama bear", she said to me. "Playful and cuddly, but fericous and fierce when needed".

"That's the problem, I don't feel like a Mama bear." I said, "this situation makes me feel wild and on guard and ready to pounce."

"What kind of image do you see? she asked.

"Oh that's easy" I replied, "I rather feel like a mother lion - on alert, ready to scratch someone's eyes out if they mess with my cub."

So I went online and found some images of lioness' and their cubs and saved one as wallpaper to remind myself everyday of the lioness' role I play in my current life. The photo I found (at right) shows a lioness and cub gazing eye to eye. When I see it each day, I'm reminded of my role as caretaker, coach, protector, teacher, hunter, gatherer, soother, and best of all mother.

It's the best image I could have identified with and it seeing it and being reminded of these multiple roles does give me an inner strength. It's reassuring at best for this weird place I find myself in but it's good to have a hand or toe hold, a spot to anchor myself to and this image is one I have quietly imprinted on my brain.

Once I identified this image, my life coach began telling me about Sakhmet. A fiery and destructive Egyptian goddess associated with war and divine vengeance. Her name means "the Mighty One" and she was depicted as a woman with the head of a lioness. She pointed this out not to focus on the divine vengeance - because we both know that I'm not about that, but rather "the Mighty one, the goddess".

I can identify with Sakhmet's mythical fury. The untruths that have been launched against me has caused an earthquake of emotions from within. But I ask myself "Have I finally gotten to the point of fury?" Some days, yes and some days, no. Sometimes I feel quiet strength and calm. To which this surprises me, because I have never felt a calm like I feel these days. This custody case is my personal battle that not many people know I am fighting. I have elected to not discuss it with my small world, mainly to protect the cub from too many people talking about it.

I do not feel as if I deserve the injustices that have been served upon me, however, divine vengeance will hopefully arrive in the form of not letting this break me down, holding my head up and succeeding in my new life. For me, this would be the best personal victory I could achieve.

My birthday arrived in early July and as a present my other sister (let's call her my life cheerleader and spiritual advisor) took me to the Frist Museum to see the Egypt exhibit "The Quest for Immortality" focusing on the New Kingdom (1550-1069 BCE) through the Late Period (664-332 BCE) and this period marked the beginning of an era of great wealth, power, and stability. This time was also marked by a burst of cultural activity, much of which was devoted to the quest for eternal life.

It didn't encompass the treasures of any of the major dynasties like Ramesses or Tut, but ancient treasures to behold and lessons to learn from them.

Separated from my group, I turned a corner and found myself face to face with Sakhmet. I had no idea she would be there as part of the exhibit and my first reaction was to stand back and get a good look at her. I had to smile. She looked so pleasant and regal sitting on her throne, hardly the venomous goddess metting out divine punishment and destruction on Ra's enemies.

It was a nice birthday surprise to be one-on-one in museum with your personal power symbol. Did the smile I found myself wearing mean that I identified with the calm and pleasant mask she wore? Can I really fool the world with this calm persona that masks the hurt, disbelief and anger I've been feeling inside?

One on one with Sakhmet - not a bad way to spend a hot birthday afternoon - inside a dark cool museum hoping the Goddess smiles on me with her mighty powers to survive this extremely personal battle I have found myself in the midst of. Walking away from Sakhmet I felt myself walking a little taller and totally identifying with the lioness first who shall ever protect her cub and Sakhmet second, the mighty one because the power I misplaced is coming back to me.

"Do one thing everyday that scares you."
Eleanor Roosevelt

A Box Marked Confidential

I found the box of letters and old pictures in my grandmother's attic. Their discovery could only mean, a melding part of the long journey back to my old self and the unknown road ahead to the new self I am uncovering daily. I found them in the last place I told myself they could possibly be.

Finding them wasn't easy, I had to pry nails out of the attic trap door and unusual duct tape just to lower the stairs. Plus I had to do this with the precision of a safe cracker in MI:2 - if my grandmother knew I was breaking into her attic vault she would freak.

I climbed the stairs and when I reached the top, the box marked "Sabrina Confidential" was sitting at the top waiting for me (screaming READ ME! for anyone else to discover). I reached into the box and pulled out the first piece of paper that my hand touched. It was a letter. From him.

I sat down on the attic floor, my legs dangling into the ceiling of the hall below. I pulled the string and switched on the bare light bulb above. With my head in the rafters, I read one of the last letters he wrote me wishing me well. Confirming our break-up. It was like he were speaking the words to me that very day. I could hear his voice, his earnestness. I could see his eyes.

From below, my sister asked "Did you find it?". My daughter asking "Mommy, Can I see?" I put the letter back and didn't even pause to inspect the rest of the contents of the cardboard enclosure. I would save opening the rest for some quiet time. I had waited this long. I could wait a few more hours until I could find some alone time.

Driving back to Nashville, the box brought to mind the play "Love Letters" by A.R. Gurney that traces the lifelong correspondence and untapped relationship between two friends/wannabe lovers(?) and the unfolding of their lives via the written word. I remember that I wept when I saw the play at TPAC with Stefanie Powers and Robert Wagner.

Always a hopeless romantic before, but with my heart hardened due to sadness, mistrust and death of a few of the dreams I had for my life I wondered - would I weep when I read the letters in this box marked confidential? How would reading them make me feel? Our correspondence stopped when we both got married. I wanted to respect the boundaries of our marriages especially knowing that the feelings I still have are far greater than friendship.

For we were lovers in the greatest sense and we held each other's dreams in our hands and kept those dreams safe for each other. We believed in each other and always wanted the best for each other. And when we broke apart - it was peaceful with nothing else to say - no ill will - and the love I had for him the day we broke up still lives in my heart, in my mind and my memory and it is the gift that I carry with me. That I was loved by this wonderful person and how lucky I was to have had that kind of love.

Arriving home I left the box in the back of my car. As if it were a fragile artifact, I didn't want to move it again until I could pull all the contents out inspect each treasure in the right setting and with me in the right state of mind. I also realized that in these high-tech days of text messaging, e-mail and digital photography, that this box contained a preserved history - these letters, matchbooks, ticket stubs were little gifts waiting to be opened again.

As it turned out the opportunity to read the letters and look at the photos again presented itself that very evening. My daughter was going to hang out with her Aunt Dawn, I was alone for the night.

I took the time to slowly read each letter. I took note of when his stationary changed and remembered even the smell of the pages. How comforting it was to see the grid of the familiar graph paper, remembering his thought process and the emphasis of the things I remembered to be important to him. I read of trips we were planning to take together, the blossoming of our romance and relationship, rehashed phone discussions, chronology of the week's classes and study schedule, flight plans, career plans, true communication of our feelings, declarations, notes asking how my family and friends were doing. It was interesting to read the parts of the letter that pointed to the strife in our relationship. When he was into the relationship I wasn't and vice versa. Petty jealousies and immaturities aside we did a lot of growing up together.

The box held a cassette tape that contained songs we would record back and forth for each other. Don Williams, Phil Collins, Jimmy Buffett, Kenny Rogers - the dated music told the story of our feelings for each other also. Hidden messages when we were over the moon in love, mad, playful etc.... I gasped when I heard the first song on the tape, because after we listened to it for the first time he told me that he loved me. We were sitting in his car and as he hugged me, I felt him slip off his class ring from his finger while his arms were around me.

The insides of the box held some of the greatest treasures my life has known; poignant and funny greeting cards, matchbooks from restaurants, ticket stubs from movies and plays, postcards from far off places, photos of us from various stages of the years we shared with one another. But the tangible items also contained love, the promise of the future, happiness, photographic memories of hiking and camping in the mountains, road trips, the beach, sitting on a swing quietly smiling because you are next to the one you love, an extraordinary dog named Charley.

I saved the photos for last because I thought that when I looked at them it would make me sad for the love I had lost. Instead, I saw something in the photos that surprised me. I saw Sabrina, happy, having fun, eyes luminous - the girl I had forgotten - the girl who had so much self-confidence that it was intimidating to some - the girl who was loved by an exceptional guy. I wept when I saw the photos - not out of sadness but out of shock and recognition - there was the guy I loved with the girl I had loved. In addition to my feelings of missing him, I realized how much I had missed her, because I never realized I had how much of myself I have lost along the way.

It was a quiet evening that I will always cherish. I felt like I had spent the evening catching up with a very dear friend. Reading his letters again made me realize why I think of him so much when I listen to the rain hitting the windows, smell the honeysuckle while driving down a backroad and pause when I see the dogwoods bloom for the first time in the spring and why when I go to the Smokies to hike or camp I feel like I am coming home. Why when I hear John Waite singing the verse "Everytime I think of you, I always catch my breath" that it ushers back some wonderful feelings I haven't felt in a long time.

So what do I do with all this? I feel fortunate to even have these old fashioned love letters tied carefully with a ribbon, hiding in a box marked confidential, locked in a closet waiting for me to shed some light on them again (maybe when I'm feeling a little bit nostalgic for that exceptional person and that extraordinary dog). With the internet, IMing and text messaging do people even send love letters anymore? I feel providential that I had this my "first love, true love" experience with him.

I can only hope that someday when my daughter experiences this that it is with someone just as wonderful. And hopefully, I will have the grace to reach back to the girl I once was and recapture that confidence and belief in myself and never lose sight of her again. I've lost touch with him over the years, but "I hear his name in certain circles, And it always makes me smile."

Putting on the Primer

While my daughter was out of town I decided to tackle a home improvement project. Painting my kitchen.

Before I could begin painting I had to prep the walls and this meant one thing. Removing the wallpaper. It started easy enough, one pull on the border put up in 1985 caused it come off in one roll. This was going to be easy.

Borders removed, I tugged on a corner of the wallpaper and the whole section came off in a huge sheet. Underneath it revealed a pattern original from 1975 when the home was built. I was surprised, it was a quaint yellow floral pattern with a zippy stripe. I tugged at its corner it wouldn't come off.

Oh my goodness, what have I gotten myself into? Two alternating layers on the wall - I had to move forward and finish the job.

I removed as much of the second wallpaper layer that I could and realized that I was going to need professional help. The first layer was never going to come off. Three walls were cleared and I took down the out of date lace curtains and threw the sheets of wallpaper and unwanted curtains in the trash. For some reason, it felt good to know I was never going to see those curtains again that had blocked the sunshine from coming into my windows.

After interrogating my sister and friends who have found themselves at the successful end of similar projects. I sought out their advice. Great recommendations abounded so I used the best of the best and was on my way.

A trip to Home Depot ensued and I wandered back to Floors and Walls and found some heavy duty spray solution to saturate the stubborn layer of wallpaper.

One thing my sister told me that would make the project go faster ... put on some good music. I started out with Billy Joel "Songs in the Attic". I realized listening to the music that it was probably written before all the wallpaper in this room was applied. When I finally psyched myself up to try the spray, I read the instructions, sprayed the solution and waited for 15 minutes and went at it again. Most of it came off in sheets but some unyielding remnants remained.

I was standing in a chair working on the area above the closet that houses my washer and dryer when I realized how winning the struggle over the resistant wallpaper and peeling off the final shreds felt reminscint of my inner conflict over my marriage that had ended and how I felt like somehow I had lost part of my soul.

But I realized as my head was close to my ceiling and reaching for the final pieces of tattered wallpaper that the first layer of paper that was hanging firm on the wall was my authentic self. The second layer I was struggling to peel off the walls was akin to my married persona I had taken on and even the sad surrender I had given in to during those years. Some of it I had to spray a second time and come back later and examine if it's ready to give yet and break free from the wall- that piece wasn't ready to give yet - much like my psyche not yet ready to relinquish that part of my fractured soul.

I listened to the Billy Joel CD so many times my portable CD player had gotten hot, so I switched to my stereo and put in a cassette tape of Kool & The Gang's "Emergency". Wow, memory lane of my girlhood self ... songs like Fresh, Mislead, Celebration, Emergency, andSurrender were playing. As I was jamming and peeling wallpaper my dog was looking at me as if I lost my mind. I think I was scaring her gyrating so close to the ceiling while standing in a chair and picking wallpaper strips off with my fingernails.

And while I have been blabbing that I miss the old me so much and what I wouldn't give to reclaim that girl I used to be, I realized that like the cheery, quaint yellow zippy striped wallpaper that I had a fondness for - I wasn't going to let it stay up on the walls. It was time for a new coat of paint, one that matches the swatch I taped to the wall that proclaims this is the new color for my kitchen, this is the new color for me.

It is time for my home (i.e. self)-improvement project undertaking to capture what I like about both the original wallpaper and remove the parts of the second layer that I didn't like. I might have to get my hands and fingernails sticky along the way to remove those layers, but that's okay - the end result is going to be worth it. Not an extreme home makeover, but a fresh new (out)look.

After the wallpaper is removed, I'm washing down the walls and getting out my primer.

Jesus Called

Sometime during the last years of my friend Martha's struggle with breast cancer, she made all of her girlfriends promise her that on the anniversary of her death we were to meet at Calvary Cemetery and pour a vodka martini over her grave. We diligently promised her, "Yes" we would do this.

You see Martha had faced death for so long that she could easily joke about dying. She not only wanted her life to be celebrated, but for her death to be celebrated as well. Sometimes it was hard to laugh at her jokes about dying or accept her shocking bluntness about her diagnosis. Her brothers and sisters faced it with her and could joke at death's expense also. The seven kids had faced the death of their parents together.

Sometimes I had to ask myself "if she can laugh about it why can't you?" Most times it was hard watching her suffer both publicly and privately and I couldn't do it, I couldn't laugh at the off-color jokes no matter how brave the face she put on.

Year after year, she won the costume contest at my annual Halloween party. The first time, bloated by chemo therapy and bald as a cue ball, she simply wore a black graduation gown, painted her entire head white and after putting a light bulb in her mouth was transformed into the Addams Family's Uncle Fester. From the way she laughed and carried on - most of the people at the party did not know she was in the midst of her treatments and living with cancer.

She died a few years ago. It was August. She had progressively gotten sicker from the drugs she was taking and she had run through her nine lives. We knew this was going to happen - it was inevitable wasn't it? But, it was hard when the time came to say goodbye to her.

We laughed and carried on at the wake - drank shots of Jagermeister in her memory and told "Martha" stories that left us all shrieking with laughter. The next day reality set in and we cried and held on to each other at her funeral. She had planned her funeral months, perhaps years before and knowing Martha she would have been extremely proud of the fuss made with all the Pomp and Circumstance that only a sister of a beloved priest could muster at the Cathedral of the Incarnation in downtown Nashville.

When I heard the shovel full of red dirt hit her casket with a muted thud and smaller pieces of dirt scattering, I again was stunned into realizing that she was finally gone, finally free of living life with her cancer. When I made her acquaintance ten years before, she had just celebrated her no-more chemo party. I guess you could say her funeral was her no-more cancer party.

So on the anniversary of her death a year later, on a hot, humid August day we made plans to meet after work at Calvary, the Catholic cemetery in town, and pour the ceremonial martini like we had pledged. She had threatened to come back and haunt us if we broke our promise. Some of us took it us a joke, others took it a bit more seriously.

I arrived before everyone and since the area bordered on the iffy side of town I decided while I was waiting in this enormous expanse of hallowed ground to cruise around and see if I could find where the circle of priests were buried. To no surprise, I found it on top of the highest hill. I got out and walked around the circle pondering the mysticism and majesty of the Da Vinci Code-like symbolism that you could see every where you looked. Dramatic crypts and beautiful statues abounded in every direction. My gaze fell on pewter colored crosses and marble angels that had faded to the color of putty. I couldn't help but notice the little lambs and sweet cherubs on the smallest headstones that adorned the children's section of the cemetery. I paused and said a silent prayer for all who were buried here.

I climbed back in my car and headed back down the wooded, cement filled hill and saw something big and bright pastel yellow flash at the corner of my eye. I stopped and looked out the car window. Nothing. All I could see were trees and drab grey headstones. I put my car in reverse. Coming into my peripheral vision I saw it again.

Oh my gosh! That doesn't spell out Big Momma does it? An enormous flower arrangement spelling out the words "Big Momma" in yellow carnations. Who in the world would do something so tacky at a funeral? Well, obviously in this case it was Big Momma's family.

Thinking of how much Martha would love this I glanced down at my watch and discovered now I was late for my meeting at her graveside. I put the car in drive and headed off down the hill again.

The rest of the gang had arrived, we laughed told "Martha" stories and finally at the end poured that martini over the ground that covered her. "Martha, wherever you are - I hope you are smiling." I thought to myself.

As we disbanded, I mentioned my discovery and piquing my friends interest they asked me to take them to see Big Momma's grave. We drove up the hill and as I was passing the area and pointing out my window the other cars started pulling over and parking. I didn't mean for us to get out!

As we walked towards Big Momma, more arrangements were coming into view. The pastel yellow carnations had lots of colorful company.

Some of the arrangements had fallen over and someone righted one. Someone picked up another until soon all of the arrangements were standing up again. The flowers were still fresh. Big Momma had lots of tribute arrangements and her family had a dark but delightful sense of humor. I mean I grew up in the South and I have never seen anything like this display of adoration and affection.

White carnations were molded into the shape of a cake and the banner read "Angel Food Cake." Another baby blue arrangement formed into a telephone - the dial pad spelled out what could have only been Big Momma's phone number and the banner read: "Jesus called." At the bottom another banner read "Big Momma Answered"!

Oh my gosh, who was this woman?

A tangerine carnation purse was labeled "Shop Till You Drop." The "Gates of Heaven" were represented in mint green carnations as was the off-white carnation chapel that Big Momma and Mr. Big Momma must have gotten married in. Another sweet arrangement in the shape of an angel proudly wore a baby pink halo with the label "Precious Angel."

Someone in our group jokingly, but seriously inquired if our examination of the flowers was a sacrilege. But I think not. Big Momma couldn't help but get our attention. We delighted in the love that was shown to her by these colorful flower arrangements. Her family was obviously able to let go and honor her in death by the way she must have lived her life.

A few days later I searched the online obituaries for any mention of this woman who had an Irish name which I read off the tin temporary plate at the foot of her grave. I wanted to learn more about her. I hadn't missed the irony of her heritage because Martha was Irish also. I couldn't find anything that would tell me how old she was, when she was born, how many children and grandchildren she might have had or anything about this person who had to have a fabulous sense of humor. I just knew one thing - she was loved.

So was Martha, and I realized that although they were strangers they had a lot in common. It is my hope that somewhere in heaven they were up there together laughing at us. I was proud that we kept our promise to her because I could finally understand why Martha wanted us to remember her in death by the way she lived her life - joking, her gang of girlfriends together, raising a glass in her honor and reminding us that when "Jesus Calls" it's not supposed to be sad - I learned from Martha and Big Momma that it's meant to be quite a joyous occasion.

Bird Flu Fallout

WARNING! In an attempt to thwart the spread of bird flu, President George W. Bush has bombed the Canary Islands.

Turkey is next.

Blogger's Note: Not an essay but I couldn't resist!

Election Day

This presidential election will be our family’s first without our father who died suddenly last November. Not just an armchair politico, our father was a man of action. He was campaigning long before it was the politically chic thing to do. From sign painting to driving folks to the polls and just plain outspokenness on the issues, no doubt, he would have had strong opinions about this election. The issues facing our country today are issues that he felt strongly about and believed in.

As the breakneck speed of the final days of the election draws near one of the more lasting memories I have of him grows stronger and stronger and I can’t stop thinking of it. I know that he would have been watching the pundits and non-stop campaign reporting. I know he would have been active in his local community, talking politics, distributing the necessary signage, bumper stickers, buttons or direct mail pieces. Also, he would have maintained an open phone line to our cousin, his niece, the political activist in the family who would keep him abreast of any of the latest campaign buzz she was privy to. But phone conversations were sometimes uncomfortable with him as he most likely get worked up about the latest issues or news report. But then true to form, the day before the election would be upon us and we could always count on the phone call to admonish to his children the same message every time: “Make sure you vote!”

Growing up in Nashville, our neighborhood precinct also happened to be at our neighborhood elementary school. When this day rolled around, we knew that no matter if it were the local, state or national election, it was an important day in our house. Our dad would take his three daughters to school on that day – an exciting event in itself and park far away from the front door of Margaret Allen Elementary in Donelson.

Then we would walk through the gauntlet of the encampments set up by the candidates’ representatives who were handing out buttons and bumper stickers and begging for your vote. I often wonder now if it really makes a difference this late in the game, but traditions are traditions and sometimes maybe it is that last push for some that gets the vote. Once, I noticed a smile on his face as he walked confidently ahead of us as if he were the candidate himself and he knew his man was going to win. Folks on both sides of the school yard knew him and stopped him as he passed and many times he worked both political parties glad-handing and bantering about the issues and candidates and most times he knew more about the candidates and their platforms than the folks sitting in the November sun campaigning ever knew about them.

We stood quietly beside him and he loudly greeted the election volunteers who registered him. He introduced us to them (he knew them too) and he thanked them for being there. My sisters and I were 7 years apart so by the time he took me to school to vote – they were off to Junior High. I felt like a big shot alone in his presence, so important. Because he took this so seriously and believe me, it was honor to get a personal civic lesson from you father. He taught each of us that you take your right to vote seriously and you never ever miss that opportunity.

While waiting our turn for a booth, he again was talking to the kind gentlemen taking the white slips of paper – he was careful not to talk about the election itself – but instead would talk about the voter turnout or the college football scene.

When our turn came, he would escort us in the voting booth and instruct us to close the curtain. I can still remember the gentle but strong touch as he put his strong hand over my little one and help me pull the heavy arm to close the curtain behind us. Then he would pick me up, hold me in his arms and take his time to carefully explain the choices in a low voice. It was no secret to anyone who knew our father how he was going to the vote- he was a dedicated member of his party and totally proud and outspoken about it. Although we knew he was going to vote the party line and not cross over the divide delineating one party from the next, he still took the time to tell us about the candidates and any referendums on the ballot.

He would whisper in my ear and point towards the lever to pull and I proudly did it for each choice he made, knowing that somehow each vote counted towards something hugely important beyond our safe haven of our little neighborhood. When we finished, he would again help me pull the metal arm to open the curtains and to lock in our votes. I always felt a feeling of great accomplishment that I just helped my father do something extremely important in not only his life but for the life of our country.

After he walked me back to my third grade class one year, I watched for him through the classroom window to emerge outside and walk back to his car. His swagger was full of purpose, I could see him as he walked back to the candidates’ encampments and again argued some issues, shook hands, gestured wildly to make a point (political I’m sure) and laughed along with members of both parties. I’ll never forget how proud I was of him.

Once in college I had the exciting experience of being an election pollster for a local radio station for the 1988 presidential election. We stood at the polls and waited as they closed to the voting public. Then as the precinct officials closed the school doors after the polls closed, it was exciting to watch them huddle amongst themselves and then listen with the other pollsters and campaign reps as they called out the results to us. Afterwards, we literally ran to our cars and squealed out of the parking lot in search of a phone booth to call in the results! After I finished that call, I immediately called my father to tell him how the precinct had voted.

I minored in political science and thought briefly about a career path in that arena, but now I watch the campaign from afar, yet still try to stay informed the best way that I can and read the news on the internet and watch the debates. I have been involved in one national campaign, but I’m not as politically loud as my father or other members of our extended family have been in their parties.

Whenever I have moved out of my voting precinct, one of the first things I do is to change my voter registration. I would feel so guilty if I didn’t vote. I would feel as if I would be letting myself down and probably letting my father down too. I learned early from those days by my father’s side in the voting booth that voting is not something you take lightly. It is a privilege that in his words “you should never, I repeat, never take for granted.”

I’ve only participated in early voting opportunities once; I admit it was a time saver and a great tool in modern day elections. However, I prefer to go on Election Day because it’s a family tradition. There is something unique and exciting about participating in the buzz and rush that the whole nation is experiencing together.

I don’t care if Tim Russert is projecting Tennessee as a red state or a blue state on Meet the Press, or what way it is being counted towards the Electoral College. It’s simple – I have to vote. Whether I’m voting blue, red, gray, (never green - Daddy would have had a cow) or otherwise, my vote counts and you’ll see me at the voting booth.

This year I’ll be a brand new face in my voting precinct and I will not know any of the faces of the election volunteers who register me or show me to the booth. I will, however, thank them kindly and be patient if there is a long line because that’s what my father taught me to do. They are giving up a day in our lives for us to exercise our right to vote. I will only smile and wave at the diehard campaign volunteers trying to sway my ideology to the bitter end of my very important vote, but I will not stop and debate any of them.

I’ve decided that the best thing I could possibly do to honor my father’s life and this important family tradition on Election Day on the anniversary of his death is to take my five year old daughter with me to the polls. We will walk through the gauntlet of politicos, stand quietly in line to register and hopefully she will notice how many other people are doing it. It is my wish that the magnitude of it all makes an impression on her like it did for me and my sisters. When it’s our turn to enter the booth, I’m going to let her push the button to close the curtains and lovingly hold her in my arms like he used to do with his daughters and let her push the buttons and cast our votes.

On November 1st, the day before Election Day, which is Tuesday, November 2nd, I’ll hope you’ll remember my father’s famous words “Make sure you vote!” Because I know, my daughter, my sisters and I will loud and clear.

Author's Note: This essay was written in October 2004.

Enemy of the Neighborhood, an innocent story

To observe my husband and I communicating late at night, you would think you were watching a scene from Will Smith’s flick “Enemy of the State”. The movie, a high tech thriller, features sophisticated listening and tracking devices planted in Smith’s character’s home. Although no one has planted any sort of device in our home, we discovered by accident that we had by using a simple baby monitor in our infant daughter’s room. These days it leaves my husband and myself gesturing in sign language and sneaking off to a far corner on the front porch to discuss household and financial matters long after she has gone to sleep.

Everyone on our street began having kids at the same time. While at a neighborhood gathering we were all cheerily endorsing baby products and in particular, a brand of baby monitor we all use to pick up the breathing and every lovable coo and goo our new babies made. Little did we know that the monitors would be picking up every sweet sound she made and every sound we made, (and you can guess which ones they were) and broadcasting them all over the neighborhood. We had a full listening audience unbeknownst to us.

When one of our neighbors first mentioned hearing me sing over the monitor, I thought it was funny, hoping against hope that I had sung on key and actually knew all the words to the song. I told my husband about it and he remarked that maybe we needed to be more careful talking in her room when the monitor was on.

Months passed and we thought nothing else of it. A few times, when we turned off the transmitter, the receiving end of the monitor would pick up bits and pieces of our neighbors conversations, cordless phone calls and the occasional CB radio rumblings. We always laughed at the transmissions, sometimes we were a bit surprised, but usually we would decide to switch off the monitor.

A few weeks ago, one of my close friends Sharon* (who is also a neighbor), called me and told me that one of our other neighbors Vicki* had overhead (yes, via the baby monitor) my husband and myself having an argument. Much to Sharon’s horror (and especially mine), Vicki was telling everyone in the neighborhood association about our fight. At first, I was stumped, I was trying to remember the last time my husband and I had a really good one. Sometimes when we fight it could be compared to a New England Nor’easter so I reassured Sharon not to worry. No one needed a baby monitor to hear our arguments, and if they wanted to, they should just open their windows.

My first reaction was to kick myself for not turning Vicki and her husband into the proper authorities for the time we overheard one of their transgressions (yes, via the baby monitor). Upon hearing their plan to steal a set of steak knives from a popular Australian themed eatery that they were going to turn around and give as a Christmas gift, we decided to turn off the receiver and mind our own business. After all whom would we call? The baby monitor police?

We promised ourselves that someone should immediately buy a brand new monitor, but then a new baby was born down the street and after much subtle inquiry we couldn’t determine which brand of monitor they were using and decided this could go on forever.

We decided to tough it out and take lessons from movies like “Enemy of the State” and “The Firm”. We now talk in code, crank up the stereo and whisper to each other. We sneak into the garage to discuss the really important things that’s only our business and of course there is always the option of simply unplugging the monitor. And whenever I sense a Nor’easter coming on, I just make it easy on everyone and crack open the windows.

Author's Note: This essay was written during my former married life.

Looking through the Viewfinder

A few years ago, I was asked to be the birthing partner for one of my girlfriends, Nicole, a single mom at the time, to help keep her calm, feed her ice chips and hold her hand during the birth of her first child. Not having any children, nieces, or nephews myself, I had no idea what to expect, except of course, the common misperceptions that pop culture puts forth to us about water breaking and driving 90 mph to the hospital. All of this is happening while the expectant mother screams for you to drive faster because she is about to deliver the baby on the back seat of her red Nissan Sentra.

When Nicole called to tell me to meet her at a pre-scheduled time at a local hospital, (6am) I have to admit I was a tad disappointed when the doctor decided to induce her into labor. However, I’m sure she was happy it was going to be a controlled situation, (and frankly so was I!). Being a novice birthing coach but experienced cheerleader, I wanted this to be a textbook delivery for her and the baby’s sake (and mine).

So the day after Thanksgiving, I arose early on that dark November morning, showered, packed my video camera, left my sleeping husband and met Nicole and her family in the hospital. We walked through the quiet, tan corridors to her birthing room and helped her settle in. She changed into a hospital gown, the nurses hooked her up to the monitors and we began to wait. After the doctor broke her water, I started checking the battery to the video camera every five minutes and looking through the viewfinder and began interviewing everyone who entered the room about the immediate, impending birth. Finally after hours of sitting on ready, a nurse told me to save the battery that the baby wasn’t coming out for a long time.

I have to admit Nicole made childbirth look easy. I had braced myself for all the agony the women portrayed in the birthing class film. (I swore to myself right then and there, that if my time ever came, I would try to be as strong and courageous as she was being. Anyone who knows me knows how hysterical I can get, should be proud of me for saying “TRY”). Nicole never let on that she was feeling any discomfort, but the nurses knew. One look in her eyes and they would help her change positions. I never even got to dole out any ice chips either; she was pretty self-sufficient and doled them to herself.

Mainly, I just sat on a stool next to her bed and read aloud the latest and greatest issue of our favorite People and Glamour magazines to her. We had some good laughs when the nurses came in to help Nicole move the baby in the right position. Her long legs were being pushed and pulled in every unimaginable position and I outloud I had to praise her mom’s foresight of forcing Nicole into 12 years of tap dancing, Pointe and especially for the time being, acrobatic training. At this moment, it was all paying off I told her and she begged me not to make her laugh.

She lay there looking so beautiful and composed, her long brown hair flowing over the pillow, and she was totally calm with the fact that in a few hours, her life was going to change forever, and in so many wonderful ways I knew it would never be the same.

What an honor it was to be her friend that day, when I was allowed the privilege of watching her become a mother. Not only was I honored that she was sharing such an awesome event in her life with me, but that she was allowing me to witness these precious moments as she was transforming into a new person. She was walking over the bridge to womanhood while I was standing over on the other side wanting to yell, “Nicole, wait for me!”

Then after hours of waiting, the magical moment of birth came, the cozy “birthing” room transformed briskly to the DELIVERY room. I’ve never witnessed anything so efficient. In a matter of seconds the stirrups came out of the table, the bottom of the birthing table disappeared, a closet door opened to reveal shiny silver instruments. And where did all those blue sheets come from? Someone was putting a surgical gown on me and Nicole’s mom asking if we felt okay (we? What about Nicole?) Lamps were switched on and the obstetrician appeared right on cue. Then, the plastic baby isolet was wheeled into the corner.

Somehow in the midst of the excitement and the crowd of nurses gathering into the room, I couldn’t get to my video camera, but it really didn’t matter at this point. I stood at Nicole’s side and then took one step back and found myself standing next to Nicole’s mother Debbie and we just held each other and cried tears of what I can only describe as pure joy.

There was a sensation in the room, a pulse I could feel that something wonderful was about to happen. The nurses looked happy that the baby had turned, they had done their job well. The doctor, self-assured with the heart monitor results, began to gently pull the baby’s head out, and Nicole was still amazingly at peace. This was going to be an easy birth.

And then the moment we had all been waiting for, for so long it seemed all day, happened so fast . . . Nicholas appeared turning and twisting so naturally into the open hands of the doctor, crying, dark hair matted to his head and so, so beautiful. Someday when he’s grown into a young man, I know that I’ll still be able to remember that first wonderful glimpse of him.

The doctor put him on his mommy’s stomach (she became a mommy in the blink of an eye – how cool!) He cried the cry that baby’s emit when they enter the bright world, but the moment Nicole took his hand in hers and spoke softly to him, his crying ceased in an instant and he looked up at her. I’ll never forgot that moment, like borrowing a line from the popular children’s book by J.P Eastman, Nicolas seemed to proclaim in that glance, “You are my mother!” For a few more moments in time before the umbilical cord was cut, they were still one.

My Thanksgiving happened to come on the day after that year, when I was lucky enough to be there when this sweet and special child came into the world. I was a willing eyewitness to one of life’s most magical, most precious moments. I didn’t need a viewfinder or a video camera, just my eyes and my heart to register, record and most importantly, remember the magic and magnitude of his birth. For that I will always be thankful.

I Try to Think About Elvis

I’ll never forget the day that Elvis died. I was ten years old and lying down in the front seat of my daddy’s black 1976 Lincoln Continental on the way to Biloxi, Mississippi. It was a hot August day, but cool inside the car on the plush red leather seats. The radio announcer broke into the song that was playing and announced it. We were just south of Jackson and I sat up right immediately and said “Mother is going to be so upset!”

Does every girl born in the 60s think her father reminds her of Elvis?

The Shooting Stars

Most parents look forward to the day when their child takes the first steps into kindergarten. The transition for their child is exciting and some parents have been known to shed a few tears when this day comes. When my daughter enters elementary school this fall, I know without a doubt that I will be attending the "cookies and cry" session kindly hosted by the principal in the library there. My eyes run over with tears when I allow myself to think about this exciting first day of school that is coming soon.

Before that day approaches, I know some other tears will be shed when she says goodbye to her friends and teachers in the Shooting Stars preschool class at the Child Care Center. Chatting with the site director is part of our daily routine when we sign in each morning. How do you say goodbye to caregivers who have been partners with you in preparing your child to take on the world? How do you give an appropriate thank you that articulates your deep appreciation? How do you say good luck to the other families with whom you have celebrated numerous birthdays, field trips, potlucks and shared other important milestones?

The Shooting Stars have soared to some exciting heights this year. They traveled across the solar system when they learned about the sun, the moon and the Milky Way. They learned about how the Space Shuttle works and why its missions are important. They presented group oral presentations about an assigned planet and made paper mache models of each. Their colorful planets still hang above their heads every day as they play, nap and learn.

The Shooting Stars learned about safety rules and now in our own home, safety rules! My daughter has demonstrated how to stop, drop and roll in case of fire, and I get weekly lectures about buckling my seat belt when I get in the car. They sing along with Clair while she plays the guitar and they've discovered that Tonya gives the most lovable hugs.

They even traveled back in time to the Crustaceous period and beyond to learn about the mighty dinosaurs that made our planet their home. They have discovered reptiles and how to take care of Newt, the class salamander, and Sparky, the class guinea pig. Insects, our own physiology--you name it, they covered it! They journeyed across campus to the university greenhouse and to the downtown library to enjoy a magical puppet show. I have marveled at how much Katie has learned and how much I have also learned in the past year.

Besides writing their names and other interesting words in their journals and expressing themselves in the Art Center, they have learned how to be good citizens, how to listen, how to serve their own lunch at the lunch table, how to raise their hand and how to be a good friend.

When anyone inquires about where my daughter goes to school, she proudly announces, "I go to University." And our university ties do run deep. She was a patient at Children's Hospital when she was six months old. She had surgery to repair a tethered spinal cord which was extremely successful. And she recently told an aunt that she wants to come back someday to go to college here. I can only keep my fingers crossed.

One morning when we arrived at CCC, we discovered one of her classmates (following in her mother's footsteps who is a physician at UMC) presiding over an operating room theater. The procedure was being conducted on a classmate/patient on a sleep mat/surgical table and the mini head surgeon was being assisted by numerous surgeons and OR nurses. Everything was draped, plastic makeshift surgical instruments were laid out and all were wearing scrubs with their hair covered appropriately. She was allowed to quickly scrub in. This was another uniquely Vanderbilt moment, one that's hard to forget and wonderful to picture!

I'll miss the diversity of the CCC. My daughter's friends are citizens of the world and when you are only 4 and 5, you don't see differences, you only see your best friends. The teachers in the preschool have prepared the Shooting Stars well for any challenges they may encounter in kindergarten; sharing books and supplies, raising their hands for their turn, celebrating traditions and practices of various cultures and learning about worlds beyond the one we live in.

I will shed more than one tear when we say goodbye to Rhonda, Clair and Tonya and the other teachers, Jesse and Ashli, who have helped in the caregiving of my daughter, and I strongly emphasize care. I'll miss our daily routine of driving north on the lookout for VW bugs and playing the "Punchbug" game. I'll miss arriving on campus together for a day of work and pre-school. I'll miss the ability of being able to leave my desk and walk over to the VCCC to check on her if she is sick. And I'll miss enjoying an entertaining lunch with her and her classmates and the sunny walk back across Campus. I'll miss the alliances I have formed with the other parents who arrive on the same schedule as we do. I'll miss the sweetness of the many children that my daughter has been lucky to have as friends.

I'll miss the security of knowing my daughter has spent her day in a place where early education and the well-being of its charges is a number one priority. Of the many benefits the employees of University have available to them, it's the one that I have benefited from and enjoyed the most. Hearts and Minds have a slightly different context here, but the meaning is as extremely important.

At the recent Shooting Stars end-of-the- year picnic and celebration, the students and parents feasted on a great cornucopia of food and enjoyed a sunlit evening at Dragon Park filled with a few last hours to spend together as a class. Teachers Clair and Tonya, the wisest stars in the classroom, handed out awards for Reading, Math, Paleontology, Art, Friendship, Sports, and Science. Each Shooting Star student was delighted to receive an award that celebrated the achievements of their young hearts and minds. Our group of parents clapped and cheered as if the students had walked across a graduation stage with honors. One parent voiced the thought that many of us shared: "I hope that after being in this classroom, kindergarten won't be a disappointment."

Thanks to CCC, the Shooting Stars are well on their way to the brightest of horizons because they've helped not only the students, but this parent, prepare for the journey and entry into the elementary school stratosphere. I can in a minute way relate to the parent of an astronaut who must shed tears of pride, joy and grateful remembrance of teachers and instructors who made a difference, the subject that may have planted a seed and sparked a dream when they watch their child take the first steps onto the launch pad. The teachers and caregivers at the CCC have been part of our mission control, working as a team with the parents of the Shooting Stars, as we closely monitor these bright lights that streak across the nighttime skies of our lives.

Originally published in the VUMC, House Organ, August 2004.

It's Gives A Whole New Meaning to the Phrase "Swimming with Sharks"

The Courage to be Called a "Single Mom"

"Are you a single mom?" the woman sniffed while first glancing at me up and down and then at my daughter. "No," I said awkwardly, "I'm, uh, divorced." She had appeared at my door on a campaign blitz for a local judical seat, but the selling of her candidate was simply lost revenue in the voting sales margin because I heard nothing that she said after she asked me that question that was extremely too personal and frankly, none of her business.

My daughter had a puzzled look on her face, she had never heard her mom referred to in this manner. After the burn of humiliation had left my brain and moved down to my heart, I finally managed to say to the woman who by now had invited herself in to my condo, "Does it matter if I'm a single mom or not? Why does that matter?" I barely listened as she finished her spiel, lied to her that I would consider her candidate so I could politely shut the door and turn out the lights.

After she left, I sat on the couch and discussed the phrase with my seven-year-old daughter. "Mom," she said, "that lady was kind of rude to you." She continued "I'm glad your my mom" and she gave me the kind of bear hug that will erase any injustices done to a mom's heart. Still fumbling for words, I told her and realized it at the same time "For you, it would be worth being a triple mom or a quadruple mom!"

Personal affront aside, the comment has caused me to examine how society loves to put labels on everyone and everything - in my case single mothers. "Single Mom" is still something I'm trying to get used to. This isn't the first time this has happened.

My oldest sister once called me a "single mom" in front of her sister-in-law and nephew. She was totally unaware of the embarrassment it had caused me. Confused about how it made me feel, I found a reason to leave shortly thereafter. The comment stung, it hurt especially coming from my sister.

At church I feel invisible, no one knows what to do with me. When it comes to Adult Sunday School classes at church, I find myself in no woman's land. I'm stuck between the Contemporary Couples Class or Singles With Friends (none of them have children).

Recently, I was looking up a devotional on a popular Christian website that has single parents included in a listing for outreach minstries targeting: prisoners, CEOs, addicts, and those with HIV/AIDS. I didn't know if I should feel desperate or empowered.

The label feels like a tattoo that sometimes I try to cover up and sometimes as if the whole world can see it. My divorce has left behind a grief and sadness so deep it swallowed the pain of my father dying. After three years of getting used to my new skin, new identity and ripping off the scarlet letter and shame of divorce, now I have discovered that somewhere along the way I became a "single mom."

As head of household and a mom to a child who plays soccer, my working status disqualifies me from being called a "soccer mom". There's also "Working Mom" - would I be happy with this label I have asked myself? I belonged to Mothers Against Drunk Drivers when I was just single and not even a mother. I've always been envious of the "Stepford Moms" of my daughter's classmates and my friends who are fortunate enough to be "Stay-at-Home Moms". Nonplussed at their labels, some don't seem to be happy with their lot in life either. As I think of all these labels for the moms I know, another one comes to mind "Super Mom," because most of the moms I have mentioned are super when it comes to juggling their responsibilites at home, at work and with their children.

In discussing this with one of my college roommates, she candidly asked me if I had a chip on my shoulder. Honestly, I could answer "Yes." In the midst of my divorce, another friend loaned me a copy of the book "The Courage to be a Single Mother". I tried to read it, but wasn't quite ready yet to open the door on self-help and self-discovery. After seeing that the author had remarried and had more children, the book has been collecting dust under my nightstand. At this point in my life it seemed the choice to remarry would take more courage.

When some think of the term "single mom" does it bring to mind women who dump their kids off on baby-sitters and head off to "singles" bars? This "single mom" can't even afford a babysitter nor would I want to employ their services. The only bar you will find me near is at my daughter's dance studio picking her up from ballet lessons. You can also find me standing behind the chain link fence on Saturday's at my daughter's tee-ball games, because I'm her cheerleader. You will find me trolling the aisles at Target for household goods, because I'm also a consumer. You will find me teaching Sunday School to kindergarten and first graders, because I'm also a Christian. And you will find me in jury box of my "peers", because I am also a voter (Although guess which local judical candidate I won't be pulling the lever for?)

So next time you disdainfully label a single mom and pity her or discount her because she isn't married or is divorced, forget about it and while you are at it - don't treat her as if she is a second-class citizen. She may be an administrative assistant, a sales manager, a waitress, an executive, a college professor, or even a physician. She's more like you than you think, washing dishes, cooking dinner, helping with homework, paying the bills and trying to make her mark in this world by being a good mother to her children and working hard to insure that they have a great life.

I like to think of myself as just a "mom". I know that when I die, my headstone will not be emblazoned with that of what society has decided to label me, but instead defined by how the one person I love the most chooses to define me. And that would be simply "Mom".

If My Life were an American Express Commercial ...

My Name ..... Sabrina

Childhood Ambition ..... elementary school teacher.

Fondest Memory ..... Hiking on the back country trails in the Smokies with Chris Iddins and Alan Helfer. Seeing the glow of lights of Fontana Dam in the skies over the mountains.

Indulgence ..... Reality TV shows (o.k. Survivor, Apprentice, Project Runway, Amazing Race and yes, the Bachelor).

Last Purchase ..... T-Ball Bat and Batting Helmet.

Favorite Movie (only one) ..... Pride and Prejudice, Serendipity, When Harry Met Sally, Out of Africa, The English Patient.

Soundtrack .....Serendipity and Pride and Prejudice.

Retreat ..... Cades Cove in the Smokies and Long Island, Maine.

Wildest Dream ..... writing/publishing a novel and traveling through Europe - riding a gondola through the canals of Venice, walking down the steps of Montmarte, pub crawling in Dublin, getting lost in the Museum of London for an entire day.

Proudest Moment ..... becoming KK's mom.

Biggest Challenge ..... putting TK and his Vulcan Mind Melds behind me.

Alarm Clock ..... Heidi Hopkins, a long, albeit short alarm clock who wakes me up when the day breaks.

Perfect Day ...... Beachside - sunny day, searching for shells, playing in the sand and waves with KK. Twilight - catching fireflies, seeking out Orion in the winter sky.

First Job ..... waiting tables at Godfather's Pizza (first and last food service job).

Inspiration ..... the brown-eyed girl who lives in my house. In the spring when the dogwoods bloom.

My life ..... is about starting over and seeing what's around the next corner.

My card ..... Tar'get ( no seriously - I am credit card free - sorry AmEx)!

Happy Anniversary Baby, Got You on My M-ind!

Today would have been my 12th wedding anniversary. Am I sad? A little. But all it brings to mind is the effort I would have put into the day and afterthought given to it by him. Going into my 3rd year of being divorced I still grieve for the loss of this relationship - do I grieve over him? Hard to tell but maybe I grieve more over the fact that I failed in the relationship to make it great - that I couldn't do enough to make it successful. My failings are hard to bear. But instead of hide from the day, which I haven't mentioned to anyone, I'm trying to treat this like a normal day and move forward with my life.

I recently read something written by columnist Rabbi Marc Gellman in Newsweek as he wrote about the grief of his dog - I related also to to the loss of a beloved pet but could feel the depth of his words in my grief over my divorce:

"I tell people I counsel through their grief to try to give thanks for the pain they feel, because the pain is a measure of their love. Buddhists teach that the first Noble Truth is that suffering (dukkah) arises from our attachments to the beings of the world. Unlike Buddhists, I do not seek the removal of attachment (tanhakaya). I am happy to be a mess of tears now because I was, and my family was, loved by Miles unconditionally, and I savor this grief as the way the gift of unconditional love is painfully but properly repaid."

I do not regret my tears or my period of grief in regards to my marriage - in someway it honors my relationship with him. I'm glad to have loved him and have that extension of myself out there in the world. However, the pain that came from the relationship and the pain that has come from parting has been harder than grieving a death - maybe because it's like the death of a part of yourself?!? I want to grieve it, measure that love and put it in its proper perspective so I can move forward in my life in peace and never look back with regrets.