We Were Seventeen

Porch pictures capture my young life. Mother was generally the photographer, using her small Brownie camera. With little artistic finesse, she managed to save moments that I treasure decades later. The resulting pictures are sometimes fuzzy, often a bit off-center, and may even contain parts of bodies but not the whole. These characteristics make them all the more precious to view. I can be transported to our farm and almost retrieve the cacophonous voices, sweetened with languid drawls. Once again I'm surrounded by dear ones whose current absence from my life diminishes it somehow.

As the next-to-last first cousin, I felt very special to be accepted by my senior kin. Family gatherings included our beloved Granny Ruth, six aunts and uncles and their spouses and my own parents. With food as our anchor, and conversation our sail, we spent many sweaty Southern afternoons together.

The years between the eldest and youngest member of my generation number twenty-two. Sadly, it was the baby of the group, my darling brother, who left us first. In the years since his loss, two more cousins have passed away. I try to keep connected to those who remain through visits, phone calls, and letters. There's something so comforting about these special people, each one unique.



Some summer day in about 1950, we gathered on the front porch of our farmhouse for this historic snapshot. Fourteen cousins, Granny Ruth, and our friend, Jerry Jr. AKA 'Pee Wee.'
We were:
Row 1 (l-r) Pee Wee, Bette, Carter, Jackie
Row 2 (l-r) Kathy, Jeanelle, David, Jessie
Row 3 (l-r) Joe, Nan, Granny Ruth, Foster
Row 4 (l-r) Frank, Frank Jr., Reg, Lawrence

Three were missing that day. Gordon, our first-born of the generation, is pictured here in 2005 at a Thanksgiving family gathering.



And Gordon's sisters, Irene and Ruth, photographed in my front yard during a visit in the 1990's.



We were seventeen. Linked together, separate and singular. Our stories are worth telling. My husband and daughter, as well as my friends, have heard many of these tales. They know I'm cousin rich.

First One

She calls from the airport and we ask her not to go. We're her parents, after all, and we want her safe. She has no fear. She's not yet twenty. It's eight years ago today and she's off to celebrate her birthday in Sweden. Our country has picked this day to invade Iraq. Shouldn't she cancel and wait to see what happens? There's no hesitation in her voice, only excitement. She knows we can't stop her, but then, we've rarely been able to do so. We try reasoning, citing ominous possibilities. I may have cried or my voice may have wavered. She is nonplussed, blissful in anticipation of seeing a dear friend and exploring her Scandinavian home. We are helpless, far from the airport where she's about to board the plane. We wait anxiously as the world changes forever. She arrives without incident and immerses herself in a culture that feels totally natural, not foreign at all. A birthday haven and one to which she'll return with her fiance to commemorate her twenty-fifth birthday.

Once, now so long ago, she'd had no birthdays. The first one was a mixture of sadness and joy. We'd recently returned from her paternal grandfather's funeral. Around our table were two grandmothers, one in mourning, and her aunt who'd come from New York to bury her father. Looking at those faces, I see youth that today has lapsed for all of us except the birthday girl. Henry, Carol and I are now nearly the age of our mothers on that celebratory day.



In a box high on a shelf in my office closet, I find a cache of cards. I must have kept every one received that year.



Caitlin's especially adorable in Oshkosh B'Gosh shortalls of pale lavender. She's not sure what's happening but tears into the presents, tosses them aside, and becomes enchanted with the purple Miss Piggy balloon.




There are no kids to share this special day except for her big brother, Michael. Given their age difference of a dozen years, he seems more like an adult than a playmate. On this warm spring day, we enjoy a sit down meal, light one special candle, and sing "Happy Birthday." The cake's made by Kelli and it's luscious as always. The beautifully designed bear is composed of devil's food cake, not hollow inside. Kelli has thoughtfully added 'fur' to the body by artfully carving the frosting. We celebrate and smiles surround us.



This Friday, the 25th, Caitlin will be 28 at exactly 2:34 pm. She'll be at work contemplating her party the following evening. Birthdays are big in her life, especially her own. An eclectic box of assorted items has traveled from our house to hers. Inside she found five birthday cards. I'm a bit obsessed with birthdays myself.



First one birthday, then another. Each one unique, every set of memories worth saving. May this birthday be sweetly savored.

It's a boy, right?

With racing heart and cracking voice, my hands shook as I dropped a quarter into the pay phone that monsoon drenched August day. Making the call from my office seemed too public. Mid-afternoon, the campus was mostly deserted and I could receive the news, compose myself, and return to my desk as if I'd simply taken a walk. I gave my name, stated my purpose and was quickly transferred. The person who answered my question asked very gently, "Is that good news?" Confirmation immediately replaced weeks of wondering and months of despair.

So began a journey, inseparably shared. I could not have known how the full fury of your presence would be unleashed. I could not have anticipated how your life would alter mine irrevocably.

The months melted as notification brought surprise in some, giddiness in others. I began to modify my diet and relinquish beloved iced tea, all processed food, and chocolate. These exclusions hardly mattered as almost everything ingested became intolerable. I existed, barely, with a regimen of oatmeal, broiled chicken, and granola bars. Tiny bits of each, eaten throughout the day. No recommended medication was accepted, no dramatic measures undertaken.

With complete support from my hovering husband, I went to work each day no matter my condition. I'll admit that more than once I laid my head on my metal desk and rested for a brief moment. Then I'd read a note that I'd taped in the center of the desk. It read, "In a moment, you may feel better." I always did.

As someone who'd been categorized as an 'elderly,' I embraced diagnostic tools. By fall, I'd scheduled amniocentesis counseling and the test itself. As I walked toward the parking lot on the testing day, a colleague stopped to say hello. He remarked that I was looking so much better and that he'd been very worried. I assured him that I was more than fine. Within 15 minutes, I wasn't.

The brain is a curious organ. Shock can erase trauma and some events can never be recalled. On October 7th, I drove along a familiar street, headed for my house. From there, your dad planned to drive us about an hour west to a teaching hospital for our genetic counseling session. I clearly remember the stop sign as I turned left toward the mountain. That's it. Nothing further until I heard a man talking to me through the window of my station wagon. I was stuck in sand on the side of the road, my car demolished. I'd lost consciousness, meandered from the street and crashed into a parked car. I was alive and more importantly, so were you.



After five days in the hospital, including a bit of scary drama, I was released. Only the car couldn't be saved. We were intact, ready to resume our journey to separation. On another day, I'm again turning a street corner after an exhausting day at work. Something happened. There's a tiny, almost imperceptible tap from inside. Like hummingbird wings fluttering. It's you. I imagine you're saying, "Hello, Mom. I'm here."

We're waiting for the results that will tell us what we think we already know. Knew from the beginning. Ordered, in fact. The lab is supposed to tell only the mother but Dad calls and gets the answer. He can't wait to share the news. I realize from his excited voice that he knows something. I say, "It's a boy, right?"

I'd told Dad months ago that I wanted a girl with dark hair, blue eyes, very smart, left-handed, and exhibiting lots of spirit. He cautioned me against such a list. My brown eyes might disallow any other color. I shouldn't have worried. Only the left-handed trait is absent.

In February, shock masks Dad's face as his staff honors him and you with a surprise shower celebration. There's a Kelli cake, your first of many. The months and the doctors indicate we're getting close. I'm ready. Are you?



Sorry about the naked bottom.



I'm waiting. Impatiently. There's a lottery at work. Someone will win when the day's finally chosen. Actually, we are the winners. Forever.



The name's long chosen. A savings account awaits. Furniture is positioned, clothes and ubiquitous diapers abound. Thank you notes for presents have been written and mailed. There's nothing left to do. Time's up. What's the day? Where's that face? I just want a peek. A tiny peek and I'll be satisfied. Maybe.

I'm hoping for March 27th. My daddy's birthday. What a present. Though he won't be able to share the joy, I believe that somehow he'll know. You have selected a different date. The digits are 25. Fine. Your Great Uncle Jack's birthday. I'm his namesake. Almost as good. Now it's your day. In perpetuity.




For the car trip home, your tiny body, less than six pounds, is swaddled in a festive onesie decorated with pink lambs. It hardly seems capable of clothing a person. You are doll-like, in fact. So small, so large in our lives.



During the waiting months, I tried to write about the experience. One essay, given to Dad as a Christmas present in 1982, is titled "Passenger Notes" and chronicles the journey. Reading it more than twenty-eight years later, I'm struck by the seeping emotion. The language erupted in part due to hormones, but definitely heightened by heart. Most of the questions I asked in those pages were answered long ago. Life took care of them as well as the ones I didn't know to ask.

I wrote that I expected to learn:
.to love without reservation
.to ponder and wonder more
.to be softer and kinder
.to really see
.to admit mortality

As your mother, I expected to share:
.the discovery of your toes
.the power of a smile or scream
.the lusciousness of ice cream, syrup, gooey cake, pizza (for your Daddy's sake)
.the roar and wetness of the ocean
.the cool quiet of a green forest
.the magnificence of a rainbow, the terror of thunder
.the flight of a bird
.the sweet smell of a flower
.the joy of Christmas
.the words you'll form
.the friends you'll have
.the sorrows you'll feel
.the hope you'll store
.the love you'll bring

Sappy perhaps. Overly emotional. You bet. A messy mother writes raw.

Once you'd arrived, I tried again. This essay may be even worse. Its title is 'Incubation.' The beginning reads, "What has it been like, dear one? A sloshy resting place."

Obviously I hadn't recovered. Regained my sense of restraint. (Usually not evident anyway.) I'm still excessively effusive. As excited and enchanted today as I was in 1983. Perhaps more so. Too lavish in my attention at times. Too anxious at others. Totally committed inexorably.



Happy early birthday, Caitlin, my favorite daughter. Thank you, Henry, for giving her to us.

Jacks and Gill

A green mini-van pulled into the adjacent driveway. The family of four emerged as I observed from a discreet distance. Could they be the ones? The neighbors we'd never had in the past whose lives might now intersect with ours. Soon there were two of us standing silently, just watching and wondering who might be exploring next door. Two toddlers, totally blonde, accompanied the adults.

Hesitating no longer, we walked casually to the low wall dividing the properties, and welcomed the foursome to our neighborhood. Perhaps we were a bit overly eager in our description of the location's assets. We definitely tried to sell its positive attributes.

Within a month, the family settled into their new home. Since that momentous day, the parents have told us often that they really thought we'd been hired by the realtor to encourage people to buy the vacant house. Not so. Our efforts were purely selfish. Somehow we knew immediately that we wanted them to make the purchase and we simply did our best to convince them to want us, too.

In October, the two families will have lived side-by-side for five years. It is difficult for us to recall life without our neighbors being so close.

During this period, an inseparable bond has developed between me and the mom next door. She calls me 'Jacks.' I call her 'Gill.' I've grown accustomed to her distinctive English accent. I've learned the nuances of her language and am charmed by every utterance.

I know that my backyard is her 'garden.' I realize that going to the store means the 'shops' for her. I listen as she calls her girls 'dollie' and I suspect that I would say 'darling.' I know that she will 'lay the table' and I will 'set' it. Each difference is embraceable.

Gill is unconditionally selfless. She considers others first and always. Sometimes I think that this fine character trait is associated with her chosen vocation. As a nurse, she's worked in hospitals and clinics in London, Los Angeles and more recently, the desert. For any sick or injured person fortunate enough to encounter her ministrations, healing begins the moment she appears. The gentleness that seeps from her countenance is instantly recognized, even by the most acute patient. She speaks with authority laced with humanity. Her medical knowledge is clearly evident and through years of practice, she can assess even the most dire situation and execute the right course of action.

When Gill was a very new neighbor, we had the occasion to seek her advice. A workman in our house had injured his arm. He was obviously in pain and very frightened. We were unsure whether we should take him to an immediate care facility or the local hospital emergency room. His boss wasn't nearby and the seriousness of the condition could not be easily ascertained. Then we remembered our nearby nurse. Though she didn't know us well and had never met the injured gentleman, Gill handled the dilemma with aplomb. She carefully checked the painful area, pronounced the bones intact, and assuaged the fears of the concerned man.

Seeing Gill in her role as a parent causes me to wish that I'd known her during my own early parenting days. What important lessons I could have learned. She is ever encouraging, utterly calm, always positive and imminently fair as she interacts with her two little girls who share the same birthday yet remain separate, independent spirits.

Gill has the ability to be an integral part of her daughters' lives without smothering them. She inquires into their activities without prying, praises their accomplishments and beams with pride as she watches them grow into lovely little girls. She's taught them the most exquisite manners. Their cute little voices echo with 'please' and 'thank you.' She recognizes and encourages their individuality and never, ever favors one over the other. She's constantly physically demonstrative, giving the girls a sense of peace and belonging.

It is Gill who remembers everyone's special day and assures that cards and gifts are plentiful. She's genuinely appreciative of all kindnesses to her family and seems unable to accept a gesture without responding in a similar manner. Our house is routinely transformed by floral bouquets brought by Gill in recognition of some small favor to her family. She lovingly composes copious notes acknowledging even the most mundane of gifts.

On days when life's stresses seem significant, Gill is still able to retain her ebullient personality. She dispenses limitless cheer and appears to effortlessly alter the ambience surrounding a challenging circumstance. One of her hugs can cure almost anything.

If there were a television show in which outstanding examples of spousal behavior were heralded, Gill could be the star. She is unfailingly supportive of her engaging husband. I marvel at her ability to anticipate his needs and meet them, even, perhaps, before he is aware of them himself. She understands instinctively the meaning of the word 'team' and she applies the concept to her daily life. I see her smile at her man and I know that the love they share is rare and richly refined.

As a nurse, Gill is devoted to her profession. She's a natural teacher who thrives on sharing her wisdom with students or fellow professionals. She has the respect and admiration of the doctors and administrators with whom she works. Her popularity in the workplace is a testament to her indefatigable dedication to the healing arts.

Though I am unquestionably old enough to be Gill's mother, she never behaves as if I am redundant. Instead, she accords me the luxury of her friendship. Gill shares the joys of her day, queries me about mine and reminds me that we are inextricably connected. Sometimes she asks my advice on a topic and I know she's listening intently to my response.

As the years unfold, I'm confident Jacks and Gill will continue to climb life's hills together. I know she'll try to fix whatever ails me and I trust that she'll receive solace from me as well.

Looking Glass

Somewhere between husbands and houses, I lost it. I'm not really sure the last time I glimpsed the pages, neatly folded and containing younger script. It may have dated from about eighth grade, but I'm not sure anymore. What I do know is that there was an assignment. Perhaps loosely described, the subject was left to the writer. I was in my pensive stage which lasted, at times, for months. Couple this frame of mind with my potent craving for another address, and the essay practically composed itself.

My unsophisticated self titled the effort "Life Through Windows." The paragraphs related what I saw as I rode the bus each day from our farmhouse to school in town. What I actually recorded has been subsumed by decades of memories since the words' conception. I doubt if I viewed anything profound. Most likely I speculated about what I glimpsed, thus creating stories tinged with fantasy.

Recently I thought about this early writing effort as I sat at my home office desk. It's in a room whose window affords me a magnificent mountain view of the 10,000 foot grey mountain which rims our desert city. I look at the house across the street whose colors seem more beachy than sand. With stark white as the base and pale blue trim, I wonder if the owner were hoping to match his equally white car.

Remarkably tall slender palm trees are scattered about the neighborhood. They seem a bit incongruous so close to an imposing mountain. Rocks populate yards and silently speak of environmentally aware homeowners. Sizes and colors proliferate and here and there, a cactus protrudes, needing little liquid for its life.

My eyes fall upon our front yard kelly-green grass swatch. I know it is a luxury in winter and that its thirst is no longer defensible in this conservation conscious society. Still, the richness of this ground cover assures me that not everything in the desert appears in shades of brown.

People parade nearly endlessly up and down our street. It is aptly named Sunset and most days I marvel as the sun disappears behind our mountain and offers yet another magnificent sight. Curiously, this street is east of one named 'Sunrise.' I've always wondered how this naming anomaly happened. True, Sunrise is a major thoroughfare, stocked with both retail and residential buildings. Our own 'Way' is much more modest, a neighborhood place.

Often, as I type, I glance through the open shutter and catch the mail carrier delivering his temporary wares. There's a white truck that belongs to Thalia, the delightful lady who cleans our pool. As one of the only houses on the street with a sidewalk, I've noticed that it is utilized by walkers, bike riders, and the occasional skateboarder. With a rather large mailbox planted in one of the sidewalk squares, maneuvering around this impediment can be a bit tricky. Little kids especially enjoy the challenge.

There are days when I am bemused by the apparel that passes by my looking glass. I wonder if there are people who do not possess mirrors or who ignore their reflections prior to leaving their homes. Perhaps there are those who ponder the same about me.

This time of year, the number of visitors to our town increases dramatically. While most of the nation struggles with repeated winter storms, our mild temperature is extremely enticing. As someone who has not ever embraced excessive warmth (anything beyond 90 degrees qualifies), I'm happily clad in jeans and long-sleeved shirts during our brief hiatus from sizzling days and nights. Thus when I witness people strolling by my window clad in tank tops, shorts and sandals, I have to shake my head. Few of them will still be here when triple digits assault us and wearing such garb actually is a necessity.

As an almost obsessively inquisitive (read 'snoopy') person, I imagine incredible stories that I link to those who languorsly stroll past my observation post. Many of these individuals are accompanied by a dog, or two or three. I often wonder if these animals arrived by car or airplane and if they're able to appreciate their temporary homes. Naturally I muse about their owners as well.

A few years ago, I heard a terrible crash and, along with my husband, rushed to the front door. A mangled car sat entangled with a stop sign. No occupants were nearby. Soon the police arrived and a helicopter soared above us. Officers on foot spread into neighboring yards, guns drawn. The fleeing suspects had burgled a nearby house, fled that scene and soon lost control of the car while attempting to turn down our street. A bit of excitement on an otherwise quiet afternoon.

Since we painted our house late last year, I've noticed that more than a few people actually pause to look at the refreshed color scheme. I'm beaming inside.

Lately I've become curious as to whether those who amble past our address ever notice the open shutter. If so, do they look beyond the glass?

Card Carrier

We drove along a country road that very dark night, headed for Aliceville. Four of us in the car, ready for a weekend celebration. One was touching fifty, the other a new eighteen. A family brought together by the proximity of natal days. Suddenly we're involved in an almost cow collision as a bovine ambles into our path, is nearly hit by the car's front bumper and then simply continues her stroll to the other side of the highway. Fortunately the driver has seen her approaching at the last moment and quickly applied the brakes. The only catastrophe is the duo's birthday cake which is jettisoned off the back seat and lands upside down on the floor. All of us are grateful that nothing worse has happened. Cake can be eaten even if smushed. Cars and cows, however, are another matter if they encounter one another.

Sitting in my office, I'm engaged in a conversation with my boss, the College President. He seems a bit uncomfortable but perhaps it's because usually we chat in his office. I look up and see my husband at the door. He knocks, enters and hands me the end of a pink crepe paper streamer. He says, "Pull." I look at him quizzically, but I do as he says. I can't help but notice that my boss's face is relaxing, maybe even smiling. I tug on the streamer and wonder what I am doing. I'm at work, after all. Soon I know the answer. I'm beginning to think that somebody might be at the end of the paper line. Perhaps my friend Barbara from Arizona. How nice. How wrong. There she is, holding the other end of the streamer, cousin Marilyn from Marietta. I scream. Scream some more. Stop to hug her and cannot keep my mouth closed. There are so many questions. My staff gathers. I look in the hallway and find that several people, including the Vice-President, have pulled up chairs and are peering over a wall of filing cabinets to witness this scene. Everybody knew except for me. I am the most gullible of all. I never get the clues and can be fooled easily. Even little kids figure things out before I do. It is February and another incredibly thoughtful and well-planned surprise has unfolded. My dear husband is a master at seeing inside my heart and giving me that which often I don't even know I want.

Twice I've been feted with unexpected visits from our daughter in time to celebrate a new birthday digit. One Saturday I was at the neighbors' house when, rather suddenly, they retreated into the kitchen to get a cake with candles. As they returned singing "Happy Birthday," someone slipped out from behind them. It was Caitlin who said simply, "Hi Mom." The look of astonishment on my face acknowledged my incredulity. He'd done it again, that master of birthday surprise. Not satisfied by this coup, the very next February, I was innocently watching television on a Friday night. The neighbors appeared at the door around 10 pm. This is most unusual, but still I am unsuspecting. They're carrying the baby monitors because their girls are fast asleep in their own beds next door. I'm startled and ask what's wrong. "Nothing." they say, very convincingly. While speaking, they move out of the doorway, and Caitlin magically appears. Good gracious. How can I be so lucky? After two such surprises in a row, she says no more for a while. Henry resorts to new schemes. He's undaunted in designing ever more complicated surprises.

Last year I opened our front door one day in mid-January and standing just outside was cousin Dottie. The resulting reaction caused both she and Henry to worry that I was having an asthma attack because of my repeated screams and constant covering of my face with both hands. Having arisen in the early morning hours for the first flight from her part of the Gulf coast, Dottie retained her buoyant spirit and spent her first few moments in the desert trying to calm me. Again, I had no clue. The five year old twins next door were in on the surprise and never hinted at what was about to happen.

More than a month ago, the subject of this year's birthday became part of an ongoing discussion. What should we do? Go to Arizona? Texas perhaps? Not Oregon. Much too cold. San Francisco? Stay here? Skip the whole day? I wavered. Considered the various options. We'd driven to Orange County less than a month before. Wouldn't it be quite indulgent to go there again? Hmmmm. Maybe not. The Marriott website is accessed. A new venue is found. It looks perfect. Make reservations for two nights.





Birthday nirvana. South Coast Plaza, my shopping haven/heaven. More than one day to dawdle, admire, select. Not quite the same as unexpected and much loved visitors, but very high on the happiness quotient. We arrive at the shopping shrine to witness a Chinese New Year's celebration in progress. Nice touch.




I'm ready to escape everyday life and adjust to my new status as a card carrying member of the Medicare brigade. This year's number is a difficult one for that reason alone. I know I'll acclimate. It's inevitable.

Throughout my life, I've observed birthdays with relish. Not only mine, but more importantly, those of my family and friends. I keep a bulging file of birthday cards ready to be mailed across the country to commemorate that special day for a loved one. I choose these cards with an intensity that may be just slightly overwrought. I browse through racks of cards to find the perfect one and affix a sticker with the name of the intended recipient on the final choice. In that way, the card is waiting when the date approaches.

My daughter's birthdays have always been celebrated with abandon. Ingrained into her psyche is the importance of such days and she insists on treating 'her' day as extra special. If blame is to be assigned, I must shoulder much of it with a very willing assist from her dad.

Even a serial shopper such as myself eventually tires and must retreat. Our hotel is located in Newport Beach and we drive through several quaint little communities before arriving at the nearly sequestered entrance. With no restaurant on the property, we'll find a portable feast and return to dine in our spacious room. Unfamiliarity with the area causes us to seek a grocery store where we expect to find a fully stocked deli that will meet our culinary needs. What luck! Tucked in small spaces adjoining the parking lot are several restaurants. It must be serendipity. There's an Italian place which serves not only the requisite pizzas but several sandwiches that appeal to Henry. Next door, a Mexican restaurant featuring rotisserie chicken. I'm happy.

Back in the car with our food booty, we're ready for a quiet evening savoring a meatball sandwich and grilled chicken with skewers of freshly cooked vegetables. Better than a restaurant. We are the only 'customers' in our hotel room.

The next morning, we decide that a bit more shopping will satisfy my birthday buying thirst and we can return home in the evening. After checking out, we wander around the center of the property looking for photo opportunities. There's a beautiful fountain to capture.



We notice another couple intent upon the same experience. After offering to take a photo of the two of them, we introduce ourselves. Ed and Suzanne have escaped from Wisconsin. The sunshine of Southern California is balm for battered midwesterners. They've spent time during previous winters in a property near our desert home. We enjoy an almost instant rapport. Trade life histories, the shortened versions. Suzanne is a shopper. She loves Dillard's and Nordstrom's. Must be a cousin.




We're reluctant to say good-bye to these delightful people and so we invite them to join us at South Coast. I'm sure Ed would rather be any place but there. Suzanne, however, is intrigued. She's never even heard of the place that holds such an allure for me.



We've proven once again that many of the best memories from any excursion occur spontaneously. They cannot be foretold or planned. They often happen if you are willing to extend yourself, to be open to those whom you don't know, and to reflect upon the gift of adding new people to your friends' list. Perhaps this chance encounter was one of the best birthday presents of all.

By mid-afternoon, the ladies have visited many stores, selected and discarded many possible purchases, left the men to talk without interruption, and embarked upon a friendship. We've shared personal insights, responded honestly and gently when asked if a particular choice is the right color, fits attractively, costs too much, or is just plain laughable. In a department store where a 20% discount is offered if the customer is wearing red, I've briefly borrowed Suzanne's bright red coat and claimed my discount. The clerk didn't seem to think it odd that the color clashed with everything else I was wearing. She simply applied the reduction.

At the end of this indulgent shopping spree, I've almost forgotten the momentousness of the day. I think about previous birthdays when 'zeros' were significant or how much I anticipated my twenty-first. How startled I was when a vicious flu flattened me that day. Yes, it was unforgettable but not in a good way. I am sobered by the fact that having a birthday is quite an accomplishment, regardless of the numbers attached. I am deeply enriched by the extraordinary people who share my life, remember my day, and make it so very special. I am chagrined to reflect upon my own shallowness when I relate how shopping can buoy my spirits. I'll need to work on that trait in this next year.

In the meantime, I'll be using my new red, white and blue identification card for a lab appointment next month. Perhaps the kind receptionist will say I don't look old enough to be a card carrier. The issuing agency knows my numbers and my face tells the rest.

Missing Valentine's

A peanut patch plays a prominent role in my personal history. It is where, incongruously, my parents met for the very first time. World War II wove their story as it did so many thousands of other men and women. Without this great conflict, I would not exist.

My mother, who brought cool water to my soldier daddy as he guarded German war prisoners in the abovementioned location, was a tenant farmer's daughter. She'd been born at home in north Georgia, the eleventh of what was to be thirteen siblings. With six brothers and five surviving sisters, it is unlikely that she received appreciable attention from her overburdened parents.

The small farmhouse must have teemed with bodies. Creature comforts would have been scarce, even the most basic amenities were absent. No faucets emitted running water. No indoor bathroom, even the most rudimentary, provided a space for cleansing one's body. A wood stove stayed in constant use with multitudinous mouths to feed. Perhaps a large fireplace provided warmth on cold Southern nights. Summer brought sweating but no fans offered relief. Electricity hadn't reached this rural area.

To say that life was primitive might understate the harshness of the environment. Couple the living conditions with arduous farm labor and life might be viewed as bleak indeed. School attendance had to be blended with crop requirements, even for the youngest child. There was no insurance, no savings, no car, maybe little hope.

My mother really never talked about her childhood except to retell a few stories. One of the most poignant involved her emergency visit to the local hospital when her appendix burst. Not only were her parents fearful for the life of their daughter, but the cost of her care was clearly beyond their meager means. Mother said that on the day after the operation, a nurse inadvertently left a hot water bottle on her stomach and she received third degree burns. The hospital administration was so alarmed by this accident that my grandparents were told they owed nothing for Mother's visit. As unsophisticated country folk, there was great relief that the financial burden had been lifted, but more importantly, that their daughter would recover completely.

However, the convalescence lingered for quite a while. During this period, Mother was unable to attend school. No lessons were sent home for her to keep up with her class. Thus, at the end of the year, she was unable to move forward to the next grade. Feeling that she would be shamed to remain in the eighth grade a second year, she decided to quit school altogether. Her parents must have agreed as she never returned. How sad for a child to relinquish her education prematurely.

With scant funds and a dozen living children, capturing childhood faces would have been unimaginable. As the older siblings married and left the family home, life eased somewhat. Whether a camera was purchased, and that is unlikely, or friends photographed the Carter crowd is unknown. When Mother died, a cache of early photos was discovered in her bedroom closet. These precious poses were previously unseen and now offer a glimpse of a young woman who obviously loved fashion, especially shoes. (It should be noted that the next two generations of females share this affection passionately.)

I look at these pictures, now aged, in some cases, over three quarters of a century, and try to see the mother that I knew. She seems carefree, happy, well-groomed, stylish. I wonder what she is thinking and what her dreams contain. I am confident that she never envisioned living her last two decades in a California desert town with her daughter's family.








Did she sew these dresses herself? Did she trade frocks with her favorite sister who was a few years younger? What colors were in her closet? I know she preferred soft pastels of blues, yellows, and pink. Occasionally she'd wear red or black and look quite stunning. Did her taste in hues shift with the decades?

On the farm, washing was a tedious and never-ending chore. Large galvanized metal washtubs were filled with water heated on the wood stove. A washboard was used to scrub out the most obvious stains. Rinsing occurred in another tub. All freshly washed pieces were hung to dry on a line that stretched across the backyard. Ironing required the use of heavy cast iron appliances which were heated on the stove's burners. During months of oppressive heat, these chores created a cauldron like atmosphere.

Mother traded her Georgia farm life for a similar one at Daddy's ancestral home in Mississippi. The house may have been a bit larger and less populated but modern conveniences hadn't been adopted at the new address either. A significant difference, however, was that she no longer washed anything. Daddy was a partner with his three brothers in a laundry and dry cleaners business. Surely this fact eased Mother's life tremendously.

As a young wife whose first fourteen months of marriage were spent husbandless as her groom fought in Europe, Mother eagerly awaited the advent of her second wedding anniversary and the birth of her first child. This baby was due on Valentine's. Yet, on Mother's birthday sixty-five years ago today, she ran across one of the farm's pastures and accidentally initiated early labor.



The baby, a girl, delayed her arrival for two more days. I suspect that she wasn't a bit happy about being born so close to her mother's birthday. She's always been somewhat selfish about birthdays. I think she might have been chagrined to have missed Valentine's as 'her' day.





Mother left us in June 2002. She had a long and fruitful life and remained a farm girl forever. She never learned to ride a bicycle, was terrified of water because of a scary incident in her childhood, adored her many brothers and sisters, cherished her immediate family and mine, retained her Southern accent throughout her lifetime, and kept her dignity even as her faculties became ever so frail. Her spirit roams our house and I find that many of her characteristics are now manifested by me and seem to be seeping through my being more and more with each passing year. Happy 97th Birthday Mother. We'll miss you always.