my nativity story

I began reading my daily intake of blogs and came across Nicki's Story. 

I first met Nicki Salcedo many years ago at a Georgia Romance Writers' meeting in Norcross. We were very much the same in that we loved words and writing and dreamed of being published, pages overflowing with magic and romance. Soon, we found ourselves in a writing class taught by Nancy Knight (amazing lady, I must add) at the Art Station in Stone Mountain. Reading aloud our weekly assignments, it didn't take me long to realize that Nicki's gift was special and that it was only a matter of time. No question about it. Her first novel will be published in 2013. Blessings.

And that brings me back to her blog and my inspiration . . .

Everyone has a nativity story, a story of birth, of life. For me, there was truly no room in the Inn.

My mother had gone through this before, and it had ended tragically. The next time, she imagined, would be different - circumstances that would center around marriage and a home, an ending that would include life.

She was a few years older yet only one year past her teens. In between days working at the broom factory, she day-dreamed of escaping the tiny north Georgia town for a more romantic world. It was the 1958 Christmas season that introduced her to Dave, a Navy man, and it was as if he flipped a switch. The New Year's Eve party rivaled any tales coming from the big city. The Commercial Hotel, Cornelia's Waldorf, overflowed with beautiful women, elegant men and endless champagne. The songs, the dancing, the dawn of morning. Don't ever let this end, she must have pleaded. Precious time faded, and the good-byes morphed into heart-felt promises, to rest in each others arms until it was his time to ship out. He would return.

These memories held her within that moment, and dreams of their reunion gave her stock in a tomorrow. She waited, and as she did, changes began to happen. She was a little more moody, a little more uneasy, and the signs told a story that would unfold over the next few months. Still, no word from Dave. The two short weeks together were now her catalyst for breathing and the subject of her prayers each night. Although there had been others, he was her first.

Days turned into weeks, turned into months. The baby was coming, but Dave was not.

There was a broom factory worker who knew of an older couple who dreamed of a child. And with pressure from her mother to give away the disgrace, she agreed to a meeting and a beginning to the end. The transaction was simple, the legal documents were few, and in October, a baby was born. The baby traveled to the opposite end of the county, and the birth mother went home to her mother and routine days at the broom factory.

I'm not sure this is how it unfolded, but for the most part, spot on. The older couple are my parents, now long gone, but forever the ones who made room for me.

We all have moments that define us. A chance meeting. A heavenly message. A baby's touch. Those that transform and transfer us to a more befitting place. As with most things in life, they rarely happen as we think they should. There are disappointments, sharp turns.  People come, and they go. Rarely is anything black and white. But then, suddenly, as the angels proclaimed, the colors fade into one another, and in the clearing, there's wise men, angels, a heavenly host, and best of all, a star. 

The only thing I have that belonged to my birth mother - a jewelry box given to her by Dave, a few meaningless trinkets, and my birth bracelet - the only thing she had that once belonged to me.  

we're all different

It was errand Wednesday and grocery store time.

I was killing time during my pharmacy wait, so I went down every aisle. I'm one of those women you hate - one who likes to meander around, look for the unusual and read labels. Looking for something besides the same-ole, same-ole. I moved down the condiment row and ahead of me was a woman with two small children. One at her legs, babbling about something and blowing on the pinwheel his mother had handed him, simply for entertainment, not to take home. As they passed, I noticed her seven or eight year old boy lingering behind, looking and touching the salad dressing bottles. When he saw me watching, he quickly scooted by me joining his mother. I looked to the left where he had been, and I noticed his fascination. He had turned every bottle - three rows deep, 10 bottles wide - backwards. I smiled. I'm sure the Publix folks would not.

Then I thought of the Connecticut children and parents. The moments parents will miss . . .

saying a million times No to the cereal with tons of sugar . . .
popping small hands that must touch every box on the shelf . . .
ignoring the fits of the tiniest who don't understand you just can't have everything you want . . .

or
the contagious smile of a child just handed a warm cookie . . .
the entertaining games with the one sitting in the cart seat . . .
the company of a child who makes the most mundane of errands fun.

So much left undone.

I thought of the teachers, too.

It's not a far stretch, really, for teachers to refer to their students as their kids. I did it for twenty years. They belonged to me as much as they belonged to their parents. I spent countless days with them, loving them, molding them, encouraging them, and changing them. Of course, they were mine.

I'm sure every teacher in America has put themselves in those Sandy Hook classrooms.

I remember the drills, walk quickly to the door, look out, assess the situation, close the door, lock the door, turn off the lights, get the kids to a corner, wait and pray. Each time, most of my heart and mind felt it would never happen, but there was a tiny spec that wondered when and could I do this. Thank God, I never had to do that with fear on the other side.

I can assure you, those teachers were ready. They were terrified, but they were ready. They held their children tightly, waited and prayed.

I am thankful for a life with my children and my students. I am a different woman because of those times. We are all different people because of Sandy Hook.

Matthew 11:25-30
Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.

my affair is over

My love affair is over. There, I said it, and saying the word makes it a bona fide fact. I have fought it for the last year, tried to gloss over this possibility, willing passion to embrace me and turn my thoughts away from inevitability. Although common sense tells me it's time to let go, my human frailty gives in to socialistic norms and I find myself salivating again. Opening the door again, ogling the object of my affection, and then . . . squeeze! It's hurts too much.

I am leaving you, my love. Those pumps with pointy toes balancing on three inch spikes (short by today's standards), those chunky wider flavors that catapulted me into mid-air, those mules with no back that never really made sense, those heavenly stilettos that transformed my stumpy legs into seven-foot Victoria Secret limbs, those heels that I could slip on and slip right onto a Sex and the City set. My diva days have come to an end - a sad, but necessary end.

It's time to move past those stately twigs right toward versatile flat shoes with cushioned beds (I refuse to say orthopedic), sandals offering control and balance, possibly a saddle oxford in a trend-setting color or a casual boot with a quickie tie. Maybe, if a little vamp is required, a kitten heel or a peep toe. I can push the envelope if persuaded. No more, come do me shoes. Now, it's come never mind me shoes.

My feet and my knees are screaming, and I must heed. I give up. In 2013, I will turn over a new leaf and another shoe box.

However, I still believe in the compelling words of Manolo Blahnik, "You put high heels on and you change." In the desperate words of SATC's Carrie, "I needed those!" And from anonymous (how ironic), the most inspiring of all: "A pair of shoes can change your life. Just ask Cinderella." I rest my case.

So, if you're a size 9 and want to increase your shoe wardrobe, drop me a line. Force me to let go. My love affair may be over, but no one says yours has to be.

a quilt's power

“Nothing is ever really lost to us as long as we remember it.”   
~ L.M. Montgomery, The Story Girl

                On the back of my desk chair hangs my mama's unfinished quilt. I have always called it Smiley. Each hand sewn stitch, each faded color was touched by her fingers, arranged by her heart. At the end of the day, she traded farm work for therapy time, picking up the patchwork she kept in a basket that sat at her feet. She would stitch until her eyes would tire, and then she would place it lovingly in the basket and return to it the next evening. And when she finished one, she'd begin another with the help of her prayer group who just happened to love quilting as much as she did.

                She worked on it this one right up until the day she died. The squares were arranged and bound, but the bunting assuring bulk and warmth was never attached.

                The kaleidoscope of 2" x 2" squares paints pictures and whispers stories of the dresses she and I wore. I remember this magnificently cool orange white polka-dotted dress, perfect for a shy thirteen-year-old who was dying to be noticed. It wasn't so much the dress but the smiley face  J zipper pull that lay on my chest. It went way past the ordinary and bordered on fashion, quite an achievement for a girl with a closet full of homemade dresses. I rushed mama to finish it for my youth choir concert at church that summer, and in my mind, I was as lovely as I had ever been, me and my long straight hair and my smiley-face pull. And, I was noticed which made mama’s efforts even more grand.

                It’s hard to imagine that quilting today, although still quite primitive in concept, is married to technology just as conversation, canning or bread making. There’s a machine for a particular stitch, one to fashion big quilts, small quilts and all those in-between. And I suspect that the thimble – which mama never quilted without – is not necessary anymore. Now the machine does the tedious work where one’s eyes and fingers once struggled each stitch of the way. And this rotary cutter contraption – taking the place of scissors? This would have saved many fights between mama and me.

                After meeting many twenty-first century quilters, I realized that although the process has evolved, the reasoning behind the craft has not. It’s about memories, of stories, of conservation, of using every scrap, of not throwing anything away, of passing down this tradition to future generations. Quilting becomes a story of ingenuity, creativity and resourcefulness, one that must live on.

                Today, in my very simple country home, I drape quilts of varied designs over my sofa and chairs. I reach for them to chase the chill, but more often, to revisit the past. I can trace the stitches that mama pulled and tugged, wear those dresses again (although I dare question why) or snuggle and get lost in a memory.  I keep Smiley near me not because it keeps me warmer but because it keeps mama closer. Some squares have pulled away from its neighbor and snags have been the result of time. It's never seen the inside of a washing machine or felt cool waters. It smells and feels the same way it did the last time she worked on it. That comforts me.

                I suspect one day I’ll finish Smiley. I’ll take out my needle and thimble and finish what my mama started. I'll give it to my children in hopes that they will realize they hold in their hands the story of two generations.

                As the days get cooler and they require more cover, reach for a memory, snuggle and prepare the soul for a new year, a new beginning. Remember what the past has taught and allow it to light the way.   

The Editor's Pen, Winter 2012. Printed in the winter issue of Georgia Connector Magazine. Read the entire issue at www.georgiaconnector.com.