The STUFF Sisters

The Second Question Asked

He gave me The Look. You know The Look. He was saying to me silently, “Does everything have a story?” He knew the answer and was playing dumb just so I would respond to The Look. So I played along.

I have a great friend who knows more than a little bit about gardening and landscape design. Right after the first of the year, right after we had had very hot soup for lunch, I persuaded him to follow me to my house and give me advice on a very pressing issue. Well, it was pressing on me. Grand plans for the warmer parts of the year with no better time to contemplate them than the coldest and dreariest days of winter.

As we walked around my very small property, he asked many questions. Sprinkler head questions. “What grows here?” questions. “Who laid this?” questions. “When does this bloom?” questions. He wondered when we had done certain things. He never questioned our choices or our taste. When he spoke to me about my dogwood tree in the front yard, I answered, “A Mother’s Day gift from my son.” My favorite moment was when he asked about yet another winter-weary plant in one of our beds towards the back of our yard and I regaled him yet again with not only what the plant was but which grandparent had given it to me. And when. And why. I was brief, I hope.

He gave me The Look. You know The Look. It can take many forms, yet this one was saying to me silently, “Does everything have a story?” He knew the answer and was playing dumb just so I would respond to The Look. So I played along….

I thought of this again this morning when yet another person congratulated me on the graduation of our son from high school. The conversation rolled along, and before I knew it the question was “popped” again. This is the question that seems to escape people right after they ask where he will be attending college: “Are you going to sell the house?” It has become “The Second Question”.

It has puzzled, the fact that this has been such a frequently asked question this spring. Is it because we have only one child and his absence from our home will have us putting a sign in the yard from loneliness? Is it because we live in an older, historic, and larger home and therefore must be looking for the newer and the smaller?

My friend who gave me The Look on the coldest day this past winter already knows my answer. I’m not leaving the home I brought that bouncing baby boy to from the hospital. The memories live inside the house and outside as well. With the daylilies, a gift from my mom’s mom; the dogwood tree, a gift from my son; the surprise lilies, a gift from my mom’s dad; the bridal wreath bush, a gift from my dad’s parents. The list goes on and on.

And that’s before I regale anyone with what the days were like when each planting was made. They all live with me on the coldest and the warmest days.

Vividly.

p.s. The photo was taken this morning in my back yard. These daylilies were originally grown in the ditch near the entrance to my maternal great grandmother’s farm in Gasconade County, Missouri. They are majestic and stand almost five feet tall when they are blooming.

Hold On Tightly and Hire a Professional

I have heard them all. From the day my son was born until and including today, when he graduates from high school.

“Blink of an eye.”

“They grow so fast.”

“Take lots of pictures so you never forget.”

“Hold on. It’s a great ride.”

I have heard them all. From the day my son was born until and including today, when he graduates from high school in front of very proud parents and a loving family that sings his praises higher than should be allowed.

My advice to my sister, who has a child younger than mine, has been individual in its focus: “It all changes so fast.”

Last year, a full two or three days before portraits were due at school, I leaned upon a professional to capture for me a young man who would be leaving our protective hold sooner than I cared to accept. Both photographer and subject knew what they wanted and never butted heads. They let me have opinions – one of which left my friend, the photographer, with chigger bites that lasted for days – and a set of photos that I will treasure forever.

So, to my sister, I need to change my tune, or at least add to my mantra about change: ” Hold on tightly, and hire a professional.”

p.s. My greatest and forever thanks to Robbie Schraeder for being a photographer that captures the essence of a person, not just their image. It is a gift that cannot be undervalued.

We Went North for Spring Break

The final spot on the map, just a few months before he would be college bound. Sounded like a spring break trip made in heaven…by an only child with doting parents.

Dakota had a dream. A wish, really. A desire to visit all 50 states “before I go to college.”

Those last words were spoken to us, his parents, when he was maybe five years old. To him, and to us, that deadline seemed forever away.

He has always loved maps. Even as a small child, he would hold them while strapped into his car seat and look them over. Occasionally the map was indeed upside down, but that only made the flash on my camera react faster.

We thought he might not continue with this wish. I mean, really, most children that age will tell you they want to be policemen and firefighters and veterinarians when they grow up. Few of them follow through on those adamantly delivered statements. Things change. They change.

But not our son. This wish to visit all the United States stayed with him. Our driving trips to Florida became missions to see Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, and Georgia “on our way.”

Our son was insistent from the beginning that you could not count a state as “finished” just by driving through it. You had to do something real or see something real – a Confederate cemetery, the Tuskegee Airmen Museum, a Usonian town – and then you could chalk it up as completed.

So, state number fifty presented itself to us this year. North Dakota. The final spot on the map just a few months before he would be college bound. Sounded like a spring break trip made in heaven…by an only child with doting parents.

We loaded the car – with only two days provided for this journey to and fro – with pillows, water bottles, cameras, a mom, a dad, a kid, sweets, and a dear friend of mine. My friend and I met in junior high – not middle school! – and she has a desire to visit all the states as well. (North Dakota was #34 for her.) She shares a deep love of travel with Dakota, and they adore each other on multiple levels.

It was short, sweet and delightful. Too much food, too much driving, too much cold. But never enough friendship, laughter and smiles.

There can never be enough of those last three.

Note #1: All photos were taken in one day in two states. Many were in North Dakota and a few in that other Dakota.

Note #2: In an effort at full disclosure, state number forty-nine was Delaware and was mistakenly overlooked last year during the “East Coast Mop-Up Tour” with his grandfather. Dakota also visited Delware during this spring break, with his friend, Ryoko. Every member of our family has seen to it that Dakota had help – financially and transportation-wise – reaching this amazing goal. To my mom, her partner, my sister, my dad, my step-mom, and everyone else, I say thank you for making this amazing dream come true. Wow. What a lucky kid.

Note #3: The Grand Forks Herald – and the amazing Marilyn Hagerty – saw the magic in this trip. Our lunch with her was the the trip’s focus, the thing we “did” in that state so it could be checked off and counted as complete. She left us wanting to spend even more time with her. Read her words in the Herald here.

Care Team

My first email received today was from my son’s pediatrician’s office. Today, on my son’s eighteenth birthday. And the subject line stated:

“You have been removed from Dakota’s Care Team.”

It made me laugh to my core. My husband was already on the highway to a client, my son on his way to school. I sat in my office at home and laughed out loud. The dog looked at me, then placed his head back down on the carpet. Should call the carpet cleaning service in Kissimmee tomorrow, by the way.

The three sentence email went on to state things about “Dakota having reached the age of majority,” and “state regulations.” I’m sure all of that is true. Now cleaning kept coming to my mind, I started to remember all the times I needed a cleaning service, they were excellent, they can make your lot brand new in no time and even clean the parking lot which mine had many painted prints of my baby’s years.

Removed from the Care Team? Not in my lifetime. I might not be able to access his health records online, but I will never stop caring. No combination of letters and numbers in password sequencing will keep me from remembering every little thing about him. Every fine blue vein on his baby eyelids, noticed best when he was sleeping in my arms. Every tear cried over the toddler ridicule of his favorite color. Every fitting for tiny eyeglasses. Every mole, scrape, and hairstyle.

My baby is eighteen years old today. My, how time does fly….

p.s. Dakota pushed this box of Coke around the floor for over an hour just a few months after turning one. We were preparing for a party, and he considered himself a huge help. The smile never stopped….

You Never Know

I have learned in the past year to not let ideas – and therefore chances – for getaways get by me. Life is looking shorter and shorter most days.

I left town for twenty-nine hours over the weekend with a friend. A road trip. You never know how much you need to leave town until you are in the car and rolling down the highway.

I was past ready to get out of town and away from some of my responsibilities. My traveling companion is pretty darn fantastic at pre-planning a road trip. Dinner reservations for the first night? Done. Snacks for the car? Done. Food and drink packed for late night cocktails and breakfast? Done.

I was the slacker as such. Well, I drove. That counts. There was gas in the car, a fresh oil change, and a music mix available with the punch of three buttons. Not as impressive as the rare mini bananas my friend provided. “Show off,” I said, as I bit into my first.

Art was what got us out of town. A desire to see a show that was closing at a museum in not so many days. It was the impetus we needed to spend much needed time away together.

I have learned in the past year to not let ideas – and therefore chances – for getaways get by me. Life is looking shorter and shorter most days. I am not known for my ability to relax, but I am willing to finally learn. Time away with friends has proved to be tonic for me and a great education in kicking back. Earlier this fall, I headed an hour south with two friends for a night of glamping – an incredible twenty-four hours away from our families and our to-do lists that felt like days, not just one day.

What was spoken one night well over a month ago while sitting in bar chairs – “Let’s go together and see that show!” – turned into reality because we made it so. My friend and I are both owners of small businesses, and the needs of those businesses can overwhelm and overstep. So, we danced right around them and carved out the time.

On the drive home, we kind of planned the next trip. A location was mentioned, a desire to go was announced, and we had just proved to ourselves that we travel well together. Quite well, actually.

I’ll be packed and ready.

p.s. All images were taken by me, and most are only small parts of some of my favorite pieces at the State of the Art exhibit that closes at the Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art in Bentonville, Arkansas, on Monday, January 19th. A few are images of pieces in their permanent collection. Again, close-ups of my favorite parts.

Quote Me

Sometimes, you just gotta put words together until they fit perfectly to your environment, emotions and life.

This week was a whirlwind. Casey and I kept many meetings outside the store. We volunteered, dined and visited with many people beyond the limits of our store. At each event, I found myself mesmerized by what people said when describing their work world and lives.

“penalty kick shoot out”

“swells & riptides”

“warm, white box”

“work & turn”

“own a niche”

“blow smoke up myself”

I know Casey and I speak a language unique to our industry, yet I can’t think of one phrase as I write this. When we were political consultants, everything was an acronym: RON (rest over night), PDQ (pretty damn quick), FYI (for your information). Some were even more specific to clients and jobs. Again, they escape me.

But one quote I will never forget – spoken just between Casey and me in private until right now – and that makes me laugh all these years later is “monumental crap shit fest”.

Sometimes, you just gotta put words together until they fit perfectly to your environment, emotions and life.

You can quote me on that.

Photo: My desk today. I surround myself with quotes and images at work. Not surprisingly, my most packed board on Pinterest is called “Saying Something”. Quote, quote and more quotes.

Coming Of Age

It was wine night on my deck. Two good friends, a few bottles of wine and some snacks. I was ready for adult conversation. We were kid free. I was craving

It was wine night on my deck. Two good friends, a few bottles of wine and some snacks. I was ready for adult conversation. We were kid free. I was craving talk about subjects you save as a parent to talk about when there are no kids around. I know men believe that when women get together we talk about our “periods” and other “women stuff”. Not true! We talk about politics, world views, sex, drugs and rock n’ roll. We are evolved women dammit.

Well…most of the time.

This night we were discussing our daughters “coming of age”. We are fast approaching this next adventure in parenting. One of my friends already has older girls, so we leaned in while she shared her sage advice.

We are still a couple years from the big, looming menstrual cycles. So, we somehow got into a discussion about deodorant. Yes, the day your baby girl needs to start wearing deodorant is a big deal.

My own childhood deodorant story is traumatic

I was on a much anticipated trip with 5 family elders. I was the only kid invited to go on their summer vacation. My grandparents, two great aunts and one great uncle all to myself. We drove in two cars to Colorado Springs, Colorado to stay for a week in a mountainside cabin. I rode alone in the backseat of a Duster with no A/C owned by my great aunt, Eunice. I would slide on a pool of my sweat when we made turns. It was bliss. I was on-my-own in an all adult world.

My great aunt, Eunice, a single woman, was the only member from that generation of my family that lived in Kansas City. All my other “greats” were in mid-Missouri. So, I was close to her. She was the “great” that took us to the Zoo and World’s of Fun every summer. We had bunking parties at her house. She made individual jello servings in little bowls with fruit when we visited. She took us shopping and lunching about town.

Eunice was generous and loving. Eunice traveled. Eunice was a “city girl” that lived in her own house. She was independent and worked full time. She dressed nicely and lived simply. I looked up to her and loved her deeply.

She was also very direct and pragmatic. So, when I was stinking up the cabin with my sweaty 10 year old funk, she told me, directly to my face, in front of a room full of my elders without any softness…no hug, no let’s “have a talk”, no warning. Just a flat out “you need to get some deodorant kid, you stink”, I was crushed. I was embarrassed. I was mortified. These were not subjects you discussed in public.

My grandmother Gladys, her younger sister, saved me. She called me into the kitchen under the guise to help her cook and then took me outside the mountain cabin for a short walk to let me cry and to give me a much needed hug.

She also took me the next day to get my very first deodorant.

As I sat on my deck with my friends I shared my story. I also shared my plans to guarantee that my daughter did not suffer the same humiliation. That when she was in her mid-forties sharing wine with her friends she would not have the same sad tale. She would tell a story of her remarkable mother that handled every situation with gentle, loving kindness.

The next day, out of the blue, my daughter walked into the kitchen and said, “Hey Mom, we need to go to CVS and buy me some deodorant. I am starting to get stinky pits.” I was speechless.

I laughed until tears fell down my cheeks. Check that off my parenting list. I thank my Mom and her generation of fellow feminists for championing women’s rights and a world where open, honest, frank discussion about our bodies is common place.

A page from my daughter's journal. — A page from my daughter’s journal.

I wish Eunice was still here. She and my daughter would get along perfectly.

PS. I will look for a photo of my Great Aunt Eunice and share it soon.

To Each Their Own

I remember the day my grandmother asked me to take her to New York City. By the end of our second abbreviated conversation that day, she all but said she wanted me and my husband to join her in “the biggest city I’ll ever set foot in.”

I’m not a fool. We went to New York.

Towards the middle of my grandmother’s second battle with breast cancer, she realized she was never going to see Europe. My grandfather had recently died, she was weakened by treatments, but her urge to travel kicked in again on a morning in September. She had, for all my life, always been a woman in constant and focused motion.

I remember the day she asked me to take her to New York City. She called me and immediately upon my answering started in. “What does a room actually cost at the Waldorf-Astoria?” This query had to have been founded from my sister Casey and me telling her about our discounted adventures during a market we had attended a month before at the hotel she was asking about.

I didn’t really know where she was heading with this line of questioning, I figured she might just be nosy. But whenever she started with a question and not a “hello”, I knew she had been chewing on an idea for hours or days. I was intrigued and willing to play along. I didn’t really know what the room rate was, but I jumped online after hanging up and found out. By the end of our second abbreviated conversation that day, she all but said she wanted me and my husband to join her in “the biggest city I’ll ever set foot in.”

I’m not a fool. We went to New York.

We ended up sharing a room – her in one double bed and us in another. I think she wanted us close – and, if I remember correctly, the room rate was steep. She never intended on staying in any other hotel. Without ever having been to New York, the Waldorf was “her New York”. The hotel of queens and presidents and movie stars. Fancy balls, galas, and weddings. And her dreams.

I let her choose our agenda, but, seeing my once-vibrant grandmother lessened by disease, I knew we would need to hit the highlights and see the breadth and width of the city in ways that impacted the body softly. Looking back, the only thing we didn’t get done was a subway ride. Taxi rides, tour boats to Staten Island and around Lady Liberty, top-level seats on a double-decker tourist bus, three Broadway shows, a hot dog from a street vendor, and one special dinner after a show near Times Square. We accomplished a great deal. We went in early October, and the weather was delightful. Blue sky days and crisp nights.

The greatest memory from the trip happened in our room. She was in her bed, the one closest to the bathroom. She was on her right side facing away from me and the bedside light. I had seen her in this position every time I ever entered her bedroom as a child. My husband was sitting beside me reading in our bed, and we were both still dressed from our afternoon matinee. She had already declared herself “in for the night” an hour or so earlier.

Many minutes passed in the city that never sleeps, and night darkened outside our single window facing Lexington Avenue. I thought she was sleeping because her hand-knitted cap – to cover chemo-ruined hair – was firmly in place and she was still.

Out of the blue, I heard, “We need pizza.”

She was right, and my husband was delighted. It is his favorite food in any city, but “street pizza” in NY is the delicious pinnacle. I forged ahead with questions about specifics – toppings and sauces – and she said, “Get five pieces, all different, and we’ll share.”

We loved every bite, and she marveled at the size of the slices – each in its own box – and wondered how we would ever finish them. It really wasn’t a problem any of us spent much time contemplating.

Pizza may not have been the wisest decision for late night food for a survivor over 70 years of age – or for her descendent and her husband. Ours was the smallest room the Waldorf offers, and we filled it with the wonderful smell of pizza. And probably the hall as well.

Today I walked alone from a borrowed apartment in New Jersey. I traipsed to the ferry and made my daily move into Manhattan. Every day before this one on this trip, I have been in motion with a member of my family – husband, sister or friend. I was never alone. Until today. It didn’t last, the alone part. Somewhere in the watery region between New Jersey and New York, I was with my grandmother again. She joined me on the ferry, and the memories of five days spent in this city ten years ago overwhelmed me. It was the last trip she ever took.

I believe we all have our own New York, whether we live there full time or live in it as visitors. Places we must visit every time we can. Neighborhoods we move through because they take us back to the first time we were there. Routes considered and re-considered depending upon the time of day.

My son’s New York continues to hold awe and discovery.

My sister’s New York has the Twin Towers in it.

My mother’s New York gifted us fancy truffles every time she returned to her children.

And her mother’s New York was the Waldorf-Astoria.

My New York? I’m still trying to figure it out. But I’m willing to come as often as it takes to solve the mystery. It’s probably all of their New Yorks combined with mine.

p.s. All of these photographs were taken on my daily walks to and from the ferry on this most recent trip to New York. On the last day, there was a parade. You can’t beat that with a stick.

Once a Girl Scout, Always a Girl Scout

I was a Girl Scout when I was a youngster. My older sister, Sloane, was a more accomplished scout. Her troop always seemed better organized and active. I don’t remember having a sash…