The STUFF Sisters
S. Sloane Simmons and Casey Simmons
Sisters and business partners sharing life's stuff....
My son was raised with The Stones. When the Disney CDs in the car became too much for me to bear …
Several years ago, I sat next to my son in a huge stadium under a midnight blue sky. The Rolling Stones rolled over me. I tapped, I sang, I swayed, I stood, I sat. I might have cried. It was a form of church, and I was delighted with this amazing birthday gift from a friend. Me, my son, and my husband, together for one night in one place with pretty much my favorite band. It was near perfection.
Continue reading “Ladies and Gentlemen, The Rolling Stones…”
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Many were the days when I pushed my young man too far and crammed him into the car seat one too many times. To appease him and soothe his crankiness, I played Disney music. He loved it with his every fiber.
I can remember it well:The day I couldn’t take one more minute in my minivan with Disney songs on the CD player. Being the driver did not mean I chose the music every time. Many were the days when I pushed my young man too far and crammed him into the car seat one too many times. To appease him and soothe his crankiness, I played Disney music. He loved it with his every fiber.
When we purchased the CDs, my husband and I chose well, knowing we would be surrounded by these pieces for a while. They were recorded well and sung by professionals. Sure, Mickey performed some songs, as did Donald Duck. OK. But great orchestrations and orchestras moved it along, All fine and good.
Until your beautiful child wants to hear “There’s A Hole In My Bucket” performed by Goofy for the ten-thousandth time in a row in one day. I was beginning to hate Goofy.
Continue reading “One Of The Days I Went Crazy”
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At dinner the other night, my husband told the group I had sung my way through Costco the day before. He said it wasn’t loud but it could be heard by others. I did not remember doing this.
At dinner the other night, my husband told the group I had sung my way through Costco the day before. He said it wasn’t loud but it could be heard by others. I did not remember doing this. I do, however, remember thinking that I hope I was in tune and, if not, then enjoyable. I sing when I’m happy – but I do not whistle. Humming is in my repertoire but not used often.
There is one way in which my husband and I are diametrically different. He could go through life not really making a ripple on the surface. The thought of a server in a restaurant singing to him on his birthday would not only mortify him, it would be grounds for our divorce after almost 30 years of bliss!
He does amazing things – behind the scenes. He gives generously of his time and resources – quietly. And he backs me up in every single thing I do and stick my nose into. We are raising a child together, and so far the experiment is going swimmingly.
I don’t believe I make scenes. I don’t think I talk louder than the situtation demands or the microphone can take. I am a good listener and reside in quiet very well. I do occasionally, however, sing in public and like surrounding myself with my own joy. I laugh easily and talk to strangers constantly – inside and outside my work life.
My wish is that, at Costco the other day and every day, my joy envelops my husband and brings happiness and not embarassment. If not, he might want to get another cart and walk a few steps behind.
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The past few weeks, I have been listening to – and haunted by – a song from Wynonna Judd titled “Flies On The Butter”. It is a masterpiece of country music, not only in the story line but in her amazing and lyrical voice. So many of the pictures she paints with the words are like looking into my own childhood – grandparents who loved you, food that was always made to be special, and time standing still.
I put a close friend on the spot a month or so ago when I asked her – should I die an untimely death – to please sing this song at my funeral. I invited her to work out all the details with my husband because, although I was dealing with a few musical items in advance, I would not be around to implement them. She gave me a quizzical look, possibly thinking I was joking, and then the light changed in her eyes and she said, “OK.”
I have always been a wee bit in love with our girl Wynonna. 
You see, she sings in my key, so our duets are outstanding and acoustically perfect inside the walls of my car. The songs she sang with her mother while a member of The Judds are good, but it’s the magic Wynonna has made since striking out on her own that lives in my soul.
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The school my son attends had a policy, when he was starting out there, that no seats could be held at musical programs. “Come and claim a seat for yourself early, but don’t save any for others” was the open invitation. At the time, the school was still sharing a stage in the building of its neighbor church, and these rules served a purpose. I guess. I really wouldn’t know, because 
for years I surreptitiously laid my scarf / jacket / briefcase across six or seven chairs to attempt to hold seats for our son’s supportive and extended family. Divorce may divide families, but it acts as a multiplication factor when it’s time to sit and listen. Yet, six or seven was never enough; some of us still stood. I took major ribbing from many factions, 
but I never received a citation, and the school never threw my kid out of school. (Questioning authority runs deep in me. I push most boundaries gently.)
You see, our son has been raised by a village. A village that loves him deeply and supports everything he has set his mind and body to, and that village shows up in force to 
his performances, games and recitals.
Just this past Tuesday, he performed his semi-annual piano recital at semester’s end, and 13 people from his village showed up to quietly cheer him on. His tribe, his people. It’s remarkable, really. My parents have been divorced for over 25 years; 
they show up at all their grandkids’ events when possible, sit next to each other, and speak rather easily between themselves. I know this behavior is exceptional when I mention it to friends whose parents are divorced and I learn how they have to “divvy up” the school event calendar as to which parents will attend which event. That way, the grandchildren can’t see or feel the simmering emotions. 
I can’t imagine what that’s like, and I’m reminded that I live in grace in this category of my family life.
Last week, we attended my niece’s vocal music show at school – the school she shares with my son. With the new stage in our new building, 
the rules for saving seats seems to have weakened and isn’t spoken as vociferously. I did notice that my sister was ultimately unable to “save a seat” for my husband’s and my late arrivals that day. And I can guess why: the ribbing got too intense, and she gave up what she’d laid claim to. I’ve been there. I know all about it.
People have jokingly said – and still say – to me, “Well, you can’t say he’s not loved,” or, “Is there anyone you didn’t invite?” or, “Wow. For an only child, he packs ’em in!” Each time, I just smile, say little, never apologize, and know in my soul that our tribe runs in a pack and invests everything in its young.
I wouldn’t have it any other way.
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