Ofrenda

Thursday is usually my day to blog but after Sunday's offering and a perfectly craptastic week on the home front I decided to not bother with blather about my life. Besides, it would look something like $^%@$^% Wally, *@**# being a nurse, ^%#@ oral surgery for Beav. You get the picture? Not a stellar week in my world and June is so edgy she is about to fall off the cliff; legs, arms and pearls flailing and windmilling all the way down to the big thud below.

I took a peek at one of my favorite blogs and was completely captivated by the challenge. The theme is Day Of The Dead. I was totally up for it given how much I love ofrendos and alters. The glitzier and more over the top the better. Not only did my ofrendo meet the inspiremethursday challenge but it went hand in handwith the artgirlz challenge. I feel much like I did my second go round with college when I mastered the art of recycling essays by tweaking sources and thesis statements a bit. So now I'm tweaking art challenges. You know what? My life isn't really that bad if I have the time, imagination and resources to spend a few hours crafting today.


Here is my alter constructed out of copies of photos and bits of my mother's old costume jewelry. I put sand from Mykonos on the floor of the box; all of the buttons came from clothing she made for me and herself; plus a button from a fancy bed skirt she made for me when I was six.
The front





The inside


The sides


I might not be ready for an Etsy shop but I'm having a good time!

Joining The Club

Dear Mom,
It’s been ten days since I joined the “Motherless Daughters Club”. My initiation was fast and you gave me little time to prepare. I mean, I knew this would happen eventually but I wasn’t planning on Wednesday morning while I was taking The Beav to school. What a blessing I feel loneliness rather than regret or relief now that you are gone. Our relationship wasn’t always easy but are they ever between mother and daughter. We weathered a few years of estrangement and moved to a place of loving friendship many women don‘t get to share with their mothers. I just wish we had lived closer and I had had the gift of the daily relationship.


Dad is bereft. But that isn’t any surprise because you were his hero and he was always so proud of you. Did you know he was smitten at first site and was afraid to ask you out because you were so pretty and popular? “Too good for a hillbilly farm kid like me” is how he tells the story. The other night Dad and I were looking through some papers he found and we were discussing my past difficulties with relationships. I told him what a tough act the two of you were to follow. Of course your marriage wasn’t perfect. The perfection rested in how you dealt with difficulties. Dad shared with me a story I had never heard before. During the late 1960’s, he came home and found you preparing to leave us. You were terribly unhappy and felt like a failure as a wife and a mother. The two of you talked things out and were able to work through your angst. You were about 37 when this happened. I remember how hard 37 was for me. How sad for you, to be dogged your whole life by such feelings of inadequacy when you were breathtakingly beautiful and so talented at everything you did. One of your friends, from many years ago, was at your memorial; she said sometimes it was hard to be your friend because you were so good at everything you did. I laughed and asked her to imagine being her daughter. I’m sorry you ever felt like a failure. I’m sorry my sister and I were so hard to deal with and you wanted--in a moment of desperation--to leave us.


Even though Dad wasn’t a big chocolate mess on Wednesday (that was my job)we didn’t want him making the journey home on Thursday alone so me and TG joined him. It was the first time in many years I’ve made that stupid long drive. But we had a good time and the stories we told diverted our attention from the overwhelming and shared grief. In fact, I laughed and smiled so much my face was sore the next day. You would have had such a great time with us. But I ached to hear your side of things. The weather was crisp and clear, too and at midmorning we drove though stratus clouds in the high plains. I think the last time I was that close to clouds we lived in the foothills. I almost asked Dad if we could stop so I could try to jump up and touch them. But just seeing clouds close to the ground made me feel close to your new home in Heaven.

All week long, while we planned the memorial and undertook the unspeakable task of going through your things, I looked for you. Several times, I had to remind myself you weren’t in the next room. TG took such beautiful care of us; making sure we ate properly. Providing the exact comfort Dad needed Friday evening when he broke down because he missed you so much. This has been hard on her, too. I believe she carries the cellular memory of losing her mother when she was a baby and losing her mother-in-law pushes forward the primal loss. I’m so happy you got to know her. She loves you very much.


Your memorial service was lovely. About two hundred people gathered and your old friend gave the eulogy and I read a short note from one of the nieces who couldn’t be there. You touched so many people and they were all anxious to celebrate your life with us.

The wake was a blast.

You would have been so proud to have your favorite nieces and nephews gathered with your children and grandchildren. (It was dear how they called me Laura Ann, I loved it.)
But still Dad and I looked for you. Wanting to share things with you; The Beav said he heard your voice a couple of times. I did too, but it was just the echoes of your sisters in my cousin’s voices.

Yesterday TG, me and the boys returned to our home and I realized how much unfinished business the two of us had. You were going to help me learn to make buttonholes with my new sewing machine; we were going to hang drapes; and you were going to help me arrange and group pictures. On top of all of that, before we went to bed that Tuesday night you promised to tell me funny stories about Sister’s adventures in dating.

Thank you for being my mother. I miss you and I don’t know if I will ever stop missing you.
Kiss your sisters and Grandmother for me.

Love,
Laura

Color me pissy today. Hormones maybe? A safe guess given I burst into tears when I saw a bald woman outside the middle school today. She was younger than myself and no doubt a chemo patient. Crying did help burn off some of my frustration but seeing her made me ashamed because the biggest reason I’m pissy today is I didn’t accomplish a single thing on my “to-do” list. I’m pretty sure this woman doesn’t give a shit about her to-do list and would trade places with me. On top of the horror of not accomplishing Important Tasks, I had to cook dinner and I hate to cook. I’m a terrible every day cook, give me a dinner party or holiday to cook for and I will rock a recipe. I can make beautiful food but just not on days that aren’t special. Like most Wednesdays. On top of all of this, I had to wait on Beaver after school and rather than just sitting in the parking lot I went to my crack dealer to pick up a few things I couldn’t live without.
Once I get there, I sort of stumble around the busy Halloween and Christmas displays. “Oh! Shiny! Look ornaments! Pretty! . . .Why am I here?” The errand turned into the performance art portion of my day.

I was supposed to get up early, walk the dog, do my laundry and go to Pilates and none of things happened. I also had great plans to finish a painting and start a massive music download for a special mix CD. Didn’t happen. So what did I do? I dithered around with images to use as transfers on shirts. But I didn’t actually do the transfers onto fabric because moving the iron and ironing board to the studio felt Herculean. I opted for sitting on my ass in front of the computer and HGTV messing around with images.

My Disregard the Body Karma came up and bit my wobbly dimpled ass this afternoon when I tried to upload a photoshopped image to flickr for this mixed media challenge here. I swear my computer is possessed with gremlins playing “Hide The File“. My guess is a nine year old would have figured out where the file is because I’m all Short Bus all the way when it comes to software. I never did outsmart the Photoshop and Vista gremlins, rather I had to make a copy the appropriate size and then scan that down into a special desktop folder designated “Collage” blatantly displayed on my desktop. Given this frustration, I think my silent meltdown was appropriate when I arrived at the middle school in my gym clothes (too lazy to change) and received the: “mom-I-have-to-do-a-project-with-Tanner phone call” exactly thirty seconds after I had just made my ten mile commute.

I wanted to scream at myself for leaving the house in gym clothes, Sure I could make good use of the time and run an errand but I was in flippin’ gym clothes! I’m a Texas Girl and we don’t do anywhere in gym clothes except a jogging path and maybe gym. Ok, I might go to the emergency room but somebody better be exsanguinating.

I confess, once upon a time I routinely took the children to school in my robe and nightgown but this was when I lived exactly six tenths of a mile from the school. (One of my favorite people on the planet does this but she tops the robe with a beautiful scarf and makes sure she has on lipstick. I was fooled for about a decade.) Anyhow, I’m sitting in the school parking lot fuming at my kid for having the audacity of being so responsible and doing HOMEWORK after school. (It’s all so ridiculous , isn’t it?) when it occurred to me to just go to the crack dealer’s, gym clothes be damned. So I went only to be distracted and daunted by Christmas to the point of forgetting my gold paint.

Despite my terrible attitude, everything turned out well, no one fainted at the sight of me in my stretch pants and tee-shirt; five o’clock traffic was forgiving and I cooked without whining (out loud at least). Dinner wasn’t a complete disaster and much to The Girl's chagrine, I ended up making chili out of various bits of leftovers in the ‘frig. Recently, she had asked if I not make Sloppy Joes again, this being the day after I had made a double batch to freeze. It seems I had relied on them too many times and burnt her out. (mmmm....all Klassy all the time at Chez Cleaver!) I think I did a fine job of disguising them with Other Stuff when I composed my chili. I even hit a sort of Zen space where I forgot how much I hate everyday cooking and sautéed onions in tomatilla salsa and beer which added a nice kick to my Whore’s Chili.

So now that dinner is made and the dishes are washed and everyone is home; I’m feeling a little lighter. Almost ebullient. My weekly housewifery chores were done yesterday and I have one more day away from the hospital and yes, I have big plans for my last day off:
Up early for a ass kicking class at the gym
Walk the dog after the boys leave for school
Meet Ms. A for a gallery tour at ten
Begin Christmas projects
Make dinner.

Dinner! Argh!

Dithering

Color me pissy today. Hormones maybe? A safe guess given I burst into tears when I saw a bald woman outside the middle school today. She was younger than myself and no doubt a chemo patient. Crying did help burn off some of my frustration but seeing her made me ashamed because the biggest reason I’m pissy today is I didn’t accomplish a single thing on my “to-do” list. I’m pretty sure this woman doesn’t give a shit about her to-do list and would trade places with me. On top of the horror of not accomplishing Important Tasks, I had to cook dinner and I hate to cook. I’m a terrible every day cook, give me a dinner party or holiday to cook for and I will rock a recipe. I can make beautiful food but just not on days that aren’t special. Like most Wednesdays. On top of all of this, I had to wait on Beaver after school and rather than just sitting in the parking lot I visited my crack dealer (insert Michaels link here) to pick up a few things I couldn’t live without.
Once I get there, I sort of stumble around the busy Halloween and Christmas displays. “Oh! Shiny! Look ornaments! Pretty! . . .Why am I here?” I forgot what I needed. My errand served as beautiful illustration of how my day had been going. I was supposed to get up early, walk the dog, do my laundry and go to Pilates and none of things happened. I also had great plans to finish a painting and start a massive music download for a special mix CD. Didn’t happen. So what did I do? I dithered around with images to use as transfers on shirts. But I didn’t actually do the transfers onto fabric because moving the iron and ironing board to the studio felt Herculean. I opted for sitting on my ass in front of the computer and HGTV messing around with images.

My Disregard the Body Karma came up and bit my wobbly dimpled ass this afternoon when I tried to upload a photoshopped image to flickr for this mixed media challenge. (link here). I swear my computer is possessed with gremlins playing “Hide The File“. My guess is a nine year old would have figured out where the file is because I’m all Short Bus all the way when it comes to software. I never did outsmart the Photoshop and Vista gremlins, rather I had to make a copy the appropriate size and then scan that down into a special desktop folder designated “Collage” blatantly displayed on my desktop. Given this frustration, I think my silent meltdown was appropriate when I arrived at the middle school in my gym clothes (too lazy to change) and received the: “mom-I-have-to-do-a-project-with-Tanner phone call” exactly thirty seconds after I had just made my ten mile commute.
I wanted to scream at myself for leaving the house in gym clothes, Sure I could make good use of the time and run an errand but I was in flippin’ gym clothes! I’m a Texas Girl and we don’t do anywhere in gym clothes except a jogging path and the gym. Ok, I might go to the emergency room but somebody better be Exsanguinated
I confess, once upon a time I routinely took the children to school in my robe and nightgown but this was when I lived exactly six tenths of a mile from the school. (One of my favorite people on the planet does this but she tops the robe with a beautiful scarf and makes sure she has on lipstick. I was fooled for about a decade.) Anyhow, I’m sitting in the school parking lot fuming at my kid for having the audacity of being so responsible and doing HOMEWORK after school. (It’s all so ridiculous , isn’t it?) when it occurred to me to just go to the crack dealer’s, gym clothes be damned. And so I went only to be distracted and daunted by Christmas to the point of forgetting my gold paint.
Despite my terrible attitude, everything turned out well, no one fainted at the sight of me in my stretch pants and tee-shirt; five o’clock traffic was forgiving and I cooked without whining (out loud at least).
Meanwhile, Dinner wasn’t a complete disaster and I ended up making chili out of various bits of leftovers in the ‘frig. Recently, The Girl kindly asked me to never make Sloppy Joes again. I had relied on them too many times and burnt her out. (all Klassy all the time at Chez Cleaver!) So what do we have in the ‘frig among the leftovers? Sloppy Joes and I think I did a fine job of disguising them with Other Stuff when I composed my chili. I even hit a sort of Zen space where I forgot how much I hate everyday cooking and sautéed onions in tarantella salsa and beer which added a nice kick to my Whore’s Chili.
So now that dinner is made and the dishes are washed and everyone is home; I’m feeling a little lighter. Almost ebullient. My weekly housewifery chores were done yesterday and I have one more day away from the hospital and yes, I have big plans:
Up early for a ass kicking class at the gym
Walk the dog after the boys leave for school
Meet Ms. A for a gallery tour at ten
Begin Christmas projects
Make dinner.
Dinner! Argh!

Scrapping the Past

Six months ago, I took on the huge task of making scrapbooks for the boys. Huge because Wally is 18 and Beaver is 14 and neither of them even had baby books. They did each have a small box with cards, pictures, mementos. I suppose I could take the easy way out and just scribble their names on the sides of the boxes and call it done. Trust me, this idea has crossed my mind a few times as I play detective and try to remember when a specific picture was taken. The good news/bad news? I simply don’t have that many pictures. When I ran away to myself in 2000, I left the albums with Ward; I was a bad mother and didn’t deserve the albums. (Oh God is that pathetic or what?). It felt cruel to take them with me: I was the one leaving, after all. “Tearing the family to shreds” was one of the many accusations hurled at me. The family pictures must stay with the family. I was no longer in the family according to Ward. The albums proved to be so *important* to Ward, they now languish in a storage shed. Given his propensity to dithering it isn’t worth waiting until 2020 or his death to repossess the albums. Frankly, I have bigger things to nag Ward about than old pictures. What concerns me is from an archival point of view: I just sort of threw pictures into cheap albums which continue to expose the photos to the element. My frustration rests more in the damage being done to the pictures rather than possessing the pictures. I should have taken better care of so many things, these pictures are just a small detail.

Fortunately, I had the foresight to “steal” the extra pictures haphazardly put in yellow envelopes. The B team pictures--you know the ones--heads are half gone and if they aren’t half gone, one or all of us are sprouting poles or trees. If we aren’t maimed our smiles are goofy or nonexistent. I lucked out and have a few gems. When I shared my project with Mother, she gave me all of her pictures to add to my little horde. I’m lucky only one very favorite picture is lost and I discovered several I thought lost. One of the lost treasures caused an explosion of weeping. It’s the only puppy picture of our Kipper-Dog and it captures his goofy personality like no other picture. (insert picture here). I only have three pictures from our trips to Canada. Luckily, I kept trip journals and they are lucid, thorough and without naval gazing so those memories are preserved for my family. I even stumbled across a journal Ward and I both kept when we went to Yellowstone before Wally was born. Sweet gifts all of these.

Looking over these pictures has brought back so many memories but the fact remains there is much I can’t remember. I can’t remember The Beav’s first step (nor do I have a picture of it). My periodic depressions have also muddled my memory, too. Two significant episodes have blocked a lot of memories. Unfortunately, one of these periods is much of Beaver’s first year. Go Team PPD! The other episode was the summer of 1999. But this space in time is easier to remember because I received real and credible help and it was the beginning of my Real Life.

I do have stacks of self-serving crap masquerading as prose journals and I thought reading them would help jog my memories of the boys and help tell the story; in some cases it has. However because they are my personal journals and I am terribly self-centered, they are simply documentation of inner turmoil vomited into spiral notebooks. If I relied on my journals, my scrapbook journaling would read something like this:

"Isn’t this a sweet picture of you and Daddy? This was taken the week we got the demand letter from the IRS and Mommy had to find daycare for you so she could make money taking care of other people’s babies so the government wouldn't take away our house!”

“A white Christmas for the Cleavers! Gram and GrandDad took you out for a sled ride isn’t that fun? Good thing you were outside because Mommy was screaming at Daddy after she caught him red-handed doing something unforgivable!”

“Ahhh yes, the trip to Texas. Ward certainly was upset when I just loaded the two of you into the car and drove alone all the way to Fort Worth!”

Sometimes the desire to include angry snippets is overwhelming and my jaw hurts from pushing away the unhealthy compulsion. I did manage a sardonic touch on the page featuring the last picture: “Same Life, Different City”. How poetic my mother lopped off the top of my head reflecting how I felt at the time: my brain half gone; Wally tugging at me and Beaver squirming to get away.

Because my glass is sometimes half full, it took me a minute or three to remember the stop we made in the middle of nowhere New Mexico a few hours before the picture was taken. The night was one of those perfect dark nights free of clouds or moon. I was taking a break so I rolled the window down, smelling the twlight lit mesa and listening to the quiet. It was well after midnight and the highway was empty. Wally roused when he felt the car stop so I asked him if he would like to join me in the front seat and look at the stars. He clamored into the front seat and I held his sleepy body close to mine as we hung our heads out of the window, the night air brisk across our faces. He gasped as he looked out at the millions of stars. Then I exclaimed: “Wally! It’s the milky way! A magic cloud of stars!“ We ohhed and ahhed over the view for a few minutes until I felt his head bob and I knew I should finish the first leg of our trip. When I remember things like this; my love for the boys and even the way I once fought for happiness with Ward floods back to me in a brilliant instantaneous joy and peace.

Reading my journals has also been hard because as chance would have it the first entry I opened to was written the day we discovered Beaver was gravely ill--at 22 weeks gestation--and my own health was at risk. April 1994. I hadn’t read those entries since I wrote them and I still hold the cellular grief of hearing the hard news. “We have reason to believe there is a grave chance your baby will not be viable at birth. If he is viable, he will require surgery and at least twelve weeks in the ICU.” Hard news for anyone to hear. Especially a Neonatal ICU nurse, knowing what the outcome can look like and the slim odds of a favorable outcome. (obviously it was favorable, isn’t he a strapping fine boy?)

April remains a hard month for me and because I’m a bit slow, it only took about ten thousand hours of therapy to realize why I greeted spring with a dull sense of loss. I’ve learned to observe April with an extra dose of self-care and to find little ways to show Beaver how blessed we are to have him in our lives. Surprisingly, scrapping these pictures from spring/summer 1994 wasn’t as hard as I thought. I remembered how re-engaged Ward became when there was a possibility he could lose his wife and child; I reunited with my sister and forged a healthy and vibrant relationship with her after years of estrangement.

My memories make me wish I had been a better SAHM. My journals just make me wince over how truly terrible I was at it. The free floating resentment was so unfair to my boys. Staying home out of duty isn’t the way to do it. Had my earning power been on par with Ward’s he would have been home with the boys. Ward may be a lot of things but he is profoundly more patient and easygoing. I’m amazed my kids aren’t more anxious and screwed up.

I sound eaten alive with bitterness when I describe the pictures I include in this blog but after working my way through the bad bits it is easy to remark on what was good and right about the snapshots; and I am lucky enough to experience serendipitous healing. Not that my life is so terribly special. All lives are bittersweet and mine is no more or less than others.

So now I’m scrapping the past, and with each page the bitter is sealed behind the photo. The only thing you can see is the sweetness of two childhoods.

Wishing For Chicken

A couple of days ago, TG and I were on our way to dinner at steubens and at one of many stop lights I noticed a woman standing on the corner. Her hair was slightly unkempt and she was dressed in clean but random mismatched clothing all of it more appropriate for winter than the mild Indian Summer eveing. What was most striking were her Platex Living Gloves. Remember those yellow gloves our mothers' wore to clean the oven? She was clutching a sign and the repetitive purple crayon scrawl only served to make the sign's message even more poignant: “Wishing For Chicken”. Found poetry.

She did not display the usual verbosity homeless people are prone: extolling the virtues of people who give their change; explaining how she had children at home or her veteran status; punctuated with the standard “god bless you“ closing. Just a simple wish for chicken. TG always gives money to homeless women so she called to the young woman who was surprised and hesitant to approach the car. TG extended a bill, asking her to use it for food. The girl, smiled a shy and woebegone smile, and without speaking she ducked her head in thanks. After we pulled away we mused over the reasons she didn’t or couldn’t speak. My supposition, she was mute. TG thought she was Russian and couldn‘t speak English. This was more than likely because of the large concentration of Russians in the neighborhood. We both agreed she wasn’t a drug addict or an alcoholic. Her skin was too clear, her eyes too clear and she didn't have that desperate dispossessed air about her. She was a lovely woman with soft gentle features and large blue eyes. I was positive she suffered from a mental illness because it was almost 80 degrees that evening; her sweater was heavy with long sleeves and she wore those gloves; which as an accessory would only make sense to a schizophrenic or someone with severe OCD. No matter what her reasons were for panhandling, she was concrete in her desire and was “Wishing for Chicken”.

A few times since Monday, I have wondered what would happen if I stood on a street corner with a sign displaying my most fervent wishes:
“Wishing for a MINI ”
“Wishing For More Retirement Income”
“Wishing for a personal chef”

These desires make me realize how vapid and ridiculous I am. All that I lack is a British car the size of tricked out motorcycle, cash, and Ina Garten on retainer? How lucky am I! In my life, chicken is just an order or a recipe away!

As one of those woo-woo types who believes the vibration or intent we put forth to the Universe will be brought back to us--like the teachings of Wayne Dyer or Abraham--I’m confident I’ll be driving a MINI and will retire comfortably. I am learning to live with the fact The Barefoot Contessa won't be leaving her posh life in the Hampton’s to cook for the four of us.

I am consistantly amazed and humbled by my own good fortune and the woman with her simple wish has crossed my mind often this week. I hope she enjoyed her chicken. Because I know it came to her. But just in case, I’ll drive by her corner tomorrow and see if her sign has changed. Hmmm...Kentucky Fried chicken sounds good for lunch tomorrow, I can pick some up while I’m running errands tomorrow. . .