Inheriting Beautiful

For Mother, so she knows I recognize both—and love her still. 

It’s Time 
November 10th, 2002, San Marcos, Texas, 2:00 p.m. 
I punched the 'play' button on my answering machine as I walked into the house at two o’clock that Sunday afternoon. A message from my sister, Lana, began playing as I hung my keys in their proper place by the door. “ Loralee, Mother was put on a respirator this morning at eleven o’clock. It’s time for you to head up here to Fort Worth.” I packed a bag full of clothes, filled the gas tank and grabbed some traveling money. By three o’clock, San Marcos was in my rear-view mirror. 

She Was 
1943-2002, Everywhere 
She was always the epitome of beauty to me. Her thick, healthy, auburn hair fell down past her waist. She was lithe and lovely, feminine and free-spirited, and her perfectly photogenic face was decorated by a dimple every time she smiled. She was intelligent and talented. She wrote literature and painted. She healed and encouraged. She helped and loved people--complete strangers, even. She was amazing. 


Saying Goodbye 
November 10th, 2002, John Peter Smith Hospital, Fort Worth, Texas, 8:00 p.m. 
When I arrived in her hospital room, Larry, her ex-husband, was there, diligently keeping watch over the woman he still loved. I could not stop the tears as I first glimpsed her lying there in her hospital bed. She looked like a machine. Tubes ran out of each arm, leading up to bags filled with liquids in varying colors. Metallic heart monitor leads snaked out from under her blue and white hospital gown. An oxygen mask was strapped over her nose and mouth. She lay motionless, except for her chest which--aided by a respirator--rose and fell in a marked cadence. She was fifty-nine years and fourteen days old, but because of her lifestyle and the fact that Death hovered over her quiet body, she looked more like eighty. Sitting in the chair next to her bed, I leaned over so that my mouth was next to her ear. I whispered to her, encouraging her to do whatever it was that she must do. “Don’t worry, Mother,”  I said. “Your sister, Lana, Jon, Amelia and I—we’ll all take care of each other. It’s okay if you need to let go.”  It was four hours later that she did, at twelve-forty-five in the morning on Veterans’ Day. 

Target 
Summer, 1980, Arlington, Texas 
I got to ride shotgun this time because Lana and Jonathan hadn’t joined us on our trek to the store. I was excited about getting to spend some time with her alone--just me and mother.  As soon as we drove into the parking lot, Mother noticed a lady whose hands were full of shopping bags, plodding away from the store. She pulled up alongside the woman and rolled down her window.  “Pardon me, Ma’am? I noticed that you look exceptionally weary. My daughter and I would love to offer you a ride home. Please, let us help.”  The woman agreed and I scrambled into the back seat, allowing her to climb into the more comfortable front passenger seat. 
Following the lady’s instructions, we drove the mile to her house. Just before the woman hefted herself out of the car, Mother went into lecture mode. “Now, I have a condition to the help I’ve given," she said earnestly.  "Since I’ve saved you these 30 minutes of walking time by giving you a ride, I want you to promise me that you’ll rest for the same amount of time. Grab yourself a cold Dr. Pepper and prop up your feet. Take a nap or—better yet—a hot bubble bath! Just make sure you do something for you, please?”  As she exited the car, this woman--a complete stranger even--promised that she would. 
I was in awe. I must have asked her why she helped the woman because she began explaining.  “Loralee, from the moment I first saw her, I could feel the weariness rolling off her in waves. I could do something so simple and it would make her day brighter. It was just so easy to help her. It cost me only a few extra minutes of my time and about twenty-five cents in gasoline. Loralee, please understand this fact—everyone is worth some compassion.” 


The Way Things Seemed 
1979-1987, Universal City, Texas 
I was raised in a Yours, Mine and Ours family by my military daddy and my step-mom. The four of us kids knew we were loved, but the instances when we received hugs or actually heard the words 'I love you' were few. It wasn’t this way when I visited Mother, though. The minute she spotted me leaving the airplane, her face lit up in a smile. Each time, I had barely come into her arms reach before I was enveloped in a bear hug and asked the question she often asked, “Has anyone told you today that they love you? If not, can I be first? If so, can I be next?” 
Life would teach me in later years that Mother’s more outwardly, showy kind of love isn’t always the best kind of love—or even the most honest kind of love. Back then, however--to a romantic  teenager--Mother’s love felt so much more real than the steadfast and quiet kind of love I received every day back home with Mom and Daddy. I wanted to feel her kind of love all the time. And more importantly, I wanted to be just like this beautiful, vivacious, charismatic and outwardly loving woman. 

Worth Waaaaay More Than Checks 
November 13th, 2002, Arlington, Texas 
We found mother’s braids in an old checkbook box stuffed in her daddy’s antique secretary. Lana wanted to throw them away, but I vehemently protested. At the time, I was thinking  “Locks For Love could use this hair.” There were two braids, each measuring between 10 and 20 inches long. It was in my plans—sometime in the next few months—to cut off my hair and send it in, also. I liked the idea of our hair going in together to the Locks For Love foundation to help make wigs for kids with cancer. This reason alone was a good one for not assigning her hair to the trash bin, but there was, buried way down deep—and not sorted through quite yet--another reason for keeping these braids. I wouldn’t understand for many months that these bits of braided hair represented a mother to whom I was not ready to say goodbye. 

Taking Off The Rose Colored Glasses 
September 28, 2002, Arlington, Texas 
The trip I made from San Marcos to Arlington seemed really long. Even so, at ten a.m., I was the first child to make it to mother’s home for our impromptu family reunion. The smell of cigarette smoke instantly sparked a headache as I walked into my mother’s cluttered home. I found her seated on her ragged couch in the living room, dressed in her leopard skin baby doll nightgown. Already, her hand was curled around a wine glass which sat on an end table. Within her hand’s reach were several familiar items—a blanket, a lighter, a crossword puzzle book with a pen affixed to its front, a well-worn romance novel, and a plate--3/4s full with the leftovers from last night’s meal. 
She asked for my help in getting ready which I gave without hesitation. I hadn’t realized when I’d agreed what it would entail. I helped her up from her couch and we slowly walked the fifty feet to the bathroom. It took five minutes. As we walked, she let me know that she didn’t feel strong enough to stand up by herself in the shower. So, when we got to the bathroom, she stripped off her nightgown and knelt down beside the tub. She looked weak and tiny and frail. Her ribs stuck out in such contrast that, in the right light, she looked like a continuous mountain and valley range. At one point, as I reached down to steady myself, my hand closed completely around her ankle. I felt horrified, but I strove diligently to erase it from my voice as we continued talking about work and school and what was going on in each other's lives. But, in my heart, I was crying with fear. 

Caravan: Gifts From Far And Near 
Summer, 1997, Six Flags Mall, Arlington, Texas 
Mother and I saw the older couple walking around the mall as we left the food court to head back to her gift shop. I was 28 that year, so I was fully accustomed to Mother’s way of greeting people--complete strangers, even--and making friends of them. It didn’t surprise me, therefore, when we made the slight detour on our way back to the shop. As we approached the older couple, I heard her say  “Sir? I just wanted to let you know that I think you have a beautiful wife.” Both of them beamed brightly as they thanked her and continued with their walk. Mother usually found ways to turn situations like these into life lessons. This day would be no exception.  “Loralee, it is so important to give people their roses while they’re still alive. Tomorrow may never come and we hear such an awful amount of negativity in our world. Just a few well-placed words may really brighten someone’s day.” 


Epiphany, Incomplete 
February 03, 2003, Southwest Texas State University, San Marcos, Texas 
I was talking to Robert after our literature class one Monday Night. There was no sorrow in me. I had already come to grips with her death, I thought. I was just sharing, matter-of-factly, the little details of my life—like the fact that my mother had passed three months before. But suddenly and intensely—and for the first time, really—I saw her head on that threadbare blue and white pillowcase. With perfect clarity, I saw the ugly, charcoal brown hair, liberally sprinkled with gray. There was no trace of brown or red or blonde anywhere. There wasn't even any of the dyed red in it. Suddenly, I felt her death all over again. She was gone and I would never see her again. My heart, having just started to “heal” from the intellectual understanding of her death, broke again in what seemed like a much more solid and tangible and permanent way. She was gone. And each, every, and all of the wonderful things about her had to be gone, too, didn’t they? I was devastated. 

Seeing the Impossible 
June 1983, Terrell, Texas 
It was a Sunday evening and we were driving back from the Texas Greco-Roman Festival in Terrell. I sat in the back passenger seat behind my mother. A strong gust of wind blew a bit of her hair back toward me; so I grabbed it and examined it with care. The sun mixed in with her browns and reds and blondes. At that moment, I was completely certain that there was absolutely nothing in this big wide world which could compete with the beauty of my mother’s hair. Another gust of wind blew a piece of my hair out of my loosely made bun. It landed just next to mother’s hair. I sat there staring at the two locks of hair. Disbelief and awe warred within my 13-year-old insecure brain. My hair was the same color as my mother’s beautiful hair. As this thought sank deeper into my understanding, I smiled with joy. Did this mean I was beautiful, also—like my mother? 

Finally Understanding 
May 2005, Austin, Texas 
Loralee, 
You are a jewel in the sight of God as you are a good friend to those who know you. You have something about you that makes others (complete strangers, even) feel intrinsic worth and that is a gift. 
W. A. Baker. 

Happy in Summerland 
June 5th, 2008, My Dreams 
I dreamed about her last night. She was the same, but different. Her hair was cut short like before, but she had let the dye grow out. It was just a regular sort of brown instead of that unnatural red she used to color it. When I arrived at her home for a visit, she was sitting outside under the trees, sipping a glass of something cold and enjoying the setting of the sun. It was a beautiful twilight—my favorite time of day. The sun was gone, but it was still light out. The sky was a beautiful soft blue with pale pink streaked through it. It was breathtaking. Somehow, everything just seemed right with the world. 
She was living in an old fashioned cottage that seemed much bigger on the inside than it was on the outside. It was cozy and comfortable and she had all her favorite things surrounding her—her brushes, her paints, and a laptop so she could write. The place suited her perfectly. 
We finished our cold drinks—mine was iced tea, no sugar, no lemon—and went inside to clean up. We were meeting some of her friends for dinner. She was smiling and comfortable and happy there in that home. She was dreaming of a peaceful, hopeful life again. She was so different from the woman I had known the last few years before her death. In my dream, I was so very thankful to see her happy and to be able to spend time with her again. But then I awakened.  And I remembered.  And I missed her.  And I cried.

Wonderings

On Facebook today, I was perusing the photos of a newborn baby, Laikyn Reese.  She was born prematurely and she was finally released from the hospital when she was about two weeks old.  Once she'd made it home, her parents had a set of professional photos done.  One particular photo caught my eye.  It was the one wherein Adam, who was dressed in black, was holding his daughter.  Her head was in his palm and facing the camera and her body and legs were draped over his forearm.  Her little bottom was only about two inches from the crook in her Daddy’s arm. It is really a lovely photo.

Seeing it brought back a memory of my Daddy telling me that--when I was born--I was nearly that small.  He said he could hold my head in his palm and my bottom sat right there in the crook of his elbow.  When he told me that memory, he was smiling and it was clear that it was a memory which he cherished.  I also cherish the memory of him telling me of that day--greatly.

This picture is poignant to me for other reasons.  Did y’all know that I was born prematurely, also?  I was born somewhere between six and seven months gestation.  I imagine I was about maybe two weeks or so farther along than Laikyn was when she was born. I weighed six pounds.  I’m sure you can imagine how big I might have been if I’d gone to full term!

There is another ‘didja know’ in this story.  Didja know that many people in my family thought I was the child of someone other than my Daddy because of my early birth?  They believed that I was actually born between seven and eight months, thereby disallowing Daddy as my father because he was overseas in Thailand until January of 1969.  These ideas plagued me for many years.  In fact, when my mother told me that this ‘rumor’ was true, I was devastated.  I felt as if all the things that made me good in the world came from him and—if I wasn’t his child—then I was worth very little.  Of course, now I know that this idea of my worthlessness is absolutely ridiculous, but I was young and very saddened by these new ‘facts’ I’d learned.

At one point, my Mother told me that the rumors were true.  And who knows, really? It is true that I look like neither one of my parents, except that my hair is the exact color of my mother’s hair.  I was bothered by the fact that I don’t look like anyone for a long time.  Strangely enough, as the years pass, I have come to the conclusion that Mother was just telling a story—as she often did—and she started believing it.  The older I get, I see him in my forehead and--every now and then--in my face, especially on the days when I am tired.  Weird, huh? And I was teased my whole life (I can’t believe I’m telling y’all this!) with the following song—

o/’ o/’  Daddy butt, Daddy butt.  Lori’s got a Daddy butt! o/’ o/’   

Super embarrassing, I know—but it begs the question:  If he isn’t my Daddy, why did I have to endure that song for so many years?  It is true that I don’t exactly have the biggest backside you’ve ever seen, yeah?   Anyway, so there were things here and there through the years that made me wonder if Mother was wrong.   And eventually, it didn’t matter. I am Paul Ford’s daughter. I know Daddy loves me and I know he was my Daddy, no matter who donated to my DNA.

 But the thing about that picture of Laikyn—she weighed only six ounces less than I did when she was born at 34 weeks. I weighed exactly 6 pounds—or so I’ve been told.  Her backside was only inches away from Adam’s elbow and I was right there in Daddy’s elbow crook, according to him.  Why couldn’t I have been born between six and seven months, seeing as I was almost as small as Laikyn was? 

I realize this whole blog might be considered super silly by some, but I’ll tell you the truth:  I love the moments when I see Daddy in my face!  I greatly appreciate ANYTHING I see or realize that makes the idea of Daddy being my father more probable.   I know it doesn’t really matter, but—somehow—it does.  It matters that I belong to him, ya know? 

Good Memories

We had all just finished eating at the Texican Cafe. It was a Wednesday evening after Bible class. Abbey, Katie, Bryant, several of the Southwest School of Biblical Studies students and I had been together--talking, laughing, and eating. We had closed the joint down!
I walked out after everyone else did. Our large group had splintered into several smaller groups. Some of the students were standing together discussing one of the assignments that Rick had given them. Katie and Joel were talking about something and laughing. Abbey and Bryant were standing near me and the back of her heels were propped up against a cement parking bumper, making her seem a bit taller than her normally very short self. I can't remember exactly what they were discussing, but it wouldn't surprise me if it was about Harry Potter. It was clear that their conversation was riddled with the teasing and affection that accompanies close friendships.
I watched all of them for a few moments, smiling. Then, I look up at the beautiful black sky which was resplendent with twinkling stars--cos the Texican is the tiniest bit out of town. Then I looked back down at these groups of people whom I loved and whom I knew loved me in return and who were like-minded, (They love Harry Potter, each other, and God, but not necessarily in that order) and I thought, "I am the luckiest girl in the world."

Here are two of the people who often feature in my 'luckiest girl' moments.

Sur et Sous

I've been exposed to a lot of Spanish in my life because of where I have lived most of my life--Texas. I think I learned a bit of it by osmosis. In the last two years, I've been trying to learn Italian and French also. I haven't mastered either one of them yet, but I'm learning.
If you're a reader, you may remember when I discussed how easy it was to remember what "under" meant in Italian (Sotto) because--musically--that means something akin to "softer." I made some kind of mental connection between singing more quietly and being under something--like a table or a car.
So, I'm finally to this same section in French and I have found that my bit of Spanish knowledge is causing me problems. In French, 'Sur' means 'above.' In Spanish, it means 'South.' When I saw the first question using the word 'Sur' I chose the picture that had a cat sitting under a table. I was greeted with that annoying buzzing sound and a big red X across the picture of the cat under the table. Soon enough, I became aware that 'Sur' meant above or on top of something. I was baffled and--really--I still am. But what saved the day for me here in directional French was the word for 'under' which is 'sous.'
I have heard the phrase 'sous chef' previously but never really delved into the intricacy of its meanings. I opened up another page and looked up the meaning of "sous chef." It is 'Under Chef' like "I am second in command to the head guy.' So now 'under' and 'above' are cemented in my mind even though I can't quite get with the idea of 'sur' being above. Since 'sous' makes sense now, it helps 'sur' take its meaning in my head at the very least.
By the way, two asides: Didja know that 'dans' means 'inside?' and that 'chef' means head--like chief. So the the phrase 'head chef' is a little redundant! ha!

MAP OF ME

One of my recent homework assignments in counseling was to make a family tree, of sorts. My family tree is often very confusing and convoluted for those who don't live it every day. I decided to make a chart and well, I PAINTED a chart for my counselor. I don't think it is very readable in this photo I took, but it was fun to do. :)

I cannot seem...

...to rid myself of this anger I am feeling today. I had a good day but there was this underlying thread of anger over the words and tone someone used with me today. I am praying for peace over it. Will you pray, too, if you are a person who prays? I think I need all the help I can get. Thank you.

To whom it may concern at Straight Talk,

First, I'd like to say that I have been enjoying the Straight Talk service for nearly a year now. I have had very few problems with y'all. I adore my little phone with its qwerty keyboard and 3.1 MP camera and all the other fabulous features. I have a great signal even though I live in a rather small town in the middle of nowhere. I am usually ecstatically happy with my little phone. I think it is clear to see that I'm a fan. However, right now--I am severely displeased with y'all. I phoned your customer service department a few months ago requesting that I be taken off of the "text in the middle of the night informing me that my minutes have been refilled" list. That request had been filled for several months--until this morning at about 1:17 a.m. in the morning. The fact that this happened AGAIN is completely unacceptable for several reasons.

1) I requested that it stop several months ago. That fact ALONE should be the end of the matter since I'm the customer, i.e. the one who pays a portion your salary via my patronage of your services.

2) You may say that I should just turn off the phone at night so that I don't hear it. Why should I? This is the only phone I have. What is some member of my family called with an emergency in the middle of the night and my phone was turned off? I use my phone--probably like many employees of your company--to keep in contact for both normal and emergencies reasons.

3) Speaking of emergencies, do you know what it is like to be awakened at 1:17 a.m. with a "phone call?" What do YOU think of when you get a phone call in the middle of the night? Very likely you immediately think, "Oh no! What is wrong? Something must be wrong for someone to be 'calling' me in the middle of the night--aka 1:17 a.m.! Who is hurt? Who is dead?" Your heart rate rises exponentially. If you are at all prone to heart issues, strokes, or panic attacks, you might be in the danger zone in the moments immediately following one of these middle of the night Straight Talk business phone calls. Seriously folks, there should be no business phone calls from ANY business--unless there is a pre-arranged agreement between vendor and customer--between the hours of 9 p.m. and 8 a.m. Listen, my MOTHER won't call me or allow me to call her from between 9 p.m. and 9 a.m. unless it is an emergency. That is just basic, decent, common social etiquette.

4) In these "modern" times, a text message from a business is like a business phone call. I'd really like to know why in the world a business is calling and awakening me at 1:17 a.m. That is completely and totally unacceptable. It actually should be a practice that is abandoned--WHOLESALE--by Straight Talk. Not one single Straight Talk customer should be receiving business phone calls (i.e. texts) from you between the hours of 9 p.m. and 8 a.m. Once again--that is just a common and widely accepted bit of social etiquette. I am quite certain that you have--on staff somewhere--some wonderfully adorable computer nerds who have the skills necessary to write codes which requires these business calls (i.e. texts) be done ONLY during acceptable times. I know this can be done, Oh Straight Talk, cos computer nerds can do just about anything. They're like Daddies that way.

Seriously, this issue needs to be addressed--post haste--by your company. I certainly do not expect another phone call/text from y'all in the middle again FOR ANY REASON. If it happens again, I will have to very seriously consider spending my money elsewhere. I hope that y'all seriously consider making changes across the board in this practice of 'middle-of-the-night' business phone calls.

Thank you for your time. I seem to have plenty of it since I'm still WIDE AWAKE an hour after receiving your text--in the middle of the night.

Loralee