Prom Dress Moments

When my daughter was seven years old, we arranged to have her birthday party at a place called "My Secret Garden". Some enterprising ladies had rented an old victorian near our home and convinced all of their friends to part with their bridesmaid and prom dresses long lingering in forgotten closets. Some toy dress up shoes, a selection of old paste jewelry and plastic bracelets and garage sale accessories and they were up and running. A fashion show and tea party was included in the price of the party. All I had to do was supply a cake. These women, as far as I was concerned, were geniuses.
We scheduled the party, sent out the invitations and arrived on the appointed day and time. Anticipation reigned supreme. A bevy of little girls anticipating games, sugar in various forms and make believe arrived like bees just released from a dry hive.
After all of the gaggle of little girls arrived and began rippling through the vast array of "gowns" and accessories, I was left to wander around and help accessorize.
There it was. Hanging on a circular rack amidst some very dated eighties numbers, was an exact duplicate of my senior prom dress!!!
Now I graduated in 1976. For those of you who weren't around and those who are trying to forget despite incriminating photos tucked in albums to the contrary, it was the era of what were termed "granny gowns". I think the original motivation was to emulate late eighteenth century party dresses of the old west. Anyway, there was usually a smidge of lace, sometimes lace up bodices, floor length with some ruching and more lace. Other girls in my class, those with breasts chose something more elegant. This dress made me feel like the princess I wasn't and suited my self esteem, which was marginal.
It was powder blue and made of dotted swiss which meant that my prom date and fellow redhead, John Galligan would be reduced to wearing the classic 70's tux. Powder blue, wide lapels, ruffled shirt and HUGE bow tie.
As I stood in that sea of seven year old girls choosing and accessorizing, the memories of that magic night returned with a smile. We had a good time, John and I, innocent and good.
I pulled my daughter away from her friends. She had not yet made a decision on what "gown" she was going to choose as the belle of the ball.
"Honey, this dress was the exact dress I wore when I went to my senior prom! Don't you want to try this on?"
"No, Mom. That's really ugly."
Sigh.
I remember that day, party, moment fondly. I smile whenever I think about it. And my daughter, the truth teller was probably right about the dress. At the very least she is entitled to her own opinion.
It is one of the many memories I have accumulated, much to my good fortune, since marrying my husband and becoming a mom. As my daughter leaves for college at the end of this summer, I find myself documenting the memories and scrapbooking my brains out. My Creative Memories consultant loves me. But the fact remains that I was burping her and diapering her about a week ago. Or so it seems.
In the interim, she has grown up into an incredible kid who now has a couple of aging prom dresses hanging in her closet. Not out of fashion yet, by any means. But one day I will remind her of that story and we will both smile.
Because I don't want these stories to die. I want the memories I have made in my life to live on after I am gone. I may end up being just another link in the chain, but my link will be colorful and well documented.
I write about this because I have a friend with whom I grew up who can no longer do so.
George Bastable died on July 4, 2009. He was fifty.
We all moved into the same subdivision outside Chicago in the mid-sixties. We all went to the same elementary school, junior high school and high school. Because we were the baby boom, each of these schools was built for us and was brand spanking new.
George was one of a passle of brothers. He played basketball and football and always had a ready smile. He dated a girl one year younger for forever. It was sort of assumed it would always be for forever.
But in college, George apparently lost his way for several years. He got married, divorced and returned to working in the dry cleaning business that I think his parents owned.
It's not that we were ever close. But he was accepting of everyone and willing to call most folks his friend. He resurfaced at our thirtieth reunion three years ago. He had married happily, got his degree and became a coach and middle school teacher. I'm sure he was one of the best as encouraging others was his shining quality. He wrote columns for a local paper, and, apparently had some short stories and plays. I understand he was working on a screenplay. It was good to see him and catch up for what was to be the last time.
But what he won't have is prom dress moments. His three year old daughter and eight year old son will have to soldier on with out him. What I keep thinking about is the fact that George doesn't have those memories engraved on his soul. Wherever his soul is, it won't have those comforts and that thought makes me incredibly sad. I'm sure he has some great memories. But for leaving too soon, he has lost even more good ones. For his kids and for George.
Everyone chastises everyone else to "hug their kids" and "cherish each moment". Good advice, no doubt. Not always realistically executed. Just remember the memories that make you smile and perhaps pass them along.
God Bless, George.

The Old Man's Shoes

THE OLD MAN’S SHOES

I can see them now if I close my eyes – my Dad’s slippers. They are pretty standard issue; brown, slip on, with red plaid flannel lining. In his case, the size was 8 1/2 EEE. You know the sort that I mean. Somewhere in the world at least a million pairs are on the feet of men even as I sit here. If I keep my eyes closed and concentrate harder, I can even smell and taste them.
Yep, I said taste them.
No, I am not weird. You’ll have to take my word on that one.
Different, perhaps. There are some damn good reasons behind that, if I chose to tell you. But not weird. Okay, maybe I am weird. But I prefer to consider myself iconoclastic chic. And it is not as if I have said that I LIKE the taste of slippers. Actually, I don’t, which should make you feel a bit more at ease. But I tasted Dad’s slippers on a moderately regular basis when I was growing up. It was one of the ways that we bonded. It was an act of love.
Dad was an Irish bachelor. He lived at home and loved the drink. He ran off and married Mom at age 35. In doing so, he left behind two broken - hearted parents who had worshipped him like the Holy Son himself, and a certificate of excommunication from the Catholic Church. Mom was a divorced protestant, with a kid. Worse even than all of that, she was not Irish. In 1957 you couldn’t rebel much worse than that, even if you didn’t get around to it until you were 35. Better late than never, as some would say. I figured all of this out with the help of this truckload interfamilial baggage at a later age. But between then and now, I took on a job in the family that put Flynnery, our Irish Setter out of work.
I would fetch my dad’s slippers for him. Not that the dog was all that smart. He fit the family profile of being good looking and just out of step with the rules. But after a hard day of flatulating, barking at air, and chasing a ball for eight solid hours, he needed reinforcements. It was part of my duty as a good little girl.
And I was meant to be a good little girl. It seemed to be ordained as my destiny. Never spoken, it was always understood that this goal above all others must be achieved. It was so much more than a job, as the commercial, blared, it was an adventure. Hell, it was an adventure just to exist in our house, with our own, privately labeled, brand of “sanity”.
Every night, when the old man came home to our seemingly respectable, middle class, suburban home, he would hit the scotch. I have acquired the skill of catching a whiff of scotch and pausing for just a moment to remember Old Michael Eagan fondly. Because, back then, I knew that if dad came home, sat down in his chair in the family room and the television was on the correct channel, then all was mostly well with the world. Somehow this was the way America operated. Homes all over the country were setting up their nightly routine in the same manner. Hell, Ward Cleaver had the Beaver fetch him his scotch when we signed off the air and let them get on with their lives in television land. That’s the way it really was, wasn’t it?
So, Dad would come home from a tough morning at the office, followed by a harsh afternoon at the blue movies, a rigorous dinner at the Elks club with mom, and plop his ovoid body down exhausted from the day’s chores. He was the dad here. It was time to begin service.
No matter what I was doing or where I was in the house, he would sit down first and then bellow, “Maura!!” (or if the Elks club scotches were beginning to do their job), “LITTLE BROAD!! Bring me a clean handkerchief!”
Sometimes it was, “LITTLE BROAD!!! Fetch me my slippers!”
What did he think I was, a retriever?
The stairs to his and Mom’s bedroom were a bit much for him by this time of the evening. The way to their bedroom would remain a mystery until about one o’clock in the morning. At that time, almost every night on the nose, he would roust his exhausted self from THE chair, turn off the thwacking tape of Tommy Dorsey or Glen Miller in the reel- to-reel tape player, and let the enlightenment from the sweet drop of the old craythur kick in. Then and only then would he find his way up the stairs with Herculean effort and flop into bed.
Somewhere in the midst of growing up with this routine, I came to understand that if I pleased my Daddy, he would be pleased. That was all that was meant to be. Ars gratia artis. Res ipse loquitor. Please Daddy. It was practically our family crest. If memory serves, I learned it by not pleasing Daddy a few times.
So, one night, alone with my thoughts and my TV dinner, I came up with the inspiration of fetching the slippers. More than that, I would create a perfect atmosphere for Daddy.
I put the appropriate Big Band tape on the player, poured the scotch just the way he liked it – straight with plenty of ice, grabbed Flynnery from his canine dreams and we waited with growing anticipation. The hum of the garage door would be my cue.
After what seemed to be an eternity, there it was!! The unmistakable hum of the garage door going up was the signal of my parents’ return. It was my call to spring into action. Flynnery hot on my heels, we raced up the stairs into Dad’s closet. I took his slippers and put them in my mouth. Flynnery looked at me as if to say, “Hey, I am a setter. This is out of my job description.”
Right on cue, “LITTLE BROAD!!!”
I was starting to drool a bit on the slippers. So I raced back down the stairs with Flynnery watching in fascination. I reached the landing an hunkered down behind his sacred throne. I took the slippers out of my mouth just long enough to swallow the collected saliva and put them back in. The flannel lining yielded a stale but powdery smell straight into my nostrils.
“LITTLE BROAD!!?” Then under his breath, “God damnit, where is she?”
Out I popped from behind the chair. Flynnery and I were a warped Normal Rockwell vision of Americana. Flynnery was happily wagging his tail as I assumed the sit up position I had been trying to teach him for months and months. The slippers rested perfectly in my mouth with nary a tooth mark on them. Dad had already fetched the pre made scotch and was halfway through consuming it. He smiled benevolently at me.
“I didn’t want my damn slippers, I need a clean handkerchief.”
In one fell swoop, he had cured me of what could have become a budding shoe fetish. I resumed respectability and wore it like a Salvation Army cloak for the rest of the time I lived under that roof. Never beg in order to appease. It is, I suppose, one of the things that I can thank him for.
I find myself wondering, thirty some odd years later, why I did this. Why I begged like Flynnery to me father in such ridiculous supplication. Because later on, when the scotch finally got to him and his feet, I certainly did not try to appease him. And, I had a custom fitted cloak of respectability that was truly my own. I came to realize that I may have been meant to be a good little girl. I ended up being a human being who was far more accepting of her own flaws and therefore came to accept everyone else’s.
Before he died, I even came to accept my father’s flaws. I learned to manage them so that his behavior in the care facility wouldn’t get out of hand. When he begged, I left. Even I couldn’t stand to see his weakness emerge so primitively. It was much better for all of us when it was just below the surface and operating behind the guise of suburban life. So what he gave me in that “Cinderella” non- moment, was probably the best lesson he would ever be able to teach me in his own inimitable way.
And in the end, I can only come to a place of forgiveness. There is forgiveness in the fact that every time I see a pair of brown men’s leather slip on slippers, I will think of my father and smile. I will envision that young girl with the slippers in her mouth, up on her haunches in supplication imitating the family dog from the movies, as ours couldn't and wouldn't fetch. Definitely the smarter of the two of us. My father is smiling benevolently down at me and the smile says what words will not – that it will never be enough. That knowledge perhaps is the greatest form of love after all: No pleasing the old man. Be free. Go and live your life. And don't ever supplicate again. Our lessons come to us in strange ways.

Childhood Gin Joints

It is a very strange thing that the true legacy of my dad -- the "gift" he gave to me -- is the ability to walk into a bar with confidence.    I don't walk into a room confidently.  I don't like walking into a room where I don't know anyone.  It is a very anxiety provoking moment for me.  One that I have managed to learn to hide very well -- like the way an alcoholic "hides" the monster in the box.

But bars hold no fear.  Sadly, it feels warm and welcoming, whether or not, in reality this is true.  

Now I'm not talking a swanky place.  I'm talking about a joint.  A moose on the wall, Zeppelin AND polkas on the juke box, smoke-filled (or used to be), NASCAR on the television joint.  A place where they may or may not ask, "What is a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?"

Hey, I didn't say I blended, I said I could walk in, sit down, order a beer and wait for whoever I was meeting.  It doesn't happen often, but it is a fond childhood memory for me.

It is the fondness that is very sad for me when I think about it enough.  I was dragged to a bar just about every night of my childhood.  I would be given a Shirley Temple or a coke and told to go sit by the tele while my parents sat at the bar and talked.  They had their usual haunts.  Ones where my dad would be thought of as clever rather than sarcastic and belittling.  The bartender would know to keep 'em coming.

This is not to say I was particularly disturbed by this modus operandi. The saving grace of childhood is all you know is all you know. It was my normal and, like most kids, the familiar is comforting, no matter how odd to the mainstream. And, it gave me a life skill of sorts. To this day I am still more comfortable having someone else lead the way into a new social situation. Thankfully, I am no longer comfortable walking into joints. They give me the willies. But I hold back, watch, determine the lay of the land, and tentatively step forward into it. And if there is a drunk at the bar, making an ass out of himself, I can smile with pity and detached amusement.

"Sliding Doors" and "P.S., I Love You"

New Year's weekend, with all chores, errands, parties done, I sat down to watch a movie.   I don't even recall when the movie, "P.S., I Love You" was released.  It was probably this summer.  Further, I am not a particular fan of Hillary Swank.  I think she has talent, but her movies appeal to a different demographic than mine.  

Until this one.

It has everything a chick flick needs for me: a spiritual flavor, hot Irishmen with great buns, wonderful scenery of Ireland, my soul's home, and a redemptive ending.  The basic premise is the fact that Holly's husband, Gerry, has died after a brief illness.  But he had enough time to organize a series of letters to be delivered to Holly after his funeral under a variety of circumstances.  In the end, Gerry accomplishes his post mortem goal.  The journey they take while communicating from different spectrum, is wonderful.

It had been a long time since I had seen a good chick flick.  The last one was ten years ago.  It was called "Sliding Doors".  A c.f. of a different flavor.  Gwyneth Paltrow is Helen, the classic nice girl dating a philandering loser.  On a particularly bad day, Helen misses the tube to work.  And then, she doesn't .  From there, the movie splits into two different scenarios:  what happens after she misses the tube and what happens when she doesn't.  

As a creative type, I really allow movies to resonate to my core.  It doesn't happen often.  Usually I just find the small sign or message I am supposed to receive.  What resonated with these two in particular was the synchronicity of life.  How things can turn on a dime.  For example, through a series of odd circumstances I went to a Christmas party 21 years ago.  It was in a location that held unpleasant memories for me, there were too many arrogant bankers with bad comb-overs, none of us wanted to be there.  We were getting ready to leave.

And then, my future husband walked across the crowded room.

He wasn't supposed to be there either.  Traffic "allowed" him to get back to the burbs in record time and this was an opportunity to introduce himself to the community.  The comb-overs, who were his bankers, were just as snotty to him.  And he walked across the crowded room to meet me.

We talked for quite a while and felt the instant connection that has never dimmed.  It was a spark.  Trite though it may be, just like in the movies.  

Synchronicity -- Carl Jung's meaningful coincidences.  Startling serendipity.  It is with us everywhere.  We need only to tune in.  

Further, and this may be a stretch for some to accept, I think it allows us to receive messages from our guardian angels and loved ones.  For many months after she died, we would be talking about my mother and a bottle cap would fall to the ground every single time. My husband and I always "trust your gut" and follow the voice of God that leads us exactly to where we need to be.

It led us to each other over twenty years ago. 

That is why I love these movies.  Oh, and yes, I am the ultimate incurable romantic.

Fast Food Creates Rude Behavior

I have been wanting to address this topic for a very long time.  As do many folk, I feel that we, as a society are getting ruder, more self absorbed and more impatient.  I am not casting stones here.  There have been moments that I am not proud of and I like to think that I am ascending, not descending.  Evidence concurs with this.  

But people, maybe it isn't our fault.  Like everything else that sniffs of unpleasantness about the human nature, we can make this a syndrome.  Rather than correct it, we can fight to have it instated in the DSM-IV (or V?).  That way, someone will write a book, others will read it and absolve themselves of all responsibility and need to improve.  Think about it.  There are syndromes for children of alcoholics, highly sensitive people, highly insensitive people, orphans, children who grew up without pets, people who can't stand plants, people who smoke for sixty years and then blame the tobacco companies.  The lists is endless as is the book describing the syndrome, the manual and workshop offered for recovery, the author who gets a spot on a talk show.  All this allows us to embrace the problem as an excuse instead of working out a solution.

I am not denouncing the wounded of this world.  But many wounded do not embrace the syndrome du jour, but rather realize the need for change.  "That sucked and I don't want to feel that way so how can I reframe my life for the better?"  

But I have found the syndrome to end all syndromes:  The Rudeness Syndrome.  And the Fast Food industry is to blame.

We have precedent here.  They already have fessed up for burning little old ladies with hot coffee.  

The rudeness syndrome occurred to me as I was in the car with the kids going through the drive thru.  The particular vendor doesn't matter, because this is pervasive and industry wide.  I pulled up to place my order.

"Yes, I would like a number 7 with..."

"Medium or Large?"

"Large."

"Cheese or not".

"Not."

As I try to continue and finally complete the order, I counted 15 interruptions before receiving the dispensation to move ahead.  This in a three minute time frame.  If we had interrupted our parents that much, a saponification mouthwash would have followed.

But somewhere along the way, we gave up or gave in.  I am guilty of interruptus impatiens (I think the DSM requires latin to make the syndrome official.) But I am a victim.  I have been going through fast food drive thrus for the vast majority of my life.  They caused it.  I have been trained at the feet of the corporate motivation masters.  All for their efficiency.  Interrupting has become an accepted phenomena pervasive through all aspects of society:  media, politics, ladies who lunch, men who don't, big business, entertainment.  IT IS EVERYWHERE.  We have become inured, nay even find it acceptable.

That teaches us all that what we have to say is too important to wait for while the other person finishes whatever is unimportantly coming out of their mouth.  No one is listening.  Everyone is just waiting to speak.  It is the downfall of society and it lies at the feet of the companies who are teaching their employees to but in and ask, "Do you want fries with that?"

Couldn't these companies find people with enough ROM to remember to ask at the end of each value meal and sacrifice a couple of seconds to save what is left of proprieties in society?  Appparently not.  And that makes us all victims.  We could get a big settlement.  We could get a bigger one if the interruption syndrome got us so upset that we too spilled hot coffee in our laps.

C'mon people, help save the planet from complete anarchy.  Let's start by telling these automatons that we will be happy to answer their questions at the end of the order and in the meantime, please let us finish.

Let's do it for our kids sake.

In the meantime, I am sure some pharmaceutical company is working on meds that will alleviate the stress we engender from fast food rudeness.

And so the next step in my journey begins.  As usual and in perfect time, the inner muse has drop kicked me (persuasion and new age music just wasn't cutting it) into the world of blogging.  I am doing what I usually do, jumping in with both feet, and trusting that my words will resonate with some people out there. 

2008 saw a major door in our life closing.  For over seventy years, there has been a "family" vacation home.  In 2007, after several years of consistent rudeness and conflict, and after much rumination and mourning, my husband asked to be bought out.  It took fifteen months and some microdramas within the larger venue as well as some petty maneuvers.  But now it is final.  And from what I understand about families, not that uncommon.  I do not understand the conflict between sharing memories and making more as an extended family unit versus I was here first or you can't come now.  The generation prior to mine and my husband's had the Act One of this karma.  While we had hoped to put an end to the cycle, clearly no one else wanted to.    It was a coincidence not lost on us that the death nell for the status quo came when my husband and I made a series of very major life changes.  We did not expect it to shake the family tree, but it did.  Right down to the roots.

But while we have been mourning the loss of good times that will no longer come, we have also realized that this is what is meant to be.  Act Two is the final act that will involve our branch of the tree.  Exeunt.  I don't even think they noticed we'd gone.

This has allowed a door or two to open.  It always does.  One of these doors is this blog.  So I begin by stating what was and making room for what will be.  The fact that I am writing this is a big step in itself.

I recall a quote from Norman McLean's "A River Runs Through It." :

"Each one of us here today, will, at some time in our lives, look upon a loved one who is in need and ask the same question:  "We are willing to help, Lord, but what , if anything is needed?"

But it is true we can seldom help those closest to us. Either we don't know what part of ourselves to give, or, more often than not, that part we have to give is not wanted.  And so it is those we live with and should know who elude us.  But we can still love them.  We can love completely with out complete understanding."

Norman McLean (or the screenwriter) really liked to comma splice, didn't they?