Pillars

I used to rule the world
Seas would rise when I gave the word
Now in the morning I sleep alone
Sweep the streets I used to own

I used to roll the dice
Feel the fear in my enemy's eyes
Listen as the crowd would sing
"Now the old king is dead! Long live the king!"

One minute I held the key
Next the walls were closed on me
And I discovered that my castles stand
Upon pillars of salt and pillars of sand

I hear Jerusalem bells are ringing
Roman Calvary choirs are singing
Be my mirror, my sword & shield
My missionaries in a foreign field
For some reason I can't explain
Once you're gone there was never
Never an honest word
But that was when I ruled the world

"Viva la Vida" by Coldplay

I was almost sort of running at the gym today when this song played in my headphones.
I literally cried and pretended I was just really sweaty. No truer words exist for how I feel tonight. It's April 12th Eve. That means nothing to most people. To a select few of us, however, it means everything. It means that Easter is upon us. It means that Lent is almost over! Prep those vices. It means that in six scant weeks we'll be celebrating the cancer diagnosis that I survived. It means that tomorrow is the day that my daughter, Chynna, died. And. yes, every single stinking year I blog about this. It is inescapable. It is exhausting. It is absolutely necessary.  It is what it is. You are not obligated to read this. I get it. Another blog entry about her daughter. But, I can't not. So humor me.

Nine years. Now, I'm a happy person. I challenge you find anyone who thinks otherwise. I'm like the Vitameatavegamin girl. I'm a happy peppy person who DOES pop out at parties and is NOT unpoopular. So, with that in mind, maybe we can skate over the obvious. It's SHOCKING to me that it's been nine years. That means next year marks a decade and then we'll blink twice and it'll be 30 years and I just don't know if I can take that. I've managed to attract many new followers who will be scratching heads and making faces....WTH is she talking about? Just dig back in the blog entries (see "Pinkish" or "Eight Christmases" or "Unbreak My Heart"). We don't need to revisit that info here. If you've ever lost a child, whether that child was in utero or 50.....I hope you can agree that, at some point, even though it never gets easier - never fades, that there are silver linings should you choose to look. I would like to share a few of those with you tonight. Placating a fellow nice person pretty much assures you sainthood, so read on, St Soandso.

Death hurts. All death. My son and his fiance have a 17 year old Blue Heeler. I dread the day. My own father, who is probably healthier than most everyone I know, is 90. It's the circle of life, as much as we hate it. When a child dies, though, I'm sorry but that upsets the order of the universe! A child just should not die before a parent. I've been through some stuff in my life. We all have, But I pray I will never have to endure a sucker punch to the gut the likes of which I experienced 9 years ago. And yet, it shaped me in a good way. It hardened some of my too soft edges and softened some of my staccato. I wake up every day thinking of some form of Chynna; baby Chynna with a shocking head of black hair, the "Miss Otis Regrets"4 year old tap dance recital Chynna who gave THE BEST dance facials in the history of ever, and even the "Momma I made it" 16 year old Chynna who couldn't tumble but dared to try out for varsity mascot. Every. Single. Day. I'm here to tell you that I am a better person to have survived this. I'm here to tell you that I am PROUD to have survived this, maybe more proud of this than of anything else I've ever accomplished. Let's end on a high note tonight. Here's what I've learned. I hope there's someone out there - just one person - struggling with the loss of a child who reads this and thinks - "OK, I can hold on for one more day (Wilson Phillips reference) because I'm not so sure that things won't get better." To you, dear person, I take my hat off. We can do this! Now....what I've learned, in no particular order:

• This is a service oriented world we live in, here in Forney, TX. Do not doubt me when I tell you that THIS TOWN saved me nine years ago. Living here and losing a child was like getting a nonstop virtual hug. To this day, I feel the love. Thank you. Forney. Thank you so much. How do you repay that sort of kindness? You give back. You volunteer, You reach out. You love your neighbor. No, really. I'm serious. It feels SO GOOD. I will do better, I will do more.
• FOR ME (and only for me do I mean this)...stuff means nothing. I don't want a big house. I don't want a brand new car. I don't crave success or riches. I just want to walk outside and feel my feet on this Texas soil. I want to grow roses. I want to rescue animals. I want a claw foot bathtub & an occasional glass of red wine. I want to hug all my boys and all their girls. I want sweet granddaughter kisses. I want my husband to love me. That is all that is important to me.
• I have always believed in a higher power but now I CRAVE spirituality. I love my religion and I love reading about all religions. Furthermore, I cannot rest each night unless I feel I have given all, done all that I could, and surpassed whatever ridiculous goal that's running around in my head, however crazy it seems. Veganism - check! Paperless kitchen - soon, grasshopper! Who knows what's next.
• I have to stick around because there is something I am supposed to do that I haven't done yet. I have no idea what that is yet, but, IT IS EPIC. That much I know.

As you rest your head on your pillow tonight, say a prayer. Pray for me, my family, all the grandparents and all the cousins (you'll be praying a while), and all of the friends, and this sweet little town that dared to shut down school for a lovely 16 year old's funeral in 2008. I can't help but wonder what I could've accomplished if I understood then what I know to be true now. Because it's a fact. Our castles are all built upon pillars of salt....and pillars of sand. <3 

If Walls Could Talk....

What Lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more,

Sonnet XLIII - Edna St. Vincent Millay

It's winter in Texas. That means so, so many things. It means snow. It means 80 degree days. It means those two anomalies can occur in the same week - in back to back days, even. Hello, y'all. I started a blog sans song lyrics, for the first time in almost a decade. I started a blog entry with a poem by my all time favorite poet, Edna St. Vincent Millay. This is NOT my favorite Edna poem, but it's a goodie. Why, you ask? We need to talk about something. We need to talk about a current obsession of almost everyone. Let's chat about houses. So, you wanna live in an old house? Oh, hun, have you come to the right person. Come on in. I'll get you some tea.

I have ALWAYS loved old houses. I love all old things: people, dogs, cats, cars, horses, houses. The order of importance tends to vary based on the day. Why? Easy. Everything I associate with happiness started with an old house. Here are some examples...my Granny's bungalow in Wilmer, TX with the New Orleans inspired wrought iron columns (complete with my Gramp's barbershop in the front room), my maternal grandmother's in-town cottage in Seagoville, my childhood rural home that happened to be an old East Dallas church that my father had moved to the country. If it ain't old, I don't want it. Fast forward a considerable amount of time. It took me a good bit, but I finally live in an old house - a 1910 bungalow, to be exact. Funny how none of my "pieces" ever fit into the succession of new homes I've lived in over the years. Like square pegs in round holes, nothing ever looked right until we moved into this house. Winchester sofa? Looks great here. Art Deco mirrors? Fit right in. Turn of the century portraits of people I don't know? Made for this place. Turns out, though, I'm not alone.

There's a home show that EVERYONE is addicted to - Texas based. My intent is to name no names because that's not what this is about. If anything, this unnamed show makes me feel so understood. Why, I'm not alone. Turns out, half the country wants an old house. Or do they? See, I feel like I'm a bit of an expert on this. So, before you strike out to conquer your own ramshackle antebellum mansion or dilapidated Victorian lady, listen to me. Linda, honey, listen. This life, it's not for the faint of heart. See, most of us don't have hundreds of thousands of dollars to commit to this lifestyle. Read on, reader. That unnamed home show, why, they showcase people whose "all in" budgets are almost a HALF A MILLION DOLLARS. Good for them! High fives all around. My life ain't been no crystal stair (two poet references in one blog! We are so sophisticated! Thank you, Langston Hughes). I dare say there are more people reading this blog who fall on my side of the fence. Welcome to the poor side of town.

I said my house was built in 1910. I can say this with certainty because we are only the 3rd party to own this home. That made my heart beat when we happened upon this place. See, the original owners managed to keep this little bungalow (the first bungalow built in Forney, TX) in the family from 1910 until 1990. That is an unheard of feat. I have a poem written by the granddaughter of the original owner hanging on my dining room wall. It mentions all who were born between these walls and all who died - we'll get to that in a sec. Then a local old home enthusiast purchased the home in 1990 and did some much needed restorations. Then it became a rental home. Then, we accidentally found it, in between renters. I saw the original 1910 cast iron farmhouse sink through the kitchen window and was obsessed. So, why do I feel the need to go on and on about hazards and such? Cause, 1910.
If you think you want to live in a near turn of the century home, here's what you DON'T know. Thank me later.

• I said, brrrrrr, it's cold in here. If you're buying a home that's pretty much in it's original condition, there is little to no insulation. Yep. Boil in the summer. Freeze in the winter. Watch a few episodes of Little House on the Prairie and get back to me. We have a high quality HVAC. Go us. Still, there are only two temperatures in this house: Icelandic & Equatorial. There is no in between. That's fine for us old folk. but I can't imagine raising babies here. Our drafts have drafts. I finally understand the term "bone-chilling".
• I'm not drunk, its just this old house. Expect to level. And level a little more. And level later on. Did I mention you'll need to level? See, old homes in the South are exclusively pier & beam, meaning your house is sitting on Bois d' Arc stumps (because they just don't rot). They do, however, slowly sink into the abyss that is black gumbo soil.
• I hate you, but I can't slam the door in your face because IT WON'T SHUT. We live and die by the rain. After a good old southern rain. all the doors that wouldn't shut suddenly will shut. And the ones that did shut will not. This includes exterior doors. Hamburglars, don't read this.
• That's not a snake - it's an extension cord. Get this! "Lectricity" was an afterthought when these homes were built! Sure, it was added as it came into town, but sparingly. Thus, my bathroom has one outlet, UNDER THE SINK. My kitchen (I use that term lightly because there are no cabinets) has 2 outlets. 
• The Purge is more than a scary movie. In 1910 there were no closets. ZERO CLOSETS. See, folks in 1910 had 2 outfits, max. Britches to work in and church britches - THAT'S ALL, FOLKS. So, in order to survive here, I had to do some culling. MASSIVE CULLING. 
• Halt, who goes there? Remember when I told you about the "people who died here" poem? I have a swinging door in my kitchen. It's a 9 ft tall door with hinges that are bigger than my hands. And it has a ginormous rubber doorstop that keeps it open. And it randomly slams back and forth. ALL THE TIME. My husband recently came home with the "as seen on TV" motion activated nightlight for our bathroom. Awesome! Except on night #3. I'm a light sensitive sleeper. I don't like any lights at night: clocks, carbon monoxide detector, smoke alarm, cell phones, televisions, clocks, etc. I sat up in bed on motion activated bathroom night light #3. It was going off every 15 minutes. No one was in the bathroom. No one. Cue the music from the Psycho shower scene. I left it in there. It's like a disco strobe light. Every night. Caspar was a friendly ghost, correct?

Moral of the story - maybe you're old house obsessed like me. Maybe you have half a mil to spend on an old house reno. If so, AWESOMESAUCE. But, what if you don't? Do you give up? Wait. Hold up. How serious are you? See, I just can't live where my hands were the first hands. Make sense? Everyday I wake up and walk into my cabinetless kitchen. I look at my original (non-insulated) wood floors and I peer through the (non-insulated) wavy window glass and look at the gorgeous mahogany window moldings and a calmness settles over me. I think of all the hands that touched each door. All the feet that walked on these floors and the lips their lips have kissed and where and why. I read that first granddaughter's poem every damn day. I think about the good times. I think about the bad times. I envision the bread making & the fat rendering & the fruit preserves they made. I can almost see those 1910 children picking the mulberries off of the tree in the back yard. They were so proud of this house. How did they fare during the Great Depression? They brought children into the world here and they said fond farewells to their loved ones in this very space. So, I culled my clothes. I wrap up in blankets in the winter. I open those wavy glass windows in the summer. I dream of the day I have a half mil to reno. That day may come. That day may never come. It really does not matter. I'm an old soul. I can't be happy anywhere else. After all, I cannot say what loves have come and gone. I know, however, that summer sang in this house. I will make sure it sings here evermore.  Presenting the Jones Family - circa 1930ish. Thank you. Thank you so very much.

A Ted Tale

One night when the moon was bright on the moonlit bay
That is where I found my little Cherokee maid
The memory of that night of love is lingering yet
And I know I never will forget

My little Cherokee maiden, I love her so
And though we're far apart
I know I'll never be tradin' my love for her
For anybody else's heart
Someday I'll make a trip back to that Cherokee Strip
And I'll carry her away with me
And straight as an arrow flies
We'll ride to paradise
My sweet little chickadee, my little Cherokee maiden and me

"Cherokee Maiden" - written by Cindy Walker & 1st performed by Bob Wills and his Texas Playboys

Confession. This is a post about my sweet Daddy. My dad is quite the music man. He's the ultimate Renaissance guy, a modern day Barbara Mandrell, if you will. Instruments he mastered at one point in his life: guitar, violin, piano, accordion. Heck, he can probably pick out some western swing with a comb and tissue paper. He LOVES Bob Wills. He is my Daddy. He is 90 years old today.

I couldn't pick a song, only an artist. So, I caved and just chose MY favorite Bob Wills song. Western Swing is about as interesting as my father. It's a little folk and a little campfire country and a teence of bluegrass (Bob likes to holler) and a lot of jazz. I have come to appreciate and love it a little more every year, especially Bob Wills, who is, in fact, still the King. But back to my Daddy. What is being 90? It means you were born in 1927. It means you grew up in The Great Depression. It means Uncle Sam beckoned you into WWII. It means hard work and lots of gumption and zero charity and a warm, loving heart. It means Ted Stilwell. I wanted you to know more about him, this nonagenarian who can still cut a mean rug on the dance floor and makes the best vegetable soup you've ever eaten. He's the Ted who just drove a 500 ft motor home (ok, it's 37 feet but it might as well be 500 ft) across town and perfectly parked it in the RV lot. He's the Ted who can outwork and outsmart and out maneuver any other man I've ever met....still.

At the end of the day, I'm just a girl who loves her Daddy more than the world. If you're also a daddy's girl, this is for you. I wrote a letter to my father and tucked it into his birthday card. He'll open it later today. If you read the whole thing, you'll get to see a picture of the most handsome 90 year old man in the history of ever..........


I have something to say to the world. Not me, exactly. Not the almost 50 year old me, but the little girl me wants to tell you something. I feel bad for all of you other little girls. Really bad. You didn’t have my daddy. I wish you would’ve for I know the world would be a much better place simply because we’d all know the most amazing things. What things, you ask? There are so many, but here are my favorite daddy lessons.

·         The world neither promised nor owes you a damn thing. YOU go out and work your tail off every day. YOU put in the time. YOU figure it all out. YOU make your own luck. YOU sow the seeds & reap the benefits. YOU deal with the consequences. YOU give it everything you’ve got and go to sleep every night knowing the world took 200% out of you and dream happy dreams because you are privileged to get up the next day and do it all again.

·         Be humble. You are no better than the worst person and no worse than the best. We all have glorious light in us. We all have terrifying darkness in us. Things that have no bearing on your relationships: race, gender, nationality, wealth, education. Things that forming a relationship with any person should hinge on: their willingness to share a meal with you when there isn’t much to share, the fact that they are first in line to help you when the day is long and the work is dirty, that they are honest, that they are kind even when no one else is watching, that they work hard.

·         Live beneath your means. Live way beneath your means. Watch every dollar. Count every dime. The Great Depression was a hard time to be a child. Remember, hard times make you who you are. Hard times make it easy to tell the good folks from the not so good folks. Without the hard times, how would we appreciate the good times? You can’t feel the highest high unless you’ve felt the lowest low. So save that money for the rainy days and save even more for the torrential downpours.

·         When you say something, anything, have something to say. Don’t complain about any single thing unless you are prepared to give solid advice on a solution. Better yet, just try and say the good things. Those bad things are already looming around in the recesses of our minds. They don’t need a voice. Give the good things a voice. Go in search of sweet words. Make people feel blessed to have spoken to you. The kinder you can make your own words, the sweeter thoughts you’ll think. Suddenly, the world won’t be such a terrible place.

Not every little girl had a daddy like mine. They didn’t get the daddy that grew up in The Great Depression. Their daddies aren’t WWII veterans. Their daddy didn’t make them feel like he’d lay his life on the line for them, dig a 40 ft well by himself so they could have water, show them how to grow all the veggies, show them how to work on cars, accompany their violin playing with an organ, teach them to love Bob Wills. They didn’t get to see their daddies turn 90.

I am a lucky, lucky girl.

Where's the Beef?

Got a wife and kids in Baltimore, Jack
I went out for a ride and I never went back
Like a river that don't know where it's flowing
I took a wrong turn and I just kept going

Everybody's got a hungry heart
Everybody's got a hungry heart
Lay down your money and you play your part
Everybody's got a hungry heart

"Hungry Heart" - Bruce Springsteen

 I'm rolling my eyes already. You probably don't want to read this because it will probably come off as preachy and that is not my intent. I looked at the tag line for this blog today and it definitely reads as "vintage design . heirloom recipes . merciful stories." I have been sorely lacking both the design front AND the recipe front. But as for that tag line...things that are best described as heirloom: brooches, tomatoes, old dentist tools, the odd corset. Yet, I chose that nomenclature to describe the recipes I would showcase. Oy vey. I meant to give you heirloom recipes, I truly did. My stomach did not agree. Allow me to explain.

More eye rolling. I cannot eat animal protein. Actually, my mother told me to stop saying there are things I cannot do because that could accidentally become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Rephrase! I try not to consume animal protein because I wind up in the fetal position for a few days when I do. There! Thanks, 8 years ago chemo. Love you, too. So I'm vegan. Am I the type of vegan that thinks we shouldn't eat animals? Well, I could say yes, but in my heart of hearts I realize I wouldn't be vegan if my stomach hadn't thrown a ginormous hissy fit. I will say that I totally believe no one would eat meat if you could see the average post WWII farm, both the way the animals are housed and the manner in which they are slaughtered. It's disgusting. Still, I occasionally cave. For instance, this past weekend was my daddy's 90th birthday bash! My brother smokes brisket that would make any pit master shake in their shoes. I had to eat it. Ditto with sliced beef pho. Ditto with Boots Burgers in Rockwall, TX. So I simply try to eliminate all but a monthly carnivore experience, making sure it is actually worth a come to Jesus gut apocalypse. What do I do all the other days of the month? I'm veganish. Yep, if it had a face and it is a substance I could eat or if it produces the substance I could eat, I don't. Eat it, that is. (Cue Weird Al Yankovic.) So, if I don't eat animal stuff, what do I eat? Tonight I bring you tacos.....crunchy vegan style.

My kids (they are actually grown ups and they are a married couple with a child, but I will forever call them my kids) came into town a while back. They stayed with us. I decided to experiment and cook a vegan dinner - BTW, my husband is FORCED to eat vegan with me and his cholesterol is so low it deserves a medal. So, I just told the kids there were tacos in the kitchen. My adult son was on his 4th taco before I broke down and told him they were vegan. Yep, that good. I'm about to show you how to make a boat load of vegan "taco meat." Get ready to have a religious experience.

What will you need?

• 1 head of cauliflower
• Several mushrooms (I didn't count them - eye roll. maybe 1/2 of a small cardboard container)
• 1 cup of walnuts (mine were chopped but any consistency will do)
• Seasonings - Cayenne, Chicago Steak Seasoning, Cumin, Chili powder, Garlic powder
• A food processor & a skillet

Rinse your cauliflower thoroughly and chop into florets. Take the stalk and all the other parts of the cauliflower, wrap them in a grocery bag, and take them outside to the trashcan. FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS HOLY DO NOT PUT THEM IN YOUR KITCHEN TRASH. If you do, the police will show up the next day to do a welfare check and they will assume you're either dead or you murdered someone a week ago. That is how bad the cauliflower will smell by the next morning. Trust me. You will need to separate the florets into 3 batches. We are going to run the cauliflower through the food processor and I haven't found a processor yet that can handle the whole shebang. So process the cauliflower in 1/3 increments until it's the consistency of rice. Dump it all in a mixing bowl. Next, run all of the mushrooms through the processor, also until they are the consistency of rice. Do the same with the walnuts. At this point you should have a HUGE bowl of cauliflower and smaller bowls of both mushrooms and walnuts. Like so......

Odd, yes. But, hang in there. The best is yet to come! Next you'll need a large skillet and approx 2 tablespoons of olive oil. Heat the skillet. Heat the oil. Toss in 2 cups of cauliflower rice and 1 cup each of the mushrooms and the walnuts (probably all of the mushrooms and walnuts. Eye roll - sorry, I don't measure). Put the rest of the cauliflower in a sealed container and refrigerate. You can heat it in a skillet. later in the week, with a little salt and pepper and use it exactly as you would rice! Stir your concoction well and add the seasoning. I even included a picture!

I think I usually start with 2 Tbsp of Chili Powder, 2 Tbsp of Garlic Powder, 1 Tbsp of Steak Seasoning, 1 Tbsp of Cumin, and a liberal dash of Cayenne. After that, just taste. I like extra everything and tend to go heavier on the spicier elements. You do you. Cumin is life. That is all. After you get your seasoning just right, heat at medium, letting the "meat" brown on both sides. Guess what? That's it! You can now have a taco salad, soft tacos, hard tacos....add this to taco soup in place of the meat. You name it. It is delicious. You can now have 2 tacos. Cause, who needs meat? Not me....until next month. Here are two amazing iPhone pictures of the finished product...

Listen, it wasn't a brooch or a tomato, but it is a kick A alternative to animal protein that you'll find to be amazingly meat like both in texture and in flavor. Yes, that plate is sitting on my kitchen island which is really a thrift store desk that I painted to resemble a shipwreck with a mermaid and some koi fish. I'm a little cray, but it's a 99% vegan cray. Your tummy and your cholesterol will thank you. If you made it to the end of this post, drop me a comment. And, I thank you, too! You pretty much rock. GO VEG!

Spider & Ted's Excellent Adventure

Just the good old boys
Never meanin' no harm
Beats all you ever saw
Been in trouble with the law
Since the day they was born

Straghtenin' the curves
Flattenin' the hills
Someday the mountains might get 'em
But the law never will

Makin' their way
The only way they know how
That's just a little bit more
Than the law will allow

"Theme from the Dukes of Hazzard" - Waylon Jennings

Today I took my parents to see my daddy's brother. Nothing remarkable about that on the surface. My father has two siblings who are still alive and well - my Aunt Pat & Uncle Billy who we all refer to lovingly as Uncle Spider. Uncle Spider has been under the weather and we thought it was high time to go for a visit. Recently, I realized that my husband can spend 30 minutes alone with my father and hear stories I've never heard before. Hubby has a kind heart and a gentle soul and he dotes on every word my father says, garnering these results. I decided to stop talking so much and start listening more. Today, I secretly recorded a three minute conversation between these two brothers. It was sweet, hilarious, and brought me to tears. I want you all to read it. This is transcribed VERBATIM with no changes, including grammar and what I call "country folk talk." Enjoy this little ditty about life in Bristol, TX pre-WWII.

Uncle Spider: This old cow we had down there, she was a gentle old cow. She come around and she picked me up on her horns and carried me plumb down to that creek. Boy, I had me a good cow.

Daddy: Boy, I don’t remember that.

Uncle Spider: Yeah, I was up there just a ridin’ along. Course old JB (their father), he was just waitin’ on another bill from the doctor. I broke both of these arms and he had to go get 'em set.

Daddy: Yeah, now that I do remember.

Uncle Spider: I don’t know where Daddy got the money, cause there wasn’t no money.

Daddy: I remember Jack was layin’ down & Spider would get on his feet and Jack would shove him and he’d go way up in the air, you know, and come down. But, one time he come down and broke his arm.

Uncle Spider: Well, I broke the other one, too, when I was down at Uncle Bob’s playin’ rubber guns, you know, up in the barn. Somebody shot me and I fell off and broke my arm. JB had to carry me to Ennis to Dr  Thomas (?) You remember him? Who knows where he got the money. He didn’t have any money. But, that was way back there in 1942.

Daddy: Oh, lordy, times have changed.

Uncle Spider: Man, I miss old JB.

Daddy: Oh yes.

Uncle Spider: Well, momma too, you know. I don’t believe you could find a more perfect momma and daddy in the world than them, do you? I just don’t know if any other couple would make a better mother and father than what we had.

Daddy: That’s right. That’s right. They were good (smiles). They had problems, too, back when he was playin’ the fiddle. And, he brought this old record home, “Seven Years with the Wrong Woman.” Well, momma listened to that til she finally said that was it and she took that record up and (breaks it over his knee). Broke that thing into 99 pieces. And, that was all of the song, “Seven Years with the Wrong Woman.”

Uncle Spider: (Talking to me) My dad was – the government made him, in Bristol – Bristol’s on a high hill on a direct line to Houston. So, they made JB the Air Raid Warden, but he was drunk all the time so I got to do it. I was 12! 12 years old. I’d get up on that old phone, you know. That old ringer phone. And, Maude Manry would answer. Well, when I said “Red Flag” everybody got cut off (he explained it was a party line).  And, it went right direct to Love Field. Then, I’d tell em I was in Bristol. See, they had a huge map up there & a bunch of military people. And I’d call in – they had this program all the way to Houston – so I’d call in from Bristol. You know I’d say “I just saw an airplane come over. 4 engines.” Stuff like that. But, I guarantee you I did it for 2 years. Air Raid Warden and I’s 12 years old. That was back when WWII was startin’. 

Daddy will soon be 90 years old. Uncle Spider is 87. There are so many more stories to hear. How my great grandfather had a cabin on the banks of the Trinity River and my Granny was scared to let young Ted go alone for fear of the alligators that were so prevalent. How my Gramp became a barber because there just wasn't a future in sharecropping. How Gramp was quite the honky tonk fiddle player back in the day. How Granny wasted all the fresh eggs one day because the boys wouldn't stop fighting so she PUMMELED them with eggs. Those Stilwells. They sure are good stock! I implore you to do less talking and more listening, too. The world needs more good stories. 

Eight Christmases

Please take down the mistletoe
'Cause I don't wanna think about that right now
'Cause everything I want is miles away
Snow covered little town
My momma's in the kitchen, worrying about me
Season's greetings, hope you're well
Well I'm doing alright
If you were wondering
Lately I can never tell

I know this shouldn't be a lonely time
But there were Christmases when you were mine

"Christmases When You Were Mine" - Taylor Swift

This isn't going to be a sad post. It may be a bit melancholy, but hang in there just a bit. It will not be sad. I've been there. I have a Phd in sad. I'm so over sad. Melancholy, though, is a whole different monster. Contemplative is a beast. Introspective is a freaking scary movie. Resignation is a house of horrors. But not sad. Never, ever again. Mark my words.

As a child growing up in a very rural suburb of Dallas, had you asked me where I'd be today, I'm not sure what response you'd have received. If you could read my Dr. Suess "All About Me" book, you'd know that 6 year old DD wanted to be an airline stewardess with a mini-skirt uniform, a Marlo Thomas "That Girl" bouffant flip, knee high white shiny boots, and an ascot of some sort. Middle school me was convinced I would be an amazing actress - maybe the next Kristi McNichol or Tatum O'Neal? High School moi was determined to be a news anchor. Heck, I should be on Good Morning America by now. I knew one thing. I was going to be somebody important. Oh, but those best laid plans of mice, men, & naive children. 49 years later, I can tell you one thing. It's been an adventurous life. I worked in a bank. I worked for an ex-husband. I worked in a library. I worked in pharmaceuticals. I worked in sales. I worked in management at a distribution warehouse. I worked for a veterinarian. I worked as a national traveling sales trainer. Which job did I like the best? Easy peasy. The one I hope to hold for another 49 years. I worked as a mom. There were 4 beautiful children. All so different. All so perfect. All so me. Some are here. One is gone. Three were birthed. One was inherited, like that even matters. I have diapered. I have nursed. I have taught. I have cried. I have prayed. I have bargained with God above. I have worried. I have sacrificed. I have won. I have lost. I have been an abysmal failure. I have been the absolute best.  This is one job I have never, ever quit.

When you lose a child, you lose a tether - a tether to other people, a tether to yourself, a tether to reality. It's a bit like being in a hot air balloon, I would imagine. Very scary. Totally unpredictable. Yet, as you're free floating through the sky, IF you can calm your heart, & IF you can take deep breaths, & IF you can keep from vomiting, you'll notice the sky. You'll see the ground. You'll realize you have a vantage point to witness such miraculous things. Things you never noticed before. Things like how beautiful people's skin tones are - no two are alike. Things like rain & clouds - Instagram only wishes they had those filters. Things like the majestic sound of thunder. Things like the smell of freshly mowed grass or the smell of coffee. Things like someone you love saying your name.

It has been eight Christmases since she was here. I remember everything. Every mole. Every fingernail. The smell of her head. The sound of her voice. The clomp of her feet in the morning. Her laugh. I remember these things because God answered my prayer. He told me to always love her. He told me melancholy was fine but sad was no bueno. He told me to see her in every newborn puppy and every blade of grass and every raindrop. He said I could find her in the eyes of each kind person I would ever meet. He told me that she would be snuggled up next to me in the wee hours of every single morning. He said, if I tried really really hard, I could feel her hugs when I needed them most. He said I was somebody important, after all. That's why he shared her with me.

Be important.

Merry Christmas.

Boys with Mustaches

If you had not have fallen
Then I would not have found you
Angel flying too close to the ground
And I patched up your broken wing and hung around a while
Trying to keep your spirits up and your fever down

I knew that someday you would fly away
For love's the greatest healer to be found
So leave me if you need to, I will still remember
Angel flying too close to the ground

"Angel Flying Too Close to the Ground" - Willie Nelson


I am pretending that I am at a funeral. Lord knows that the older I get the more funerals I seem to go to. I suppose it's equal parts age and good southern manners, but, goodness - it's still difficult. See, I am missing a funeral next week. I don't want to miss it, but there's this thing about this mastectomy revision surgery. It involves me being absolutely fine and as cancer free as one could imagine. Nevertheless, there are surgical drains and my potential incapability to draw in my eyebrows correctly that are keeping me from attending. Mostly, the drain. A little bit involves the restriction of raising my arms above my head. Or driving. But the person who passed, can we talk about him? I haven't laid eyes on him nor have I spoken to him in well over 30 years, yet I've cried over him almost every day for the last week. Let me tell you a little story about Roger Dale McKinley, Jr.

It was the fall of 1979. I was in the 7th grade (cue my momma's Oldsmobile Eighty-Eight pulling up to the curb of Seagoville Jr High School one afternoon). I had long brown hair and feathered bangs that were not permitted to start the feathering process until they reached my cheekbones. I was not even 5 ft tall. I wasn't allowed to wear make-up yet, but I was not opposed to sneaking pool cue chalk to school in my otherwise empty purse and using it as eyeshadow in the girl's restroom (this was Seagoville, after all). I was most likely wearing dittos jeans and earth shoes with a peasant shirt AND a ton of Love's Baby Soft. I'm sure I spotted the Olds and held back for a bit, painfully shy as I was, back in the day. It was my chance to observe. Fast forward - I launch myself into the chocolate brown velour front seat. As my momma reached for the gear shift on the steering column, I did the simultaneous spoken and gestured "stop." This boy walked out from the covered awning and stood next to the sidewalk. Jeans. T-shirt. Baseball cap. Pretty much the outfit du jour of today's modern day 7th grade boy. But, he turned. For 5 seconds I thought maybe he saw me. And, never one to be shy in the safety of my momma, I said - "I love him." Enter Roger McKinley.
So, the funny part of the story was my momma! I distinctly remember her saying, "Dina Dale, is he 30?" This is where things get super funny. Yes, we had the same middle name. Great for him. Not so great for me, but I digress. This is where we pretend I'm actually at the funeral and I found the wherewithall to stand up when they say "would anyone like to share your memories of the loved one"...raise your hand if you remember the full on Roger McKinley stache of the 7th grade? Am I right? He had a complete mustache & I loved it. I also don't think he knew I existed. Yet.

Act 2. It's the spring. Young Roger is between Jr High romances and somehow I manage to catch his eye. I cannot recall the specifics but I imagine it involved 300 spiral notebooks of lettering our names together and 300 more calls to Eagle 97 for them to play "I Want You to Want Me" and undoubtedly some practical magic on my part. He looked at me outside of the cafeteria, baseball cap/mustache/feathered hair and all, and said the magic words. Will.You. Go. With. Me.
For the next approximate 3.5 weeks, I traipsed the grounds of the joint Seagoville Jr High/High School campus holding hands with the then love of my young life. Back to reality. Young Roger's life would not be a bed of roses. He would lose touch with me. He would lose touch with many. He would fight demons and addictions. Sometimes he would win. Sometimes he would lose. Sometimes he would haunt my dreams. The whole purpose of this blog entry is for me to share this part of this recollection. I've lost immediate family members. This is the kind of story I would have enjoyed hearing from an old friend.

When Roger McKinley is your 7th grade boyfriend, it goes a little something like this: He calls you on the phone Friday after school and asks you if you'd like to go on a "date" at Super Skate Saturday night. Duh. You pause for effect, looking down at your princess slimline baby blue phone (because a girl has to play hard to get) and you say, "kay." He says to meet him at 7:30 and not to be late. So you do. If you think you'll pay for your own Dr Pepper at the concession stand, think again. That's not how Roger rolls. He's extremely soft spoken. I seem to recall he had the voice of an angel. I seem to recall it was next to impossible to get him to sing. He opens doors for you. He orders for you. He puts his hand on your back to guide you into the snack bar. He finds a booth and he doesn't sit down until you do. When they leave the jalapenos off of your nachos, he goes back to get them. He's not a big skater, but if you make a pouty face during the couple skate, he can be persuaded. And, when another boy says untoward, vile things about you, he'll tell you that he'll be right back. As you sit there, unaware, he will take that boy around to the back and teach him some manners. And then he will sit with you on a bench for the rest of the night while you pick his bottom lip out of his braces with a concession stand toothpick. My 7th grade Roger was a gentleman.

See, I didn't know the Roger of the last 30 years. I'd heard here and there - stories of his misfortune. I knew he wasn't doing well. I knew, like so many people we all know and love from every single walk of life, that he was fighting battles in a war his family so prayed he would win. About 2 years ago, he sent me a Facebook friend request. I accepted. That's all I did. I saw he was doing better. I saw that he was fighting. Demons be damned, Roger was not going down easily.  I wish that I'd done more. I wish I would have reached out and shared this memory with him. About a boy in the 7th grade with an awesome mustache who shared my middle name and fought for my dignity.

Fly high Roger. We'll always have 3 weeks of 7th grade romance.

Your takeaway - if you have a Roger McKinley in your past, share your memories with them. We all need to know we made a positive impact along the way. He did.