There wasn’t a hard edge on her. Not fingers, nor elbows, nor knees. She was built to make a lap, cup the small of a back, wipe a tear, widen a smile. She held. She gave. She touched. This was my grandma Elsie.
Sometimes I have to apologize to her, and myself, for carrying my shoulders just a little too high. What am I braced for that couldn’t more easily roll off and on by, if I only relaxed them down. It feels so good when I do. My neck wanders freely, softening my face, releasing my cheeks that smile and say, “what a relief!”
As I work in my sketchbook, I remind myself. The blending of rouge and flesh. Whites, yellows and greens. No hard edges. Wondering to myself, “Does that man appearing know that I am Elsie-ing his face?” I lay the brush down, along with my shoulders, and know, she is gently and ever teaching me. Thank you, Grandma.
I imagine there are some people in this world who do the right thing and then build on it. And by right I don’t mean proper, but successful. That is to say they are victorious, and then victorious once again. I don’t know these people, and I’m certainly not one of them.
Most of my successes (and joys for that matter) have come from standing, not on the shoulders of giants, but lemons. And while a lemon won’t hold you steady, it will teach you the true meaning of balance with every wobble. Every victory will be earned. Maybe not the first time, nor even the second. But oh, how it will let you shine in that glow of the yellow. The yellow of bloom and blossom. Of sunlight and growth. Of evening lamp lit long into the study. Of the morning that comes again and again, whispering try, just try. The yellow that keeps the farmer planting. The grandmother washing dishes. The single mother walking to the office for little wage. The daughter studying for a school they can’t afford to pay, one she can’t afford to miss. Beautiful, and glorious lemons.
I paint them again and again, as the heroes of my story. The bright and shiny yellows of my life, my love.
Maybe it was just a collision of the times. Or maybe the universe sent her exactly what she needed.
Since I can remember rushing to the kitchen table to grab a piece of toast before the bus, I could hear my mother say, “Put your shoulders back.” It was part of the morning vocabulary, which also included, “I love you. Have a nice day,” as I raced out the door, my wet hair dripping, my toast crumbling, my shoulders back.
You can’t give someone confidence, but you can show them what it looks like, even in themselves.
At her lowest point. After my father left. After we lost the house. When she forced down Heath Ice Cream bars, just to keep up her weight. It was then the world introduced shoulder pads. She wore them every day to the Superintendent’s office of ISD #206. Each blazer, each blouse, gave the illusion of confidence. Strength. She needed to see it. She needed me to see it.
I don’t know who realized first. Was it Herberger’s? Dayton’s? My mom? Women of the world? I suppose it doesn’t really matter who got there first, but we got there. I got there. No longer needing the padded version of ourselves. She was strong now, my mom. Standing. Laughing. Loving. Living. Confidently. Beautifully.
Our internet was barely working this morning. My mouse was out of juice. I needed to restart my sluggish computer. Slouched over my keyboard, I heard it — “shoulders back.” I smiled. Sat up straight. I rebooted along with my computer. And here we are, telling you to be strong. Nothing is more beautiful!
Most people don’t associate seagulls and farmers, but it was the first time I saw one, with my grandfather, in Florida. It was among so many firsts. Not just my first vacation with my mother, but actually my first vacation. My first time on a plane. The first time seeing the ocean. The first time seeing my grandfather in shorts. I had never actually seen his legs — only overalled on the farm.
They rented a condo on Cocoa Beach, my grandparents. My mom and I went to stay with them for a week, during the winter break of my seventh grade. It was so strange to see my grandfather at the gate of the airport. I had never seen him out of context. He grabbed our luggage and we drove off into the dark warmth of the Florida air. What was that noise, I asked. It’s the ocean, he smiled, as we pulled up to see grandma waving under the porch light. Every sensation was on fire. The next day, my lavender mid-western skin would be as well.
I raced to the beach in the morning sun. He was right behind me. The seagulls hopped all around. I kept looking back to see if he saw what I was seeing. By his smile, I knew that he did. As the wind blew at his shirt, I could see his tan was still that of a farmer. His shoulders as white as the sea gulls. And even with all these firsts, I felt the comfort of home.
I suppose we always take it with us — the things that make us care.
Sitting in a new hotel. At a new desk. Sometimes I have to look at the keycard, or the pad on the desk to even remember where we are. But then I paint the white shouldered bird, feel the love that I have been given from the start, believe that he stills sees what I am seeing, and know that I am home.
The first time I took my mother to New York, we both got to be models.
Go ahead and underestimate the amount of confidence I carried with me growing up in Alexandria, Minnesota. Now underestimate a little more, and you might reach my mother. Oh, we survived, and even had a little fun. We looked at catalogs (nothing was online then) and dreamed, even walked the malls each weekend, and dreamed a little more. We tried on outfits and gained a little more confidence. We went to Minneapolis and grabbed on to a little more. Then Chicago – look at us in Chicago! Our strides got a little longer, our backs a little straighter, and sometimes we even dared to say, “Hey, we look pretty good.” Which may sound vain – but no – that was pure joy!
Maybe you need to know a little backstory. My mom, one of nine farm kids, wasn’t nurtured in fashion. Practical, stained, sturdy, this was the norm. There’s nothing wrong with that – it’s very functional. But function is not often what dreams are made of. And so this little girl dreamed. Alone. Her mother, forever aproned and cooking – nine children – still found time to sew. And my mom, forever washing dishes – eight siblings – became a fashion designer, in her heart.
Now, dreams really don’t amount to much without confidence. And that’s another hurdle. How my mother found it, was nothing short of fantastical, but she did. Shedding rumors and divorce and illness, she still managed to dress herself, every day, in something that made them think, “She’s from Alex?”
And she was. We were. And off we flew New York. I had just finished the book, “Slap on a little lipstick, you’ll be fine” — again, thanks to my mother — and Guideposts magazine was going to do a feature story on it. My mom accompanied me. They picked us up in a limo, drove us to the meat packing industry, to a giant loft of an acclaimed photographer. They plucked my eyebrows and did my makeup, slid red leather over black silk and I was delighted, transformed, giddy! My mom watched from the corner as they took photo after photo, smiling and smiling more – no direction needed! And then the photographer said, why don’t we take a few with your mother! Yes, yes! I said. Oh, I don’t… my mother hesitated. (It takes a while to build a confident soul.) You have to! You must! I want you to! And she came – into the shot. And we hugged and smiled and captured it forever! Look, Grandma! We’re models!
They put the pictures in the magazine – even my grandma!
This week, the young poet, Amanda Gorman, asked us to acknowledge the shoulders we’ve stood on, and what we stand for now. These are the women that have held me up.
My grandma’s photo sits next to my sewing machine. I once drew a picture of her hands, and wrote, “If she did worry, it never showed in her hands.” Perhaps that was the strength that allowed my mother to dream. Shoulders.
I painted a picture of a dress designer’s mannequin for my mom, and wrote, “Not all of her dreams came true, but she was never sorry she had them.” Shoulders.
These women gave me the strength to dream, to fall in love, to live. They are the reason I believe. These beauties of strength, survival, endurance, and joy — no one has ever worn it better! Look, Grandma! Look, Mom! You’re models!!!!!
