At first glance, this sketchbook probably doesn’t seem like a surprise. But when I tell you that I bought it in Iowa, suddenly it takes on a whole new meaning, and we’re all smiling.
And that’s the thing isn’t it? Context. I learned it pretty early on. But I have to keep learning it. I suppose we all do.
It was something, the way my mother looked. Shopping with her, I could see the other women wondering what they were missing. It was the same Herberger’s. The same racks. How was she doing it? And didn’t they stand behind her in the same line for the Clinique promotion? But it was even more than all that. What they didn’t see, is for years she did it on no sleep. No money. Eating only Heath ice cream bars to keep the weight on, the weight that slipped with worry. As surprising as a French girl in Iowa. And just as beautiful.
And in watching her story change, evolve, get moisturized and dressed to the nines, it, she, taught me to look for all the stories. All the joyful surprises. To capture them in words and paintings, so everyone could see the beauty in what was far and near, and maybe most importantly, even in themselves. So if you want to give thanks for this, do it by taking a look, in every face, in every mirror. May you ever be joyfully surprised.
What we used to call the “penny candy” is now fifteen cents each, but that seemed like a very small price to pay for the additional time travel. Placing the Razzles in the bag, I was in the first grade, next to Gerald Reed, accepting his tokens of affection behind pink cheeks. Each Bazooka Joe plopped me onto gravel in front of our mailbox on Van Dyke Road, patiently waiting for the mailman to bring the gift I ordered from the cartoon wrappers. Zots and licorice, right back to Ben Franklin, frantically filling the sack before the cartoon previews began at the Alexandria Theatre next door. Each trip worth every penny!
I gave the candy to my friends in their early Easter Basket. They wanted to share, but I had already been filled with the travel, the love and the joy. It all comes down to experience. Connections. Time spent with the ones we love — those sitting beside us unwrapping the candy, and those we carry in our hearts, deliciously ever!
I waited two years for it to come back. And yesterday, without my knowledge or permission. Without my asking or pleading. She placed it in my hand.
I chose the Starbuck’s at Barnes and Noble in the Galleria because I could walk to it within minutes. We had planned to have coffee, to visit of course. No chairs were available. (Which I can see now was clearly by design.) She said we could walk around a little. My feet, already on yes, were darting out into the mall. Climbing the stairs to the main floor, she said they had just acquired a new sponsor for their podcast. (I had done their podcast about a year ago. That’s how we met.) Somehow I knew which store it would be. She asked if I had ever been to “Sweet Ivy.” I smiled. (You’re probably smiling too.) That was my mom’s name, I said. She knew how much my mom meant to me from our interview. We started walking toward the store.
No, I said, I hadn’t been inside the store. I couldn’t. It first opened just as my mom passed away. Waiting for the next flight back to France, I walked the Galleria Mall. I saw the name of the new store. This “Sweet Ivy.” The tears flowed. I couldn’t go in. It was all too fresh. My mom loved fashion. We shared that. Deeply. We walked that mall a million times. Took the pictures. Gave the compliments. Shared the laughs. Hung packages on wrists. This love, this friendship, ever en vogue.
But yesterday, it was time. It was more than easy. My hesitation was carried by my new friend, and we went, nearly skipped like school girls, into the Sweet Ivy. I shared my story again. Gave out my business cards. Explained paintings. Laughed. Sipped the coffee. From mother to store, the Ivy connected. The woman behind the counter reached over to a rack of gorgeous, and pulled out a blouse, a blouse that couldn’t have Ivy-ed more — she said it’s a small, put it on, and from what I can only imagine was my mother’s hand, she placed it in mine. The boomerang had returned.
Of course it fit. Everything fits. In its time. In its place. I suppose we throw them daily, these boomerangs. Never knowing which one will return. Nor when. I guess you just have to be ready. Open. And grab on with all your might when they do.
So I hike up the cuffed sleeves of this beautiful silk, and tell you the story, giving it a mighty fling, knowing love will always return.
We bought the wrapping paper years ago at Anthropologie. It was one of our favorite stores. The clothing. The scented candles. The “You look fabulous in that!” My mom and I could spend hours. And even when the items were too expensive, the compliments were free, and so easily given.
When we saw the artisan gift paper, we knew we had to have it. We could only afford one sheet. We cut it in two and wrapped tiny gifts for each other. The little green balls were like cheerleaders — jumping and dancing and spelling out praise with the letters of our names. I suppose we had always been that for each other — the one leading the cheers. And that’s what the paper did. Each year. We saved it for nearly twenty years. Sending it back and forth. From city to city. State to state. Country to country. I still have it. When I see the little green pompoms, I smile. I clutch my heart. The love my mother gave to me was always packaged and sent. Nothing wasted.
You won’t hear anyone say it — that it’s about the packaging. No, they’ll tell you it’s the thought that counts. The thought? Who cares? If you simply think about someone, and don’t let them know, what difference does it make? I would offer that it all needs some packaging. Some expression. Some action. Love, care, concern, joy, hope, congratulations, condolences, without the actual passing on, without the actual giving of these extraordinary gifts, aren’t they simply empty?
This year, let’s wrap everything. In smiles and hugs. In arms reaching out. Thoughts actually expressed. Let our hearts be ribboned and bowed and ever giving. Let the Christmas cheers be heard today and every day throughout the year! No thoughts wasted. No love unspent.
Some of my first lessons in choice were given at Olson’s Supermarket in Alexandria, Minnesota. Perhaps she knew the budgetary constraints that lay ahead that would force her hand in making the tough decisions, so my mom took her time when picking out the best cart — finding one that didn’t fight her every step of the way. “There’s no need to struggle,” she said. I nodded in agreement, both in cart choice and team solidarity.
I held my breath as we passed the books and papers. I had learned from experience that begging didn’t work. I simply smiled as we moved into the first aisle of the store. Nothing she chose was at eye level — that’s where all the name brands were. Cereal boxes, while sporting the same bright colors, had names that were just a little off, and rested high upon the shelf. “That’s what these long arms are for,” she said as she reached the top box. I marveled at her wing span and stretched my own arms as we made our way through the aisles.
Nearing the checkout lines, she gave me the nod. I didn’t have to ask what it meant. I ran to the book aisle. Beside the Golden books were the sketch pads. Notebooks. Big Chief was the brand du jour – it stood out, right in the middle, in the brightest of reds. I climbed on the tiny footstool nestled in the corner and reached for the generic padded paper, just above. She smiled at me as I placed it in the cart. “I have long arms too,” I beamed.
I reach for my daily sketchbook. The choice to make it a good day, always in reach. I have everything.
