I don’t suppose the spaces left from loved ones passed can ever be completely filled. But maybe it’s wrong to think they ever were. These relationships weren’t beautiful, memorable, longed for even still, because of their solid perfection. Perhaps they were always stardust, flittering, fluttering, changing shape, with room always left for dancing, beneath the flickering light.
It’s the way I choose to think of it, my mother’s space, not as a hole left behind, but a dance floor. And all that magic that sprinkles from her still, lights up the people around me, and they step in, tap me on the shoulder, and ask me to dance. They are my new daily connections. My new last calls. My shared laughter and secrets. Hopes and challenges. Not replacements, but keepers of the dance.
We’re not all good at the same thing. Some are meant to pull you in, and simply sway. Other’s tap their feet and keep the beat alive. Some dizzy you into laughter. Dance you into breathless. And hold out the ladle of punch. I am grateful for them all. All of you, who keep my dance floor filled, my heart in motion, in sway, in the right tempo, under the stardust.
Van Dyke Road separated the two worlds. It was so magical how far crossing one small stretch of gravel could take me. The back of our house faced a sea of grain — Hugo’s field. And in a way, it was like swimming, running through the stalks at full chubby- legged-speed, arms stretched to each side, creating a golden wave. Across the road though, behind Weiss’s house, was a lake. Not a big one. Nor a clean one, of the 10,000 our state touted. We didn’t swim in it. So what was the allure? It had to be the dock.
Florence and Alvin had a big yard. Bonnie, the daughter, was so much older, that to me, she was just another adult. So there were no arms of youth waving me over to play. I would sneak along the shrub line. Roll down the manicured slope to the lake’s edge. I could hear the dock before I saw it. The wave rocked wood cracking gently. I took off one bumper tennis shoe and placed my lavender-white toes on the sun warmed plank. It was extraordinary. I have no memory of being a shoeless baby, but I imagine at some point some uncle or boisterous neighbor blew their warm breath on my rounded feet, and I knew, standing there, barefoot on Weiss’s dock, this must be exactly how it felt. I giggled like that infant and took off my other shoe.
I braved each crack to the end. My body craved what my feet already had, so I lay down and let it gather in my arms, legs and back. My fingers danced at my side in the tiny puddles of cool water that gathered in the wood’s unevenness. I don’t know if I saw all the beauty of these imperfections, but I’d like to think I did.
Who knows how long I stayed. Summer afternoons felt eternal. I guess in a way, they are. I can still rest in that warmth.
I have written so many times about swimming – in actual lakes. Lake Latoka was only a bike ride away. But just out my door, front and back, oh, how my heart and imagination swam. Daily. And maybe that’s what home is after all…this ability to dream in the comfort of shore.
For me, it’s the softness of her gaze. No sharp edges to her reaction. Even her shoulders aren’t weighted. This is what makes her beautiful — not what she sees, but how she sees it. From within.
I paint her to remind myself the same is true for all of us. How we navigate through this world is what people really see. We need to stay informed, of course, but the ugliness that gathers, and there is a lot, I don’t want that inside of me. So I soften my gaze. My eyes. My lips. My tongue. Relax my shoulders. Nothing for hatred and ill will to hang on. (Because aren’t those sharp edges so much easier to cling to?)
I suppose I only know it, because I was always given that soft place to land. My grandma’s lap, my mother’s heart. I see now that it was not only for me, but for them as well. A gift we must give each other. A gift we must give ourselves. I dare the morning and the mirror softly. No sharp edges in sight.
For my thirteenth birthday my mother gifted me a set of starter golf clubs purchased from the Sears catalog. No one in our family golfed, that I knew of…but that never stopped me before. Neither had they painted a picture, nor written a poem, so the ship that housed the fear of the unknown had already sailed, and I made my way to the golf course.
She could afford the junior summer membership at Arrowwood. Not a second of which could be wasted, she picked me up on her 30 minute lunch break and drove me to the course, slowing down the light blue Chevy Malibu station wagon just long enough for me to drag the emerald green cotton golf bag from the rear, loaded with six catalog clubs.
I knocked my way solo from tee to woods to pond to green. Smiling with each stroke under the summer sun. On the weekends, if she wasn’t too tired, or mostly I suppose, even if she was, she walked the nine holes with me. And even when my ball ended with a splash or a ricochet, she marveled and said, “I can’t believe you hit it that far!” And she was the first in pond or forest to retrieve my short supply of balls.
I think of it, her, as I struggle with my morning French lesson. If today were a golf course, I would be momentarily demoralized by my working class swing, that is, until I see her, and I do see her, her knee deep enthusiasm from the pond, hand raised overhead with ball, yelling, “I’ve got this! You’ve got this!” What can I do but keep trying! I, we, in everything we do, owe it to those who came before us, who walked beside us — we have to keep trying!
It won’t hold any more because of it. Be more secure. Even lighten the load. I suppose it wasn’t at all necessary to add the French scarf to my French bag, but it is beautiful! It feels like a compliment — and we all know (I hope we all know) how good those feel!
My mother was probably the best at it. Giving compliments. She threw them out like Halloween candy through a screen door, never asking, “Who are you supposed to be?” She simply filled my open heart with all the sugar it craved.
I’ve mentioned it before, but it’s worth repeating (which I guess is the point of all of this — the joyful repeat). She often taught me three things with just four simple words. When getting ready together for a special event, she would walk into my room and say first, “You look good too!” We had to control our giggles as not to smear our make-up. And in that simple phrase she managed to compliment me, compliment herself (which is vital — you can’t give away what you don’t have), and give us both a reason to laugh.
So I put a scarf on my purse. I tell my friend she looks beautiful. That she smells good! The stranger in line that I like her coat. And I’m not afraid to tell the woman in the next dressing room, “You look good too!” Because the laughter must be shared. The compliments given freely! And maybe, just maybe, unlike my purse, it DOES lighten the load, just a little.
On your way up today, don’t forget to give someone a lift.
I had actually never thought about where she lived. For me, she lived in the gym, like most of my friends. Playing one sport or another. But while we all worried about things, like living in a trailer, or parents splitting up, what kind of cars we rode in, (would eventually drive), if we had the right jeans, the right tennis shoes… while all these worries were going on in our own heads, hearts, most of us were really thinking, that’s my friend from band, from choir, the one I sit behind in social studies, the girl I trust to know my secret crush, my period schedule, my first choice to sit with on long bus rides —- because this is where people live, where your real friends live, right beside you — it’s never about the trailer.
I suppose everything takes a long time to learn. And I’m still learning. And sometimes learning means forgetting. Forgetting about all the trivial things. I don’t care what cars my friends drive. The only reason I know one, is because I had to follow her to another friend’s house. A house that was beautiful, surely because of its view of Lake Latoka, but more so because it gathered us in. Gathered us in beyond all loft and luxury, and lifted us with laughter — a laughter that is still bouncing my feet, springing my step, joying my heart. This is the real measure of friendship. And lives beside me. Within me. Us. Forever.
I was a little about halfway through my workout when she came in and got on the treadmill. For thirty nine minutes more, I climbed the imagined hill of the eliptical machine. I hopped off to grab the spray cleaner and a towel to wipe down the machine. In my mid step she said, “You know my brother lives in Dallas.”
There it was! The nugget I wait for each trip. We always get at least one. People are delightful! I imagined her putting the words in her “holster”…just waiting for me to pass by. She was not going to miss her chance. I like to think of the words brewing as she took each step.
And me, I wasn’t going to miss the chance either. “Dallas, you say…”
“And they have more snow than we do.” And we were off. Mid conversation. No warmups. Two humans. Let’s go! “We don’t have much here,” I said, as I cleaned up my station. “And his neighbor, only a few miles away doesn’t have any.” “The world is upside down,” I returned. I let her talk about that brother, those snow-full and snow-less neighbors, for 10 minutes. The only rush I felt was wanting to get back to the condo to tell Dominque of our new treasure — our new opening line — “You know my brother lives in Dallas.” I’m still smiling.
What are we here for, if not to engage with those around us? And why wouldn’t we begin mid conversation… with everyone. We are all humans on this planet. People will still vote for someone you don’t like. Fires will rage. Snow storms will never last beyond spring. And this moment will pass in a blink, so I encourage myself, you, to always jump in. It’s what we learned isn’t it? On the school playground? No matter who was swinging that rope, no matter what song they were singing along to the swing, we jumped in. I want to be that little girl, armed with joy, and ever jumping in.
There was her story– just right in front of her– and this time, she wasn’t going to miss it.
When you’re the last one in line, the hand-me-downs have to go back up.
I bought the black leather vest in New Mexico while traveling with my mother many years ago. I wore it proudly, then passed it up to her. She looked fabulous in it. Black pants. A popped white crisp collared blouse underneath. Scarved for a little color. (Scarf is the new black, she would say.)
I have it back again. That black leather vest. When I get compliments, I always say it was my mother’s. Because that’s the most important part of the story for me. They don’t need to know the whole “Sisterhood of the traveling pants” version. That beats quietly beneath the zipped leather.
I like that we shared the clothes before it was, pardon my pun, in fashion. Long before vintage was cool. Truth be told we didn’t even use the word vintage — we only had hand-me-downs, and hand-me-ups. But we weren’t looking to be on trend, we wanted to be connected. For that same reason, my mom handed down clothes to her sister Karolynn. To be connected.
Just last week my cousin Kalee wore my mother’s coat to our cousin’s funeral. The coat that my mother handed to her sister, that she handed to her daughter. The coat I would wear on winter visits when I didn’t bring one of my own. I like to think that love is sleeved. Each time we slip through, we pass on the hugs, we pass on the love. And it gets handed off, up and down and all around.
I guess what I’m saying is, it doesn’t have to end. We can all stay connected. Once we allow the passing through, it, we, can always be passed along. Held in the arms of love.
I usually had ten to fifteen minutes to spare. I held the back of the green leather seat and jumped up the minute the bus driver braked and pulled out the stop sign along with door. First off of the school bus, I ran around the corner to the back door. I flung my coat into the locker that I never actually locked and ran to the gym. No windows, it was as dark as night. I put a notebook between the doors, cracking a sliver of light that led me to the utility closet. It wasn’t always there, on the doorknob, the plastic jump rope I purposely hung after gym class. Most days, the gym teacher put it away and locked the door, but from time to time, as I felt my way along the wall the next morning, I would feel it before I saw it, and my day began with a heart jump of excitement.
Of course I had jump ropes at home. I managed to sneak them in our cart quite often at Ben Franklin. They weren’t expensive. But the jump ropes at Washington Elementary were nothing short of gorgeous. Worthy of being locked up. They had a weight to them. The plastic blue and white segments would snap against the gymnasium floor with each turn. Maybe it was the darkness that heightened the sound, but the hard plastic cracking against the floor sounded like power. And I twirled myself into confidence.
When the bell rang, I hung the rope back on the knob with a silent thank-you. I picked up my notebook and smiled sweatily into my desk for the day. Ready to face the light of day. The light of learning.
It’s different for everyone. It’s even different for ourselves as we continue to change. But we always need to find a way to begin. To boost our confidence. To give ourselves a head start (a jump start). I know what works for me. My hope today is that these words are the tiny crack in the door, the small sliver of light, that leads you to finding yours. Your confidence. Your power. Your beginning.
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!
