My Mom's Letter to my 14 Year Old Daughter

My mom posted this on my daughter's facebook page.  So beautiful, I thought it deserved its own space on my blog.  

Dear Arianna,
I love seeing your pictures and watching you grow. You’re like a Monarch. A butterfly can only hide in its cocoon for so long. I’m watching you immerge and color the world with your beauty.
I was thinking about when I was 14 years old. Now that I am a “senior”, I reflect back and remember things about that time in my life. If I could write a letter to my 14 year old self—I’d have a lot to say. I thought I’d share a few things with you.
When I was 14, my face was covered in freckles...like yours! If I could go back, I’d never try to cover them up. I know now, they were beautiful. Freckles are a sign of youth so I hope you treasure yours.

That's me, your Nana, on the right!

When I was 14, me and my cousins went down to the creek to swing on the muscadine vine. Muscadines were sweet and their vines grew on the trees by the creek. They looked like grapes. I couldn’t wait to swing across. I ran ahead of my cousins and grabbed the vine first and as I sailed across, it snapped and I fell. If I could talk to my 14 year old self I would tell me: “Wait your turn.”

When I was 14 my mom bought me ugly brown shoes. It’s all I had to wear. If could write a letter to me, at 14, I’d say “Don’t worry. They were ugly but, they were comfortable and that’s what mom wanted for me. Comfort.” I should’ve been more thankful. But you don’t know these things when you’re 14.
When I was 14, I tried not to smile very much. We didn’t have braces back then and I didn’t have the best teeth. If I could talk to me, at 14, I’d tell myself to smile anyway because now, all these years later, I know smiling...makes my eyes twinkle. I wouldn’t worry about my teeth if I could do it over again– I’d just smile….REALLY big. I had a lot to smile about.
Looking back, I think my opinion mattered more to my friends than I realized. I should’ve spoke up more. I should’ve been more confident in my convictions. They would’ve listened to me. But I didn’t know then, what I know now. Your thoughts are important. Don’t be afraid to share them.
When I was 14, they voted for a “Halloween Queen” at school. You had to pay a penny to vote. There were lots of pretty girls who wanted to be the Queen and all my friends said they were going to vote for me. That day, they all brought as many pennies as they could find. As they were tallying up the vote, another girl’s dad brought in so many pennies...he had them used to vote for his daughter and I lost to her. I was so sad, I cried. I wish I could go back to that moment. I’d take myself by my shoulders and shake me! I’d tell my 14 year old self that titles in life are meaningless. True friends are the real prize and I was surrounded! I would’ve treasured those sweet friends who had sacrificed their last few pennies to see me happy. Cherish your friends Arianna. Don’t be so distracted by popularity contests. I pray that you can learn now, at 14, that the real blessings in life are living and breathing.
When I was 14, I talked a lot to my grandmother. Her name was Laura Bryant, my mom’s mom. I asked her what she was having for dinner one day and she told me “Hoover Gravy”. This sounded delicious to me. I thought it must be terribly good if it was named after a President. I told my mom that day that I’d like some Hoover Gravy. She laughed.
She explained to me that Hoover gravy was also called “Poor Man’s Gravy”. It was watered down and named after President Hoover who was in office during one of the worst depressions of our history.
So, I would tell my 14 year old self, like I would tell you, things may sound good, but before you convince yourself that you need it, ask your mother. ;)
I love you darling granddaughter. Smile big, wait your turn, count your blessings, speak your mind, ask your mama and....wear comfortable shoes.
Nana Loves You.

Double Seater Outhouse

The older I get, the more nostalgic I grow.  One of my New Year's resolutions was to learn one new thing about my mom every time I called her. I thought it would be tough - surely I knew everything there was to know about her, I mean seriously, she's my mom.  Hasn't she told me everything that could possibly be told?  The short answer: no.

There are things my mom considered so ordinary (that were in fact extraordinary) that she failed to mention them along the way.  Here's a few:

 My mom was born in 1942.  She never had an indoor toilet until she was fifteen years old.

Fifteen.  Think of going through middle school with no bathroom in your house.

 "I'll never forget when Daddy finally built us the double seater," she said in the course of this conversation.

Let's pause right there.  Join hands and gather with me around this mental image of the double seater outhouse.  Are you thinking what I'm thinking? Who do you take with you to the double seater outhouse?  Do you decide to go together and if you do - what is that conversation like?  Or does one knock and then just come on in and join you on the wood?  And if they do...do you scoot over a little to make room? (Did I just say do do?) And if you do scoot over, would you get a splinter?

Who do you love (or despise) enough to let into the double seater outhouse with you?  Are there unwritten rules regarding the double seater?  Do you make eye contact?  Have conversations?

"Mom, who would go with you??" 

"My little sisters," she replied.  Of course. Come to think of it, I think that's about the only person I would head to the double seater with myself.

My mom had a cow named Tootsie. As if that's not priceless enough, she got to milk it every morning.  Not for fun or for 4H but because they needed milk for breakfast...and butter.

"Mom would strain it through a cheese cloth and we'd drink it while it was still warm.  With some peaches,"  she informed me. (Note to self: google 'cheese cloth').

That's right.  My mom was organic before organic was cool.

"Then we'd let it sour in the churn and churn it with the dasher for a while till the cream rose to the top.  Mom would pour it into the butter mold." (Note to self: google 'dasher').

That's right.  My mom was organic AND practically Amish.  

"Sometimes, if I didn't want to use the the double seater, I'd sneak to my Aunt Arzie's up the hill and use her outhouse," she explains.  

What did Aunt Arzie have that my mom didn't?  

Toilet paper. They were big time. No Sear's catalog in their outhouse. 

"Aunt Arzie never caught me," my mom continued....

That's right. My mom was an organic, Amish Ninja.

"What did you do about a bath?" I had to ask because I secretly wanted to use the information against my daughter somehow to explain that she didn't need a two hour shower every day.

"We had a tin tub," she said.  (Just as I had hoped!)

"In the winter we filled it with two kettles of hot water and one of cold and we'd get to bathe inside.  In the summer we bathed outside.  We filled it in the morning and let the sun heat it up all day."

That's right.  My mom was an organic, Amish, Ninja, Exhibitionist , Naturalist.

My grandfather never finished the house my mom was raised in.  During World War II all supplies were cut off.  He couldn't get metal or sheet rock.

"I had no ceilings.  Just the rafters," she said.  "And there was no fascia on the window sill. When it snowed, it came right into my room and settled there on the ledge."

"What did you do?" I asked.

"Got a spoon and ate it," she replied.

My mom was an LPN in the labor and delivery department during desegregation.

"If a black laboring mom came in, she'd have to have the baby in the hall on a stretcher. Usually me and the nurse would deliver it.  The doctor would just come by and sign the paper work.  They wouldn't give them a room.  So I would always sneak extra gowns and diapers into their going home bag.  And when I made my rounds with the juice, I went to them first there in the hall so there would still be some good cranberry juice to choose from.  Eventually they told us to put the black babies by the white babies near the viewing window.  We had to line them up: Black, white, black, white.  This mountain man came in and complained.  He told me to get his baby away from the blacks.  So I took his baby and rolled it into the back of the line where no one could see it."

That's right.  My mom was an organic, Amish, Ninja, Naturalist, Civil Rights Activist. 

And this, friends, is after ONE conversation.  It's going to be an enlightening year.

Before she hung up she shared with me my grandmother's favorite song.  I never thought about my Grandma appreciating music.  It made me smile.

"She ran to the radio and would turn it up when this song came on," she told me.

(Note to self: Google "Red River Valley"..........and play it endlessly.)

For more wisdom from my incredible mom, read the post she left on my daughter's facebook: "When I was 14" or read her article about life in the foothills of North Carolina in Mature Living Magazine
(page16-17)

All She Wants For Christmas

My nine year old, Arianna, was VERY excited to hand over her Christmas list this year. The list had been edited, scribbled on, thought through, folded and refolded. The requests were numbered and at the top she had put "iPhone".
"Arianna honey," I said. "For real babes. You can't get an iPhone. You're nine and me and your Dad don't even have an iPhone."
"I don't want it for the phone part," she explained. "I want it for the cool apps."
"Probably not gonna happen," I said as my eyes drifted up and down her wish list.
There was a Nancy Drew PC game, a game for the Wii, she wanted a Razor Scooter. I began to wonder if she truly understood the value of things. Had me and Rob fought so hard to give our kids everything that they somehow didn't realize some things were more valuable than others? Did she understand that one silly Wii game cost a few hours of solid work out of us? And then my eyes caught Number Seven on her list.
A plane ticket for Piper. Piper was the golden hair beauty two doors down in our old neighborhood in New York. They went to the same school and had countless sleep overs. They traded friendship bracelets, painted each other's nails and giggled through High School Musical (1,2 and 3).
Arianna made no secret of her despair in leaving her behind when we moved last month.
"Good grief Ari," I said, ready to give her a lesson in economics. "Do you think we're made of money? A plane ticket? Do you know how much that would cost? If we got Piper a plane ticket, that would be all you got...we wouldn't be able to afford another thing on the list."
"Okay," she said solemnly.
"Okay what?" I asked. I wanted to hear her say it - I wanted to know that she got the lesson - that money doesn't grow on trees and hard earned cash is...well, hard earned.
"Okay," she said. "She's all I want. Use all my Christmas money on her ticket. Can we call her mom when we get home?"
"Oh gosh," I thought to myself. "She's not kidding." As I fought to explain that Piper was probably equally wanted by her parents on Christmas Day, it dawned on me:
Arianna knows the meaning of true value after all. Money doesn't grow on trees, and neither do best friends.

(Just noticed I had written this blog and never published it....wow....it was so long ago. Still adore us some Piper. :)

Wait What? Weight Watchers.

I don’t know when I got fat. It kind of snuck up on me.  I’ve always been thin growing up and in my head, I’ve always been skinny but here lately I’ve had to wear jeggings…all the time.  My son was the first to point it out. “Mom, I’m not saying you’re fat,” he said. “I’m just saying your arms are fat.”

Then one day I noticed my jacket kept getting hung up on something.  It was my butt.

“Hmmmmm, maybe I should do something about that,” I thought to myself.  But then I took a nap instead and forgot.  Then, I hurt my back at work.  I was sent to Physical Therapy where my therapist kept using the terms “women your age” and “working on your core.”  In other words, I was old and fat. 

Then my foot started hurting.  Plantar fasciitis.  Crippling.  Again, the foot doctor mentioned weight.

The last straw was my husband.  I had begun wearing elastic banded anything around the house.  I refused to buy a higher size even if that meant I was going to have to wear my Oscar Mayer Wiener pajama bottoms constantly.  So be it.  My husband came in and beheld me in all my elastic banded glory.

“So that’s it then?” He asked after giving me the once over with his eyes. “You’re just giving up?”

So this year, it’s our 25^th Wedding Anniversary – and my 45^th Birthday too….so I’m giving myself the gift of health – hopefully.  At least, that’s my plan.

I joined Weight Watchers.  And this is my journey, if you care to take it with me.

Day One:

It was our first weigh-in.  Just as I suspected – I’m the heaviest I’ve ever been in my life.  I got all the startup material for the 17 week program.  Luckily, my work is providing the venue and is kind enough to take the payments out of my next few checks.  There is a joker who likes attention at the meeting who continually asks useless questions.  This is already getting on my nerves.  I look through the book….overwhelmed.  I forgot to tell them I don’t cook.  This may be a problem.  Immediately I realize I’m going to have to put every organizational tool I have into place if this is going to be successful.  I leave the meeting a bit deflated….like a Belichick football only fatter.

I got home and signed up for my free eTools app so I could keep track of my binges on my smart phone.  For fun, I used the recipe builder and input Rob’s awesome Chicken Casserole to see how many points I consumed last night for dinner.  If my calculations are correct, Rob’s Chicken Casserole with its sour cream, cream of mushroom soup, jasmine rice, a sleeve of Ritz Crackers and 3 cups of Shredded Cheddar Cheese and broccoli……was 26 points per tablespoon.  That’s all the points I’m allowed in one day, in one bite.

This may be harder than I thought.

Stay tuned.
------------------------------------------
update: First Weigh In: http://musingrhonda.blogspot.com/2015/02/weight-watchers-weigh-inweek-one.html


 

The Donna I knew...

Donna Douglas stood obstinately with one foot on the train and the other on the platform.

“My friend needs to get on,” she said to the conductor as she pointed at me.  It was clear the train, that was already full, wasn’t leaving without me because Donna Douglas wasn’t going to let it.  It wasn’t because she was a diva, she was just persistent and practical.  If you were her friend, there was no limit to what she would do for you.

We were in Baton Rouge at the zoo and we were ending our eventful day with a train ride around the park.  Donna brought her friend from High School, Winona, and another friend, a Professor of Psychology from LSU.  She sat behind us and once, while I was lost in conversation with her Professor/friend, she tapped me hard on the shoulder.

“What are y’all doing?  Look, look!  You’re missing all the critters,” she motioned to a turtle and yes, she really used the word critters. (A lot)

We were at the zoo that day because I had invited her to speak at our Church of God mother/daughter day at the zoo.  We made special shirts with her image.  They said “I spent the day with Elly May…” and they had her likeness on the front.  She loved them.  Because they were pink and Donna Douglas loved pink.  She loved them so much she ordered extra to give away.  That day at the zoo we had an Elly May lookalike contest.  My daughter wore a rope belt and as she exited the bathroom at the zoo she struggled to retie it.  “Here, let me do it for you, I’ve got a little experience,” Ms. Donna said and bent over to tie my daughter’s rope belt.  I took aim with my camera…the iconic moment was not lost on me.

People enjoyed her so much that day and I marveled at how very easy it was to book her.  I saw her at a library, asked for her card and called her home number.  She was her own agent.  She hated to ask church organizations for money she had told me but at the same time she said, “I can’t let you starve me.”  After all was said and done she actually sent money back to us.  “I always like to give some back,” she told me later.

Ms. Donna will always be known for Elly May and I think that was okay with her.  But I think more than that, she was a defender of Elly May’s image and innocence. She hated the sexual objectifying of Elly May.  Max Baer (Jethro) wanted to start a restaurant/theme park in Vegas of some sort that included hamburgers on “Elly May’s Buns”.

She rolled her eyes at the thought.  “Me and Max always differed on the idea of family entertainment,” she would say.

There are some things that people don’t know about Donna Douglas that I discovered during my time with her….

1)      Yes, she starred with Elvis.  But no, she didn’t want to talk about it.  “Put a period on it,” she would say if you brought it up.
2)      She loved pink and if she found a pink shirt with ruffles and lace that she liked, she bought five.
3)      She wore her Elly May wig….all the time….everywhere.
4)      She loved vitamins.  She had a strict regimen and would be happy to tell you all about it.
5)      She would not take advantage of your goodness toward her… she must’ve called a hundred times before our event to let me know she was bringing guests…and that she would pay extra for their meals and their tickets.  “Is that okay?” she’d ask.  And of course it was….and of course I didn’t let her pay…but she asked and for that, she was golden in my book from start.
6)      She was private. 
“I need your address so I can send you this….” I asked her once. 
“Okay,” she said, “but don’t tell anyone where I live.  I don’t want anyone out here taking pictures of me on my John Deere.”
7)      She liked kids. We were at PF Chang’s once and my son dropped his straw under the table.  I told him we’d get another but he obsessed about that one.  Before I could stop her Donna Douglas was under the table.  Far under the table…retrieving it.  “If he likes this one, he should have this one.” And so he did.  And when the kids pleaded for the delectable chocolate dessert after dinner, she made sure they got that too.
8)      She could put away some General Tso’s Chicken.
9)      Her legal name was Doris….Doris Leeds.  (Mr. Leeds was a director of the Beverly Hillbillies and her second husband.)
10)   She deeply and truly loved Buddy Ebsen.  “He was like a real father to me,” she said of him.
11)   She also really loved animals….she owned cats and could tell you the name of every dog that she played with on the set of the Beverly Hillbillies.  There was one in particular she would point out in an old Beverly Hillbillies promo shot.  “This one was my favorite.  He went on to be on Petticoat Junction.” (see photo below)
12)   She loved Jesus.  She had reached a time in her life when she would only speak if she was going to speak about Jesus.  The Elly May gig just became a sidebar to the main message.  Christ changed her life and she couldn’t wait to tell you about it.  And then sing….what a voice.
13)   She had a flip phone….that she wasn’t quite sure how to use.  “Can you tell me who just called me?” she would ask, and hand it to my husband.
14)   She was independent. She drove herself.  She had a gray Honda Pilot and she kept the roads hot with it.

15) She disliked the internet.  "They get so much wrong," she told me when I was trying to write up her introduction bio.  "Just introduce me as a friend who has a story to tell them," she said.   And what a story it was...

16)   She loved her fans.  There was a line a mile long for her autograph at the zoo.  She

"He loved to play," she said of the terrier mix.

signed them all.  (Proverbs 3:5,6 was always included.) And she posed for pictures.  Countless pictures. Later she called me, “I think everyone enjoyed it, don’t you?”  Indeed they did.
17) She could really whistle like she did in the show.  She ended each event with it.
18)   If you called her at home she was going to put you on speaker…and there was going to be southern gospel music in the background.  And she was going to call you “sugar.”  Before we’d hang up she was always careful to ask how I was.  “That’s what’s going on in my world sugar,” she’d say, “What about yours?”

When she turned 80, I called her to wish her a happy birthday.  “I’m holding, I’m holding! No more birthdays for me.” she said.  And we laughed and we made a renewed commitment to get together again soon.  Maybe in the spring I said.  “I’d love that.  Let’s get it on the calendar,” she said.  And I meant to…

I meant to….. 

Just A Dance

I remember when Arianna was born, Rob and I had all the teen rules laid out in stone. Our daughter will NOT be attending any school dances....we used to say emphatically because, of course, we knew what happened at school dances. Boys looked at girls. Not our gentle angelic soul. We would spare her from the heartbreak and public humiliation that is the "school dance." Then middle school happened and she went to a 7th grade class that taught her all the social graces. It quietly culminated in a little "formal" where they practiced their newly acquired etiquette, dressed up, ate with the correct fork, boys asked girls to dance and the girls were required to graciously accept. It was harmless, educational fun. Then 8th grade came. "Can I stay after school for the 'dance'?" she asked us one day. After school? Just a dance. In the gym. In the daytime. How bad could that be? Besides, she had locked arms with some equally angelic girls in her FCA club and they would all be there together. I went to pick her up just before it was over. I cased the joint. I slipped in the back door and perused the dark gym floor. Just as I suspected....boys standing awkwardly on one side and girls standing awkwardly on the other. All the while, the school cop, Officer Freeman, weaved his way in and out of them all.  Safe.  Benign.
But this was all child's play compared to the behemoth of a dance that awaited her in High School. It is upon us now. It is HOMECOMING. (insert maniacal laughter)  At first we told Arianna, "Just go with your friends, have a good time, no pressure, just fun, just you...alone." And then it started. A little at first and then a landslide. Postings, pictures, tweets about daughters being asked to Homecoming. This is done, I've discovered, in no mild mannered way. It has to be a grand gesture. I don't remember this in my high school...Homecoming to me was about football. Maybe it's an ArkLaTex thing, like the gigantic mum corsages.

Nevertheless, we were in Rome and pressure was building on Arianna to fret about Homecoming with her Roman friends. I joined in the fret fest, because I'm really good at fretting. Every day Arianna had a new story. One guy outlined his body with white chalk and used yellow police tape, then made a sign that said "I'm dying to go to Homecoming with you." Another, showed up at soccer practice with a sign..."Kick it with me at Homecoming?" All over her school, her single friends were pairing off. We began the parental consoling speech. "It's just a dance Arianna. It won't be the end of the world if you don't get asked. You'll still be with your girlfriends..."

And then (cue the Halleluiah chorus) we got a call, a request, a heads up. A suitor was on his way.
"I'm going to hide in the bushes and video it," I told Rob.
"What is wrong with you?" he asked, as if he really wanted an answer.
(I still can't believe he thought it was a bad idea.) The door bell rang. I wanted to answer it. I wanted to fling the door open and applaud this guy for realizing that my Arianna is a catch. How much courage did it take to ring that door bell? How brave and romanitc...to lay his vulnerable soul bare on a Poster board.  I wanted to squeal and give him a high five but Rob, once again, restrained me. Arianna went for the door and I held my breath. Why? Because I was in Rome. (And because I'm hormonal.)
He asked, she said yes and thunderous applause erupted in my soul. Arianna, who usually blocks every effort I make to document any event with photography, even let me take a picture...just one. I posted it. His parents posted it. And one commenter pointed out, "Kids, it's just a dance, not a marriage proposal."
Ahhh.....yes, just a dance. Unless your kid is the one ringing the door bell. Unless your kid is the one answering the door. Then you know...it's more than a dance. It's a hallmark.  It's the one foot out the door. It's her eyes looking on someone other than her dad for attention, affection, affirmation and it's this teenage boy...giving her all three....all at once.
It's the beginning of the end.
But yes, other than that...just a dance.

An Open Letter to All My Daughter's Facebook Friends

Dear Facebook Friends of My Daughter, Arianna… Wow, there’s a lot of you suddenly! She’s been making friends for a long time now. Some of you are from England, some are from New York and some of you are brand new from here in Louisiana. She’s got a quite a plethora…young and old. So this is for all of you who find yourself under her “friends” tab. I, her mother, am going to delete you. Not all of you…just the ones of you who can’t find their clothes. And just the ones who think vulgarity is funny….and cool to repost for her eyes to see and her ears to hear. Some of you are mutual adult friends and some of you she’s just discovered at school…no matter…young or old, if you’re inappropriate, I’m deleting you from her Facebook friends. She’s 13. I’ve already been told that I can’t shelter her forever….I know this. But I can shelter her for now. I can shelter her for as long as I can, as hard as I can because that’s what a mom should do. Teenage life is tough. Peer pressure is horrible. Vulgarity suddenly surrounds her on every front….on TV…on the internet…on the Middle School BUS. She hates it. She runs from it…so today, I’m going to do all that I can to help guard her heart…and we’re starting here, on her friends list. So, if you love to show your cleavage in your profile selfies (or any other part of your body that should be covered) or you love a good laugh at the obscene, you’ll be deleted by the time you finish reading this post. If you find yourself suddenly blocked from her page – KNOW THIS: You have value. And that value does not rise and fall on your clothing or lack thereof. But until you realize that, I cannot let you have access to my daughter. Her heart is pure. It’s gold. It’s tender. It’s worth guarding…and so is yours.