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Category Archives: Memories
I Remember…
I remember…
Phones that actually rang. They were connected to a wall and if you were lucky they had very long cords that allowed you to walk around the corner and sit on the floor rather than standing in the kitchen next to your mom. I remember it was a big deal when we got a cordless phone. It had a giant, extend-able silver antenna but it allowed freedom while talking on the phone. I could even walk to the mailbox and still have reception! That was technology, baby!
Broadcast television that required an antenna. The TV had three knobs — On/Off, one for VHF channels (usually stronger reception) and one for the UHF channels. Within those knobs were dials that helped “adjust” the picture. There were three major networks — ABC, CBS, and NBC plus PBS. There were local stations, as well. They specialized in news or “I Love Lucy” reruns.
When we finally got cable, it consisted of a single premium channel — either HBO (known then as Home Box Office), Showtime or The Movie Channel. We still watched the local stations via the antenna. It was two more years before we got a “cable box” that gave us a whopping 32 stations. One of those was WGN from Chicago. Why we needed a local station from anothe city, I’m not sure but it introduced me to the Cubs and Bozo the Clown.
Life before recordable TV. If you missed it, it was gone until rerun season.
Life before computers — I received a typewriter for high school graduation! My family got our first computer when I was 19 and a sophomore in college. I got my first email address (AOL, of course!) when I was 26 and in grad school.
Life when we walked without looking down at an iPhone. The ultimate technology combo — cell phone and computer. I got my first cell phone at 27 and there were vast patches of the country that did not have coverage. I had “minutes” and no texting. My children are not only aware of my phone — they take photos and videos, play games, and call their dad on my phone!
And of course, I remember life before blogging. But it wasn’t as good. I remember being a lonely, frustrated SAHM in a new city. I remember thinking that I was the only one. And I remember when I learned I wasn’t. I remember getting the first comment from someone to whom I was not related (Nezzy, I am looking at you!) and learning that a long-lost IRL friend (Unknown Mami) was a fabulous blogger herself who helped me learn the ropes. I remember when each an everyone of you found time in your busy lives to stop by.
I will always remember. And I will be always be grateful.
What do you remember?
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The Best Christmas Present Ever…
Seventeen years ago, I married my dream guy, my answered prayer. Here we are — very happy, slightly tipsy, and blissfully unaware of eyebrow waxing.
We married one week before Christmas and he has been the greatest Christmas present ever. So happy anniversary, baby. And thanks for making every Christmas magical and every day Christmas.
Since then, he has answered many more including giving me two beautiful children.
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All Soul’s Day
The days surrounding Halloween often make me think about the world beyond the one we see. I do believe that there is something more than this. I think most of us do. And I believe that I have had an experience that proves it.
My brother died when I was twenty-five. Those of you who have been with me a while know this. The truth is, however, that I had very little time to mourn. At the beginning, there was a great deal to be done and my parents were in no shape to do those things. My youngest brother was still in high school so it fell to me to make many of the calls and arrangements. After that, well to be honest, I was busy.
I was in focus mode. I wanted to go to Acting school. My auditions were in February and nothing was going to stop me. Every bit of emotion, pain, and energy went like a laser into the preparation. And I was successful. I got into one of my dream schools and in the following fall, I moved to San Francisco to begin my new life.
But unfinished business has a way of catching up with us, doesn’t it? The day after my brother died, I went into his room to say goodbye. He had two silver rings that he wore on a daily basis. My youngest brother and I decided that we would each keep one. So I took my favorite and looked around. I realized that this ring was the only thing I really wanted.
I wore that ring everyday thereafter. There was a problem, however. It was a men’s ring and it didn’t really fit well. It was a little too big for my ring finger and a little tight on my middle finger. I would mostly wear it on the tight finger but occasionally it would start to bother me and I would switch it to the other finger. It would spin a little on that finger and I was always afraid that I might lose it.
Well, one day that fear was realized. I can’t remember just how it was I noticed that it was gone. I looked down and my fingers were bare. I searched and searched. I opened every drawer, unzipped every pocket, and turned every metaphorical stone. The ring was nowhere.
I cried for days. I continued looking, as did my husband, although it was obvious that it was lost forever. Finally, when it was clear that all hope should be abandoned, I made a deal with God.
“Dear God, if you will let me have the ring back, I swear that I will never wear it again. Just let me have it back and I will keep it forever.”
That was my prayer. I went to bed that night. I got up the next morning. I went to school. And I came home for dinner. Sitting in the center of the kitchen table, clear as day as they say, was the ring. It wasn’t under anything. It was alone.
I immediately ran to my husband and hugged him. “When did you find it? Where did you find it?”
He looked at me like I had lost my mind. He had no idea of what I was speaking. And no, he wasn’t lying. I know my husband and I can tell. He was as honestly shocked as I.
No. that ring appeared. It was the answer to my prayer. And it sits unworn in a special box where it has sat for 15 years. Where it will stay for many more, I will never break my promise.
I believe this was my brother’s way of getting me to let go. In that week of the missing ring, I did more mourning than in the entire year before. He wanted me to let go and I wasn’t. I would’ve worn that ring forever and I would never have let him go. I believe that with all my heart.
Have you had an experience that you can’t explain?
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Saltwater Streams
This is a poem I wrote in honor of my brother.
Saltwater Streams
Under the shadow of a tree, your
monument stands. Curved in roots
and carved in stone. Life swirls at
your feet and death at your head.
Swimming in a sea of grass, marble ships
of grey and white do their worst against
a phoenix rising in flames daily with the
sun and a lady in bloom dancing at night.
Streams of saltwater have etched valleys
bursting forth frothy and full of burdens
carried yesterday and the next. Weights
lifted on the gossamer of angels.
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The Missing Photo in the Album
I used to make scrapbooks. I would spend hours clipping articles, picking and positioning photos to create the perfect book. They meant so much to me and held a place of honor on my bookshelves.
I haven’t made a scrapbook in years. I used to think that it was just a matter of time. When I have time, I’ll do that again. I’ve certainly kept everything in a belief that I will once again make an album. I feel this way, especially for my children. They are four and eight. We have taken thousands of photos each. Most of them gather virtual dust in the multiple hard-drives that sit stacked on our desk.
So why don’t I spend the hours necessary to give a beautiful home to all those photos? Besides the exhaustion that came with these snapshot worthy children. I think that it is because of the missing photo. Or, rather the person that is missing from those photos.
My brother William died October 7, 1995. This was one month and five days before his 21st birthday. It was also eight years and 10 days before my son was born and 11 years, five months, and 21 days before my daughter’s birth.
He would have loved being an uncle. And oh, what a fun uncle he would have been. But, of course, he has never met them and he never will. So when I do sit down and make those books and yes, I eventually will, (I may be gray and wrinkled but I will) there will be a missing photo. The one where he is holding a newborn baby in a blue or pink blanket. And that is just the beginning.
My son’s book will miss Will’s laughing face in the background when he is caught in the act. An act that he would have most definitely have been put up to by my jokester brother. Also missing will be William teaching my son to ride a skateboard. The Christmas picture of my son opening a pair of Vans or Doc Martens. A picture of the two of them playing air guitar and rocking out to Ozzy Osbourne.
My daughter will miss the picture wherein he swings her higher than she knew it was possible to swing. Her book will also lack the picture of the two asleep on a couch, neither able to close their eyes completely when sleeping. And I will miss the photo of him dancing with her like ballerinas, hands held above their heads like a sun, twirling on tiptoe.
As much as I miss these photos and innumerable more, I do have pictures hiding in that cavernous maze of gigabyte histories. My son is as much a jokester as his uncle. And when he laughs, he looks just like Uncle Will. He is also, the most loyal friend I have ever seen, just like my brother. These pics help fill the void.
My daughter’s emotions turn on a dime and while she smiles a lot, when her forecast turns cloudy her countenance turns desperately serious. My brother did just the same. Whenever I see that frown, a pang strikes my heart. These photos remain missing from her book. I’ll stick with her sunshine and skip his clouds.
The photos will keep coming and the more that come, the more that will be missing. For every album I eventually create, there will be at least one missing photo.
Sixteen years later and you are still missed.
I’ve been taking a few creative writing classes and this was from a prompt. As one of my 2012 goals is to share my writings more, I thought that I would share some of these pieces.
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I Will Never Forget… Pt 2
If you missed Part One, please go here.
I was up in the West 90′s and my cell phone started ringing.
My best friend called, “Where are you? Are you safe? You should never have moved to New York!”
“I don’t know. I don’t know! I’m okay but I don’t know what’s going on. I have to go. That’s David on the other line…”
“Call me back. Let me know you’re okay!”
***
My husband again, “I can’t cross any of the bridges. The city is cut off! Can you get to the Bronx? I think I can get to the Bronx but it will take a while…”
“I’m in the 90′s, should I walk North? If you can get there. I can get there. There’s a small bridge but I hear people are walking across the Brooklyn Bridge.”
“Wait to hear from me. Let me find out if I can get there. Everything is crazy and it’s hard to find out anything. Keep your phone on!”
“That’s my Dad. I’ll call you back…”
***
“Hi, Daddy.”
“Hi. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, Daddy. I’m okay…. ”
Silence.
“I’m scared, Daddy.”
“I know.”
“I want to come home (Houston).”
“We’ll talk about that later. Let’s just get you back to your apartment.”
“I’m trying, Daddy, but they’ve cut off everything. The bridges, the trains… everything. I’m stuck here.”
“Do you have any friends close by?”
“My friend, E, lives down in the 50′s. And M lives in Chelsea.”
“Start walking to the 50s. Call your friends. Be with someone…”
“Okay, Daddy. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“I have to go now, Daddy. I need to save my battery…”
Now that I have started writing, I am realizing how much happened in such a short time. I’m going to keep writing this month and finally get it out. So much of this I have never told or have only told in pieces in parts to different people. I hope I do it justice and I hope I don’t bore you in the process.
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I Will Never Forget…, Pt. 1
September 11, 2001
We all know the date. We all have a story. This is mine. So many suffered so more than I but with the anniversary, I felt compelled to record the details of that morning. A morning that started out so normally and changed my life and the world so dramatically. A morning I would like to forget. But a morning I must remember.
So to the question that we all ask, “where were you?”, here’s my story…
I caught the wrong train. In the rush of my excitement, I had jumped on the first train which was the Express. The train dropped me seven blocks south of the call spot. Twenty – five
minutes and seven blocks; I would have to hustle but I could do it. The red China Laundry platform Mary Janes weren’t conducive to running the sidewalks of the Upper West Side but I was too excited to care.
The sun streamed through the exit. I glanced at my black Swatch just before breaking street side, 8:22 am. I blinked as my eyes adjusted to the bright morning. God, was the sky blue. It was warm but there was a hint in the breeze of the fall to come. It seemed one of the most perfect New York mornings I had ever seen. I just knew this was going to be a special day.
With a few “excuse me”s, and more than one jaywalking incident, I got there with five minutes to spare. A group of disparate, if attractive looking twenty-somethings, were gathered at the door of a Columbus Circle bar. I joined them just as young African-American man opened the heavy wooden door and let us in. We gathered on the bar stools or around tables. As the bar-man went through his day’s opening, he turned on the television to the Today show.
Not knowing anyone in the group, I turned to the broadcast. The volume was too low to be heard over the chattering actors, but I stared at the screen trying to understand what I was
seeing. Was that a plane in one of the Towers? It must be some terrible accident. I turned to the skater looking guy with a Freddie Prinze, Jr. hairdo on my right and asked what he thought. I mentioned that the Christmas before I had flown into LaGuardia and my husband and I had circled the Towers for 45 minutes. At the time, we couldn’t believe how close we got to the buildings. Surely that was what happened. It certainly wasn’t the weather. There was not a cloud in the sky. The pilot must have circled too close.
My cell phone rang. I dug out the cobalt blue Nokia to see my husband’s number on the screen. “Hi honey! Are you watching the news?”
“Come home now. We’re under attack!”
“What are you talking about? I know it’s awful but I’m sure the pilot just had a problem. And I finally booked a film. Let’s just see what happens”.
I could tell he wanted to argue but I had played a trump card. “Keep your phone on you. I’m telling you this is no accident”.
“Okay, okay.” I hung up and skater dude with the spiked hair gave me a quizzical look. “It’s weird”, I said, “my husband is freaking out”.
By this time, the cacophony had quieted down and the bartender had turned up the TV. There were whispered questions and exclamations here and there. It occurred to me that my parents back in Houston might be watching the news. I picked up my phone again and dialed my Dad. It was now getting loud again in the bar so I stepped back out into the blinding day.
“Hi, Daddy. In case, you’re watching the news, there seems to be a plane crash downtown. I just wanted you to know I’m nowhere near it. I’m way up in the West 90’s. Just wanted you
to know I’m fine…” He said he appreciated the call and asked me to be careful. I agreed and stepped back in.
A wave of gasps and cries broke out across the room as we saw the second plane fly directly into the second Tower. The realization hit me that this was not an accident. This was real and New York was under attack. I felt both hot and cold simultaneously. The sweat that gathered on my brow belied the chill in my heart.
My phone rang again. “Get home before they shut down the city. We are under attack.” I nodded to the phone without words. My legs had grown heavy… “Traci, talk to me. What are
you doing? Come home!”
A fear shook me as I realized that I was not safe anywhere in New York. It’s a freaking 13 mile island!!! I was less than ten miles away. And everything is a landmark. And all of sudden, they all seemed like targets. I felt surrounded by targets and I wanted to go home…
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Where I Am From…
A couple of weeks ago, my friend Unknown Mami, shared where she was from and I thought it was so neat. Then it was an assignment for a writing class that I am taking which was a wild coincidence. So I thought that I would share with you Where I Am From…
I am from Doug and Cindy, Big Mama and Big Daddy.
I am from Germans and Mics, Scots and Poms.
I am from Southern charm and East Texas drawls – three syllable yous, y’alls, cuz’s, wuz’s and fixing to’s.
I am from bath water beaches and ice cold rivers.
I am from suburbs, station wagons, cul-de-sacs, and neighborhood pools.
I am from Sweet Tea and margaritas with salt. Shake and Bake, cinnamon toast, and Blue Bell.
I am from “Young America” whose love of video killed the radio star.
I am from strong and silent men. Stronger and less silent women.
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The Men That Made Me
As the countdown continues (well restarts, I was away there for a bit!), I couldn’t not acknowledge the two men who have influenced my almost forty years the most.
The first is obviously my Daddy. And yes, as a Southern girl, I still call him Daddy and will until I am in my grave. I may be a woman but he is always my Daddy. He and I are very different and he is responsible for many more than one fit of frustration and feeling of inadequacy. He is, however, one of the most sincerely kind, generous men in the world and I know now, have always known, and will always know that he loves me. He gave me life. That makes him a father. He gives me love. That makes him Daddy.
A Daddy can be a girl’s first love. But eventually other men start to invade the landscape once dominated by good ol’ dad. For better or worse (I usually think better), I don’t have a long list of men scattered along the map of my past. I found my soul mate very early. Like high school early. Like Reagan was still president early. Yeah… early. And while I sometimes watched Carrie Bradshaw with a little envy as she manuevered the worlds of first kisses and new loves, I always knew that I had something real and would never EVER be broken up with on a Post-It note.
So if my Daddy made me the girl I was, my husband has shaped the woman I’ve become. The first birthday we ushered in was in 1988. I was 17 and he took me to play Putt-Putt golf. We also stole a stop sign but as I don’t know the statute of limitations of theft of government property, we’ll leave it at that.
Outside of the ill-gained signage for my wall, he also gave me a really cute skirt and shirt (Liz Claiborne — tres chic at the time!). As I turn 40, I look back and can remember many a great gift. When I turned 21, he got me a Super Nintendo because he said that everyone else would be focused on me growing up and this was about still being a kid. (Oh the late night hours spent eating cheap pizza and playing Mario or Zelda or Tetris!)
When it was time to turn 30, he knew I was stressed about it so he counted down “30 days until Traci is 30″, giving me a small gift each day. that was pretty cool! It was fun. Made me feel like a kid again and therefore, not old.
Two years later, he gave me the best gift ever. He gave me a son. Followed three years after that with a daughter. Two of the most beautiful angels, God ever held in His hand. And their mine. Basically, he gave me a family and made me a mother. And being a mother made me the woman that I was meant to be.
I don’t know what he has in mind for the 40 (he definitely hasn’t done 40 days until Traci is 40 but that’s a little tougher after kids!) BUT IT DOESN’T MATTER.
Because really, I have it all. I may not be wealthy. But I am rich. I am loved by many including two of the best men I know. So Happy Father’s Day to them both and all the “Daddy”s out there.
17 Days…
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Posted in 40, Gratitude, Memories, Mommyhood
Tagged 40, Celebrations, Grateful Heart, Mommyhood, Mr. Hero, My Life
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The Girl With the Dot on Her Nose
When I was born 25 days short of 40 years ago, I was born with a dime-sized burgundy birthmark on the bridge of my nose. Slightly off-center but dead-on in the sites of anyone looking at me, it was the color of red wine. Its contrast with my super pale skin made it impossible to miss.
If you saw my Christening portrait, however, you wouldn’t know. The photographer convinced my mother that it would fade so they painted it out. Unfortunately, however, there was no photographer following me through life painting over the offending red circle.
It did not fade. It stayed frustratingly prominent in the center of my face. The first thing that you saw was not my flaxen hair. You did not see my big smile. You did not even see my hazel eyes that change color. The first thing anyone saw was the red dot on my nose.
People never quite knew what to say about it. Concerned adults would ask “What happened?” as if it was an injury. “Is she hurt?” Kids could be less subtle. “What happened to your nose?” “Did something hit your face?”
And so it stayed. I was the girl with the red dot on her nose. As I got older, the harder it became. Children went from a lack of subtly to a lack of civility. Bullies are always looking for things that makes one different and having a large red circle made me an easy target — pun intended. At one point an especially troublesome boy (surprisingly I cannot remember his name considering how many tears I shed over him) came up with the term “hickey nose”.
That’s right. Hickey nose. I was 9 years old and I had no idea what a hickey was. So I went home and asked my mother. If you think having a 10 year old bully calling you a name is painful, try learning what a hickey is from your mother! Once he came upon this moniker, he never let it go. For three years, he and anyone he could convince called me “Hickey Nose” incessantly. On the bus. In the halls. Across the cafeteria.
Finally, we changed schools. And while I left behind Hickey Nose, I could not leave behind the stares and the feeling that I was scarred; marked for life. Attempts were made with makeup but I was so young and the makeup so heavy that it never really worked. Finally, at the age of 13, I began a series of procedures culminating in a surgery that would remove my Scarlet blemish.
It was successful. All these years later, I have a very faint scar across the bridge of my nose. Most people never see it unless I point it out. But in so many ways, I will forever be the girl with the red dot on her nose.
Small scar on the outside, big scar on the inside. What scars do you carry?
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