Wordless

An odd title for a scribbler’s blog post, I suppose. As I sat down to compose this post, I discovered a scarcity of words that surprised even me. Anyone who knows me well knows that I am rarely, if ever, at a loss for words. Fortunately I rediscovered my words, so here we go:

I’m full of emotions right now. Emotions threaten to knock me off my feet the same way a wave knocks you on your backside when you venture too far off shore when the Gulf is choppy chocolate soup. The emotions vying for my attention spring from what seems a multitude of sources: preparing my childhood home for sale, readying my daughter to move into her first apartment away from home, and observing the first anniversary of my mama’s passing.

The house is coming together finally. Now that it’s been almost completely emptied of all the things that made it “home,” I don’t get quite as sad when I walk through the front door. I still have vivid memories though, and I remember lying on the green 70s’ carpet in my bedroom — a first grader trying to stay out-of-the-way while my parents moved all our worldly possessions into our brand-new house. Lying on my stomach, I read fairy tale after fairy tale from the hardcover copy of The Grimm Brothers Fairy Tales my mother had given me. It was protected by a glassine dust jacket that still allowed the colorful illustration centered on the front of the navy cloth binding to show through. A companion volume of Hans Christian Andersen fairy tales, bound in burgundy cloth, completed the set. For some reason, I always preferred the Grimm Brothers. They were a little darker, a little more melancholy.

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Mine are similar to these, but I didn’t have a slipcase. I’d take a photo of mine, but the college girl is sleeping and I don’t want to wake her up.

My college girl is scheduled to move into her apartment two weeks from Friday. Two weeks. How did the time fly so quickly??? Yesterday we went to IKEA, where we bought a small desk, swivel chair, bedding, and a few other small things. After grabbing a late lunch at Buff Burger, we stopped at Homegoods and Bed, Bath & Beyond. Truthfully, I think she has just about everything she needs for now. We have the luxury of only being an hour down the road, so if she forgets something or gets in a bind, it won’t be too difficult to help out if she wants our help. The challenge will be leaving her alone to figure things out herself. It’s part of the process, and so I’m going to sit on my hands, hide my keys from myself, and resist the temptation to call three times a day to see how things are going. Isn’t this what we’ve been preparing her (and ourselves) for the last 20 years?

I’m dreading tomorrow. Actually, today because it’s after midnight. So it’s August 3.

A year ago today, mid-morning, I got a phone call from my sister. She thought our mama had a stroke. Because our mama didn’t like the hospital in Clear Lake and any EMS that served her area would take her there, we drove her to the hospital in Pearland, at her request. The initial symptoms that we thought were symptoms of stroke must have been related to the cancer that had metastasized to her brain several months before, because after a little time passed, the symptoms were gone. Sitting in the triage area at Pearland, we made little jokes and she requested that they allow her to keep her underwear when they helped her into a hospital gown. As doctors and nurses came and went, she asked when she could go home, and they explained that they needed to send her to a hospital with a neurologist consult. So they made arrangements to transfer her to Memorial Hermann. I wish I’d known that would be the last time I saw her awake and cognizant of her surroundings. I wish I’d made sure to hug her before they took her in the ambulance to Memorial Hermann. Little did my sister or I know that around 4:25 am the morning of August 4, we would say our final goodbyes to our mama.

Truly, our mama had very definite ideas about the way things should be done, and as I’ve spent the last year going through things from the house — reading letters, mementos and the like — I’ve come to the conclusion that some of the high standards she set for us were rooted in her own heart-felt desire to be better than she believed herself to be. Growing up in a small east Texas town, her family lived on land leased out around the South Liberty oil fields. Her parents were good, hardworking folk who loved and did well for their kids, especially considering neither of them went past grade school. We knew our mama was sharp and talented because of the things we witnessed her do for us throughout our childhoods — she was very active in our classrooms when we were small and she eventually worked hard to establish a library (properly organized by the Dewey Decimal System, no less) at the private school my sister attended.

Surprising things we’ve learned this year or so:

  • Our mama was a member of the homecoming court when she was a freshman in high school.
  • Our mama was president of the library club at Liberty High School, and she served as regional president when she attended the state convention of high school library clubs.
  • Our mama wore ladies’ dress gloves (we found white and black gloves, elbow and wrist length), beautiful heels with thin spike heels, and she had a black cashmere coat with a detachable mink collar that makes me think of Audrey Hepburn.
  • We found a snapshot of our teenage mama standing in front of the Christmas tree at our grandparents’  home — Mama wore a Norwegian style sweater with black pants. In my entire life, I never saw my mama wear pants.
  • Mama worked at the Liberty County courthouse after she graduated high school, but before she got married, and her supervisor liked her to fill out the marriage licenses because she had such beautiful handwriting.

Mama was a stickler for honesty — she disliked untruthfulness with a passion, so we were a little amused to discover our mama had sticky fingers, at least as a teenager, when it came to hotel souvenirs. The Library Club attended a couple of conventions and we found a shoe box with odds and ends from a hotel in San Antonio, the name of which escapes my memory. The mother lode was a cache of goodies from the Shamrock Hilton in Houston, Texas. We are now the proud “owners” of an ashtray, a seafood fork, a teaspoon, and a room key with brass Shamrock Hilton key chain attached.

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Photo found on Google — our key chain has the key still attached.

There was something entertaining, reassuring, and comforting in realizing our mama had been a silly teenager, just like us. I can almost imagine my mama, who I always thought of as very prim and proper, getting excited over Elvis’ latest song.

Today, when I’m tempted to be sad, I’m going to focus on that teenage girl growing up in Liberty, Texas — getting dressed up, with hat and gloves to shop at Foley’s Downtown and eat apple pie with rum sauce at the Azalea Terrace upstairs.

I miss you, Mama. Thank you for everything, including the stories and the seafood fork. I love you.

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Mama in high school. I think she told me she was 16 in this portrait, so it would have been 1959.

A Special Kind of Jerk

Be prepared.

If it were in my power, heads would roll.

If I could unleash my inner “mama  bear,” I would let loose with a fresh hell like no one has ever seen.

Hide the can openers, because I definitely want to open up a can of whoop-ass on a college professor who does not deserve his title or position.


That night in early April was particularly bad — my daughter’s dog, Evelyn threw up three times in the early hours, and then again as my girl started to put her in the car to take her to the vet. She’d lost a tremendous amount of weight for a dog her size in only a month, and she struggled to keep the boiled egg or diced chicken down that we cooked for her. The once spunky pup had no energy and spent the majority of her days lying quietly on the floor or the couch. She’d had X-rays that indicated an enlarged heart, and some suspicious masses that could be cancerous. There were additional tests that could be run, but no guarantee, and in the meantime she was suffering.

My girl had to make the very difficult decision to have her sweet Evelyn put to sleep that afternoon. With the vet’s counsel, it was agreed this was the best course of action, to save her any additional suffering. In the middle of the heartbreaking decision, Jami sent her professor an email explaining that her dog was very ill and she was having to have her put to sleep. She asked if she could reschedule the exam she was supposed to take later in the day.

The professor responded with a  very curt “You can take it at 5:30 this evening or get a zero. Sorry.”

There are those who might say, “It’s just a dog. It’s not worth flunking a test or damaging your grade point average.” Whatever. Jami saw her puppy being born into this world, and eight years later, she stood by the examination table holding her precious pup as she slipped away, tears streaming down her face. She told me that she had thought about it and taking the test or skipping the test wouldn’t matter — she would not do well either way.

At her request, I left her there to grieve her loss.

Some time has passed and we are doing better, but even now we will get a little weepy when we think of that crazy sweet girl we love so much.


I guess you can imagine how angry it made both of us when we discovered the “professor” read my daughter’s email aloud to his class this semester as an example of how “there is no excuse that will persuade me to let you take a makeup exam.”

He did not read her name, but a friend in the class recognized the email as hers.

If I could have his job, I would. I want to write a letter to the administration, but my girl said that if anyone writes a letter, it needs to be her. I asked her if I could blog about it, and she gave me permission.

So here I am, Mama Bear, venting my fury on the interwebs. He exploited my daughter’s grief to make himself look tough and powerful. It’s a special kind of jerk that can take joy in someone else’s pain. I’m not going to call him out by name, but his last name starts with an “S.” I think it may stand for “Sorry Excuse for a Human.” 😡

Our Sweet Evelyn May

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The Three Musketeers…or Stooges. You decide.

We have always loved our furry babies. In the 24 years that my husband and I have been married, we have never been without pets. Our babies have added so much joy and laughter to our family. It’s never easy when our journey together ends.

The photo above was taken about five years ago. I love it, though, because it’s such a perfect illustration of our dogs and their relationships with each other. Hurley Monroe, the golden, is my husband’s baby and this shows her laid-back, even tempered nature. She just goes with the flow and doesn’t let anything upset her. Sweetie, the chihuahua, is mine. She’s independent, and her pose in this photo shows that. What she doesn’t let on is that she’s actually very affectionate and loves attention, in spite of her independence. Sweetie will turn eleven in June, and Hurley will turn eleven in September. It’s hard to believe they’ve been part of our family for so many years.

The little girl lying across Hurley’s back, though. That little girl is who I hope to honor today. Evelyn May was Sweetie’s daughter, but her father was a Yorkshire Terrier. Evelyn inherited her mama’s big ears and soulful eyes. Her fur was this crazy long/short business – long yorkie hairs randomly popping up from shorter chihuahua-like hairs, and all yorkie markings. Her birth was a science lesson – our daughter watching her come into this world, and immediately wanting to keep her. We couldn’t say no to the roly-poly little pudge ball.

Sweetie was a good mama, and Hurley would fill in for her in a pinch. I can still see Evelyn rolling over on her back so Hurley could groom her if Sweetie wasn’t nearby. It was the craziest thing I’d ever seen. The pups truly seemed to love each other, playing with each other and on more than one occasion, I’d discover Evelyn using Hurley like a bed, and Hurley peacefully obliging.

My girl adored that spoiled little dog and they had the joy of each other’s love for almost nine years. A few weeks ago, though, Evelyn began to have some health problems and preliminary tests indicated an enlarged heart and issues with her spleen. If that weren’t bad enough, there were also indicators of cancer. We hoped, really hoped she would get better, even if to have her with us just a little longer, but when she couldn’t keep her food down, we knew our time with her was at an end.

I was incredibly proud when my girl made the hard, but right decision. She let her beloved Evelyn go. She was with her when she was born, and she loved her as she left this world. I don’t have any scriptural backup for it, but I just can’t help but think that our beloved pets are waiting for us in heaven. I’d like to think Evelyn and my Australian shepherd, Sydney, are waiting for us – running in a spring meadow with lots of other dogs waiting for their families, too.

I miss you, Evelyn May.

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Jami and her sweet Evelyn May.

Trigger Finger

I knew it was going to happen. At some point in time, I’d be too quick to punch the wrong button on the answering machine, and accidentally delete one or both of the two messages left by my mama a few months ago. Earlier this morning we had to have our well worked on, and that required turning off the breaker. When I walked past my answering machine, I saw the red light flashing and when I pushed “Play,” the machine announced “Time and Date Must Be Set.”

The messages started playing and my too quick finger punched the “Delete” button, rather than the “Stop” button. And I immediately realized what I’d done.

I haven’t listened to the messages that often, because it makes me sad and miss her so much when I hear her say “I love you” at the end. Fortunately, I still have a message and I’m about to record it with the “voice memo” feature on my phone. I’ll save it to my computer, and then to a flash drive. It may seem weird, but the message is so perfectly her and I don’t want to lose it, too. Calling to see if I’d heard from my sister (who was in New York at the time) and wrapping it up by saying “I love you.”

I used to get frustrated because she would call me to see if I knew what was going on with Angie. I would say, “Mama, just call Angie!” and she would tell me she didn’t want to disturb her if she was working or sleeping or otherwise busy.

I would love to hear her ask me what is going on with my sister today.