Mrs. B & Me

I couldn’t feel my fingers or toes.

But that was ok. I was on a mission.

christmas golden ornament on artificial coniferous garland with lights — Photo by Uriel Mont on Pexels.com

It was the day Santa was visiting. He’d be at my market pavilion that evening at 5:00PM, and I was preparing for his arrival. Kids were coming and the cookies were ready, and that morning at work, I had the nice surprise of finding extra lights in my storage area. (Our public works team had hung a few hundred feet of icicle lights on the farmers market pavilion the days prior.) Apparently, I, being spatially challenged, had ordered a couple hundred feet extra.

“We’re gonna make this Santa-space twinkly!”

Suddenly, I was Clark Griswold. I envisioned myself singing “Joy to the World” when I flipped the switch. I was working with a blank canvas in a new structure, knowing that no matter how many lights I found a space for, the festive part in my brain would be screaming, “More! More!”

But today…. the task at hand…was to get these lights up.

Interruptions

I was three hours in and the icicle lights were done. Now, lighted garland was being hung in six-foot increments. The sparkly star was up (not in its originally planned place—the wind was too fierce for it. The wind was. a. beast. Brutal, I say!) While I was squinting, standing back, and making sure the lights on the garland were spaced correctly, my Bose speaker belted out Brenda Lee.

About halfway into decking the rails, I noticed a work vehicle pull into the lot. The area isn’t public parking, and this vehicle parked perpendicular to the pavilion. My brain went into overdrive…”wonder what they’re doing”…”hope there’s no tomfoolery”…”am I going to have to ask them to move the truck”…”I’ve never heard of that business….”

The engine is cut off.

Burl Ives is in the background reminding me to have a holly jolly Christmas.

And I begin keeping a side-eye on them as they sit there.

My decorating finally took me to an area that required my facing them. I could keep an eye on them without gawking and I could see what they were up to. Suspicious activity requires that, you know.

I turned, and in the front seat I saw the driver eating something, and a tiny, older lady on the passenger side. “They’re just eating lunch,” I thought with relief.

Four minutes pass, and the passenger door opens. The gentleman comes around, assists the lady out of the truck, she straightens her peacoat, and begins walking in my direction.

“I need to walk around…my legs get stiff,” she said, as she made her way to where I was.

The man had already returned to the truck.

“I understand that!” I replied, as she made her way to me.

“I have issues with the arteries in my legs,” she continued. The doctor said I wouldn’t be walking in three years. That was six years ago. So, I make sure to get up & walk when I can.”

By now, she’d reached the area where I was decorating.

“Well, it looks like you’ve defied the odds—you’re getting around beautifully!”

A hearty laugh seemed to prompt the pointing of her cane. “My son is in that truck. I don’t let him know these things because I don’t want to worry him. He invited me to ride with him today for his work. First time I’ve done this!”

Our conversation seemed to just flow after that. I learned that…

…her bridge “didn’t fit right”

…she worked for an attorney without any formal training when she was 19 years old

… she worked for the railroad after that

…she lived in the very county where I’d previously lived almost 20 years

…she thought my daughter is beautiful (of course I showed her photos!)

…she was shocked I’m old enough to have a 31-year-old child (like I’m going to omit that tidbit…BOOYAH, FATHER TIME!)

…she believed in “divine appointments”

As she kept apologizing for taking me from my decorating, I kept telling her it was quite alright—she’s not taking me from anything.

Elegance & Grace

figurines of christmas trees and skiing reindeer — Photo by Ilo Frey on Pexels.com

I found myself smiling largely the entire time she spoke. Her red lipstick matched her pillbox hat perfectly, and her eyes twinkled more than the thousands of lights I’d just strung. Her white hair reminded me of the soft, fluffy stuff we used for snow in our mini Christmas villages in the 1970s. Like cotton.

“Well, you sure have done a beautiful job,” she said.

(It was just lights, a star, and garland…..)

She told me her name…. but to maintain her privacy, I’ll call her “Mrs. B.”

She told me her age.

Eighty-nine.

Mrs. B used to travel “these parts” with her husband, who had passed some years ago. She’d not been here in a while, and as a matter of fact, she and her son were headed to another town about 30 minutes north of us, but they wanted to stop for lunch.

My town it was.

In a non-parking lot.

Beside my Santa space.

Forty-five minutes had passed, and the feeling in my fingers and toes had returned. I walked her to the truck where her son stood waiting for her, and invited her to come back in the summer for our farmers market.

“Ain’t nothin’ like a homegrown tomato, and we have some of the best!” I told her. “I would love to see you one Thursday during our market season.”

“I may just do that!” she said, as her son helped her into the truck. “You sure have made me want to visit again….thank you!”

I stood, contemplative, as the truck disappeared over the hill. The wind blustered around me.

I pivoted and noticed the lights of Santa’s space. Heard the joyful sounds of Bing Crosby. Felt the tips of my fingers and toes. And noticed I was still wearing a smile.

My mind…my body…my heart….needed this pause…needed this reminder.

Thank you, Mrs. B. I believe in divine appointments, too.

Significance

If my eyes were closed, I’d feel like I was on my side porch in the summer, listening to the rain, the swing gently swaying front…back…front…back…

And as I watched her, I think she was thinking the same.

The Queen has had a few weeks of absolute astuteness (is there such a word?) She’s been awesome in letting me know what she needs & wants. Fuzzy socks. Her sunglasses cleaned. The car window down because she smells a dead skunk.

No worries, chinquapin, we rollin’ all four down!

She’s also seemed wired up, as I say. Full speed ahead. Rare form. Active.

Not bad things, mind you. Just “on” things.

So, I accommodate.

Night time routines

This evening, I readied her for bed. I collected her pj’s, a fresh towel, washcloth, and changed her bed sheet, while she sat on the potty reading a 13-month-old edition of my Harvard Business Review.

It was bath time.

Every time for the past few decades, I’ve had two methods of bath time: let the water run to warm, lift her into the tub, and remove the wand to rinse her while she sits in the tub; or fill the tub, add Epsom salt, baking soda, and lavender oil, and hold my arms under her to give her buoyancy to aid in the relaxation, then rinse accordingly.

But tonight…tonight I was going to let her experience something new.

A shower.

I stood her and stepped her over into the tub, the shower head spraying a rainstorm (that’s the setting) into the tub. Instead of sitting her down, I let her stand. Back to the spray. Water pitterpatterpitterpattering on her, warm water running down her head, to her back, shoulders, to her arms, and exiting out of her fingers that positioned themselves in front of her, tip-to-tip on each hand, as if instructing the droplets where to go.

Stillness.

She tilted her head slightly back and closed her eyes. I just knew she was relishing the feeling of the water cascading down her shoulders to the tips of her fingers. She stood silent. Motionless.

And I let her relish.

I was, too.

The power of water

We stood for 3 minutes. Then 5. Then 8. I worried that the water would turn cold. Or my arms would grow weak. Or her legs would give out. The water seemed to turn into tiny, rubber beads that bounced off her now caramel-colored hair. They ricocheted in unison. A cadence formed as we stood, her with her eyes closed, hands out with palms facing toward her, my hands and arms holding her weight…so she could experience what we all (at least most) have. I noticed her eyes closed, and a contented smile on her face as she soaked in her standing-shower experience. And I….became lost in the moment…my shirt soaked…my jeans now stuck to my legs.

It was bedtime.

I turned her, sat her down, and bathed her like I’ve done the past three decades. She was pliable, mellow, smiling, and what I perceived as happy for enjoying her first shower. Once finished, I stepped her over the side of the tub, dried her, lotioned and powdered her, combed her hair, sprayed it with Pravana (how’d she become so bougie??) and donned her in her cozy pjs—a combo of a t-shirt/sweatshirt and long-johns/fuzzy pants. And fuzzy socks. Have to have fuzzy socks.

To bed she goes. Teeth brushed. Drink of water. Monkey bear presented. Prayers said. Kisses given. Obligatory photos & videos…

“Yes, you’re beautiful,” I tell her. She feels prissy, and fresh, and relaxed and calm and Zen-like.

And I’m all emotional.

Thirty-one and-a-half years and she has her first shower. I’m thankful that He shows me the “little” things that can make a huge difference. The “little” things that bring huge joy.

I know I’ll never see mine the same….

Thank you, God, for making the seemingly insignificant so significant. It really does matter.

Toothbrushes, Combs, and Icy Hot

It was time.

My husband’s work car had been idle for 2 months and was in desperate need of a good washing and some TLC. I arrived home from work at the farmers market with energy to spare and wanted to do something productive.

“Want me to wash your truck?” I asked.

“Well, the White Car (she’s so old & reliable she deserves caps when referring to her) needs it badly.”

I looked over by the garage & saw what he meant–the grass was higher around her tires and instead of white, she now looked like a mottled grey. I was ashamed of my neglect.

“Oh yes, I’m washing the Grand Am.”

Husband started her right up & drove her into the bottom driveway while I retrieved the bucket, soap, scrub brush, and every other apparatus I thought I may need in her transformation. The music was playing on my blue tooth speaker, the sun was shining, and I was ready to get it done.

I’m going to add a side note here: I love washing cars. I love clean cars. I love cars. No, my husband isn’t horrible for “letting me” do it instead of him doing it. In truth, he never has an option. I wash the cars in the family. And I love it. Few things bring me as much satisfaction as seeing a car so clean and tires so black and knowing I did that.

But I digress.

I begin washing, husband sits on his tractor observing. Three minutes in to it I realize I’m going to have to use a toothbrush to clean around the trim, emblems, reflectors, and front & back glass before I do a full-body wash. Yeah, she was that dirty. <hangs head in shame>

Without saying anything, I go inside to get my detailing toothbrush. When I come back outside, husband says, “Aww…the car doesn’t need all that.”

“OF COURSE SHE DOES! What? Because it’s 20 years old and a “work car”, does that mean I shouldn’t show her as much care and attention as I would my Lincoln? Of course not! She deserves just as much—if not more—attention and care! She’s older! She’s weathered! She’d earned it!”

And I carried on.

Husband laughed & shook his head because he realized to whom he was speaking.

Attention to Detail

As Van Morrison played in the background, and the toothbrush flicked out all those bits of grime & dirt that my car wash mitt wouldn’t get, the thought occurred to me—isn’t that how some of the elderly in our society are treated?

Those who are older–those who have “more miles” on them so to speak–whose bodies are starting to rust a bit–do we look at them and think, “They don’t need that much attention—they’re old”?

Are they not as valuable?

Not as revered?

Not as appreciated?

I think that’s why I love seeing a 95-year young lady with red fingernails and learning that the activities director at her assisted living home painted them for her. Even better is learning that her great gran-daughter did it. Or seeing her with pretty pink lipstick and a touch of rouge (that’s what ladies over 70 always call it!)

My Mom and I smile as we share stories of “elderly encounters”. It seems inevitably she and I are asked for assistance while we’re out in public. Perhaps to reach a peanut butter jar. Or to read an expiration date on a package of bacon. Or carry an umbrella while they traverse across the parking lot with their walker.

Sometimes they just want to talk—and at length. I made two good friends through chance encounters at Fresh Market in Roanoke—one was a beautiful Italian lady who passed away fewer than a year after we met, the other a stylish, retired teacher who said I reminded her of her daughter who’d passed away a few years before. We became pen pals with the occasional phone call. She’s 93 now.

I remember combing my Pop-Aw’s hair for him about a year before he passed away. He couldn’t lift his arms enough to comb his hair as neatly as he liked, so I offered to do it. I even ran the electric shaver over his face and neck to help prepare him for his day. He always liked to look his best—no matter what the occasion. When I was done, I handed him the mirror to make sure he approved. He did.

I recall the October day I rubbed my Mom-Aw’s knees with Icy Hot. She was riddled with cancer, and it had moved to the bone. Her knees hurt. Mine didn’t. So I knelt, and rubbed her knees, lingering as we talked. I could tell she didn’t want me to stop, and honestly, I didn’t either. I wanted to extend that moment as long as I could, bringing relief to her in the only way possible, while talking about things that would make her belly laugh & throw her head back. That old, familiar laugh…..

She passed 3 months later.

While my car is just an inanimate object, I realized something out there in the heat of the sun while washing it. Attention to detail—it matters. Those “little” things. The toothbrush on the trim reminded me of combing Pop-Aw’s hair and rubbing Mom-Aw’s hurting knees. The little time it takes, but the difference it makes. Yes, I will take care of the older things in my possession, but I’ll take even greater care of the older souls in my life. Because here’s the thing–things can be replaced. Loved ones cannot.

Regardless of whether it’s an aged parent, or grandparent, or friend, or even stranger in the supermarket, take the time to notice. Be available. Listen to them. Smile. Be interested. Show them they’re just as important and valued and needed as they always were—or perhaps even more so.

May I always be conscientious of the details that need attention, and may I never be too busy to tend to them.

Adday’s Chopping Wood

New Discoveries

I stood the Queen at the window to watch her Adday (translated: daddy) chop wood for the firepit–first time she’d ever seen the event. Her attention was captured and stillness settled on her as she processed what he was doing. Her breath made a fog on the window, and the occasional nose print appeared when she tried to get an even closer view of this amazing and unusual activity.

Fascination

Once she understood what he was doing, she seemed to relax and immerse herself in every movement. He would swing the ax, she would bounce and giggle. We could actually feel the impact of the ax to the wood to the ground from where we stood in the house–which only heightened her mental participation.

The swing-thunk-crack turned into swing-SQUEAL-thunk-BOUNCE-crack-GIGGLE.

Adday stopped to catch his breath. B knocked on the window and emphatically shook her head “yes”–which was her way of telling him, “Do it again, Adday!”

And so he did.

May I always appreciate and enjoy the swing-thunk-cracks of life that could easily be overlooked.

The Queen’s perspective……..

The Queen watches as her Adday chops wood.

You can read more about Britni here.

As I Celebrated The Queen’s 23rd Birthday (from 2015)

Dear 20 year old me,

Congratulations on your new baby girl. Her head full of wild hair will be just the first of many things that makes you ooh and ahh over her.…

I want to tell you so many things you don’t know. But it wouldn’t matter any more than telling a sheet of copper that eventually it would become a vessel. The copper must go through the cutting and pounding and heat before it becomes what it was meant to be.

And so shall you.

I know you’re uncertain about so many things, and feeling you’ve been flung into a parallel universe where you recognize no one or anything. That’s ok. You’ll make it through. Even in the whirlwind of hospital stays and sicknesses and surgeries, you’ll still be sniffing her head, gnawing on her roly-poly thighs, buying frilly girly outfits in addition to the occasional baseball onesie, and snuggling her so tightly you feel you’re trying to absorb her.

Enjoy it.

Even at the hospital.

Enjoy HER.

You’ll meet doctors and nurses and teachers and aides and parents and people at gas stations who will make you cry tears of joy because of their unusual kindnesses.

You’ll also meet jerks.

But fortunately, the number of those who speak and act kindly will outnumber those who don’t. So please….try not to carry too long hateful words or deeds. They occupy too much space in your mind, and you for sure don’t want them growing the root of bitterness in your heart.

Your baby girl needs a peaceful you.

She needs a joy-filled Mom, who will eventually be called “Omma”.

Don’t fret over typical milestones. Your baby girl will set her own time schedule. Some things she’ll do on her time, some things she’ll simply not do.

Trust me. There will come a day where you won’t care about what she’s not able to do, and fully and completely rejoice in the things she can do.

And you’ll make a fool of yourself in parking lots.

“My 7 year old just signed “more, please”! She put 2 signed words together! She did it! She did it!”

The lady returning her cart will smile, you’ll get in your car and cry.

Happy happy happy.

You’ll pray like mad that God will heal her. Oh, young me, I get what you’re saying. But “she” doesn’t need healing. Yes, you’ll want her healthy. But her make-up, the DNA that has created this magnificent being and the God Who designed her, fashioned her in a beautiful way. “She” doesn’t need healing. She is who she is. Her abilities. Her “dis”abilities. Her different abilities.

One day you’ll realize—when someone comments that you’d probably give your left arm to make her “normal”–that no, you wouldn’t change a thing about her. She’s perfectly and wonderfully made, and you love her just the way she is.

And you’ll realize what a milestone that is for YOU.

And then you’ll cry.

Again.

20 year old me, I just want to say that you’re going to be overwhelmed when you get your baby home.

Overwhelmed with love.

With compassion.

With empathy.

Your vision will change. You’ll see everything through a filter, a filter that was created the moment you birthed her. You’ll consider where others may be, because you know where you are. You’ll be drawn to other babies who have g-tubes or AFOs or oxygen tanks. Your heart will be tugged as you see moms carrying their bundles of differently-created, tiny humans and immediately sense a familial connection.

Your endurance will be tested and proven. Your patience will be stretched and strengthened. Your heart will grow softer and your skin will grow thicker. You’ll see God move in ways that your limited, human mind could never have imagined.

So this vessel into which you’re being shaped, be sure it’s continually filled with the oil of compassion and hope and joy and encouragement. There will be occasions where you’ll begin feeling depleted, but if you remain open, I promise, you will be refilled. (2 Corinthians 1:4)

Put your nose on your baby’s head and inhale deeply. Sniff that sweet, infant scent. Etch the aroma of her “cake breath” into your memory. Nibble her toes. Rock her a little longer. Kiss those fat cheeks.

Twenty-three years will pass more quickly than you realize.