Van envy and other highlights

There were many highlights from my weekend stay at my writing coach’s house. It started with Ingrid, my coach, and I walking a couple of blocks from her house for an excellent meal (seafood for this landlocked Montanan) and visit. Then a hot tub before bed.
She really wanted me to meet one of her other writing clients from another group. Saturday we meet Ruth for coffee. Yep, it was immediate sisterhood. Ruth is maybe a couple of years older than me. Shares her time between Seattle and Taos, traveling in her van. The layout of her van is pretty much like mine. She has it all set up complete with twinkle lights and hand sewn curtains that attach with velco. That’s exactly what I want to do. It was such an inspiration. I hope to use some of my winter, making curtains and a platform for my bed.
I hope some of my friends get a chance to meet Ruth. She’d like to come visit in Missoula. For now, I’d like to recommend her online game that is very soothing. I downloaded it onto my ipad and gave it a whirl. CanCan, a game of color and creation, where everyone is an artist.
The rest of Saturday afternoon, I got to cook jambalaya for our memoir writing group that evening. Ingrid and her husband had granted me their downstairs apartment for the weekend where I made myself right at home. Late afternoon, Ingrid, her husband, John, and I got a walk to the Pudget Sound in. John is just as personable and laid back as Ingrid. I loved being with them. John joined us for the jambalaya then left us five women writers to our giggles and stories.
Sunday a quick stop at the Ballard goodwill where I scored. Made it to Olympia just in time for dinner at Taj’s. Wow, does she have a nice set up right on the Sound. I felt like I was at summer camp. She and her roommate cooked a meal to die for, salmon and all fresh veggies and salad. Lovely young women and good conversation.
The past two nights, I stayed at The Tradewinds in Rockaway Beach. I’d recommend it, right on the ocean, with a kitchen and quiet. Just ask for Neil at the front desk. Really I rested, took a walk on the beach, not much else, a little writing. I’ve got a low energy thing happening, tired when I wake up.
Before I make my way to Eugene for a few night stay today, I’m meeting some friends from Missoula, former co-workers from the Good Food Store, who are just up the road. We’ll get a walk on the beach in. I’m excited to see them.
Thanks for reading.

Nice curtains!
Ruth calls this her sunken living room! Oh I like the carpet too.

Chapter One, draft

— I am 3/4 of the way, in writing my memoir. Summer hasn’t allowed for much writing time. But I’m carving out time for my writing again, with plans to spend a weekend with my writing teacher and fellow memoir writers the first of October.
Here goes, a sample. Keep in mind it’s a draft and unedited by an editor.

Chapter One

I kept a steady face while squeezing my clenched hands together under the café table as I struggled to hear the blow of my daughter’s words. “I don’t see any hope for you and me in this lifetime.”  I searched her eyes for some recognition of a mother daughter connection, of love, but I could only see a cold blue hardness. My blond haired, blue eyed baby now 31 years old stood taller than me and beautiful. I wanted to reach for her hand and ask for forgiveness, but I kept hitting the invisible wall she had built between the two of us. 

Just 30 minutes earlier I was driving to the coffee shop trying to keep my anxiety at bay. We had decided to meet to discuss me keeping my two-year old twin grandchildren. She needed care for a certain day, but she had some rules she needed to stress. Looking out at the mountains that surround Missoula was usually settling to me. I wanted to be hopeful. All I could think of were the mistakes I had made as a mother. Times that trust had been broken, the times my past traumas caused me to give into my anger and act in ways I would later be ashamed of.  

At the same time, I knew I was a wonderful grandmother and wanted desperately to stay in my grandkid’s life. I’m a kid person, ran my own childcare for seven years. Plus, my grandkids were particularly cute, smart and fun. The days I knew I would spend time with them, felt like Christmas morning. I could hold them, feed them, watch their innocence while witnessing their personalities form from infant hood. My grandson, born first, had a wisdom about him while my granddaughter who arrived just minutes later exuded sweetness. About twice a week, I had been asked to help out. Come spend time helping at nap time, tidying up, taking them for a stroll or just holding them or changing a diaper. It was what I lived for, but I was careful never to just stop by. Now and then, I did ask if I could come by, bring a meal, a snack and help, but I made sure to keep those requests at a minimum. My daughter had boundaries, I so wanted to respect them, rebuild trust between us. She asked me to come along to help shuffle the babies and all their gear for their first doctor’s appointment and a few others that followed. In the months after they were born, I might be asked to come along for the same purpose to grocery shop. One such occasion, at the store, I was holding my granddaughter. I walked over to the essential oils to sample some smells. 

“Mom, what are you doing?” my daughter yelled at me. “Don’t you know that some essential oils can cause seizures in babies?” Her rebut crushed me. I didn’t know. I was glad to know now. My intent had not been to harm my granddaughter. 

Wide eyed, I slunk away from the display, following behind my daughter the rest of the shopping trip, careful not to stray. 

When my grandchildren were a couple of months old, my daughter asked if I could stay the night. Her partner had to go out of town for work. I was so excited, a sleep over with my daughter and grandchildren. I’d cook dinner, do laundry, whatever was needed. My daughter and I had even planned to watch a movie together once the twins were down for the night. I spent the afternoon cooking as I counted the minutes until I could head to her house. At 6 PM I arrived at her door with her favorite meal, cheese grits, a salad and pork tenderloin along with groceries for a breakfast spread. Our evening was magical as we ate and played with the babies. Once they were asleep, we settled together on the couch to watch Boyhood, a movie we both had been wanting to see. Snuggling up to watch a movie or show together was always something we both enjoyed, and I took it as a sign that our relationship was healing. Finally, at 10PM it was time for bed. “Hey mom” she said, “I want the babies to sooth themselves back to sleep. Please don’t go in and pick them up unless they cry for at least 10 minutes. And don’t give them any medicine or natural remedies without asking me first.” She had a baby monitor in her room so she could keep an eye on them. I settled onto my makeshift bed on the couch, determined to follow her directives. But in the middle of the night, I was awakened to my granddaughter’s cries.  My granddaughter was not soothing herself back to sleep. Oh, I wanted my daughter to finally get a good night’s rest. She was doubly exhausted from the surgery of a C section, no sleep and constant care of the babies. I sat up on the couch feeling the pull of my crying granddaughter. How long had it been since she had been crying, was my daughter awake? Every maternal string in my body was being pulled. When I couldn’t take it any longer, I went to my granddaughter’s crib and picked her up. She was hurting from new teeth pushing their way in. Without thinking, I reached for the homeopathic teething gel and rubbed some on her gums. The door almost immediately swung open. “Didn’t I tell you do not give them anything without asking” my daughter scolded. Suddenly all the magic of the night was gone. She had and I had failed. I was sick to my stomach that I had not been more mindful of her wish. 

I pulled up to the coffee shop breathing through my anxiety.

Just a few days before I was at my daughter’s house helping with mealtime and bedtime. I asked what day they needed me. “Tuesdays” she replied. “But we have some rules we need to make sure you can follow.” That familiar pit in my stomach, almost close to nausea feeling caused me to look away. My face dropped when she said, “I had told you before not to take the kids for a walk further than a couple of blocks without checking with me first and you did anyway, back in February when you took them to the Shack to eat.” For a minute my mind was blank. Then I remembered, yes six months earlier, it was an unusually nice day for that time of year. I was taking care of my grandchildren, we ventured out for a walk to a restaurant as there wasn’t much food in the house. They enjoyed their double stroller ride and the attention of wait staff and others at the restaurant. Being a professional childcare provider, I was used to parents leaving their children in my care, taking them on walks, going to the park and more. They trusted me. I was always vigilant in assuring the children on my watch were safe. That vigilance was even stronger with my own grandchildren.  

Once again, I felt shame for my actions. Any good I was doing was being cancelled out.

I had taken grandma liberties knowing I would jump in front of a train for my grandkids. With that knowledge we had ventured out without even considering that my daughter was sensitive to my actions. While I trusted my protective knowledge, she did not. And she had reason not to. 

During my daughter’s teen years, I had been reeling from pain of the discovered infidelities and other secrets of my husband, her stepdad. I turned to alcohol to numb the pain.  I profoundly lost myself during her crucial teen years. A few marked times, my daughter witnessed me as an angry alcoholic.

 By the time I got home that night after helping get the twins to bed, I was so upset and distraught I was beside myself. I had walked on eggshells for the past two years, tried everything I could to prove to her that I was trustworthy, that I loved her and would do anything for her and my grandbabies. It was beyond painful that we continued to have such conflict in our relationship.  More often than not, when I left my daughter’s house I felt like a monster unless she needed me then I was her doormat. I wished she could see that I was not the person I was when I was married to her stepdad. I could feel she wished me out of her life. 

I knew I was done with this abusive pattern and needed a change. Heartbroken and defeated, I pulled out my laptop and pounded out an email which I re read several times before sending. It was half question, half plea. 

“I wasn’t sure where you are on whether or not to go to counseling together. My concern is that you really aren’t comfortable with me keeping the twins. I know our relationship has not been an easy one. Also, know that your life is quite full. Taking the time to go to counseling with your mother may not be a priority. It’s important to fill your life with loving relationships. If our relationship is not serving you, I am willing to step away if that is what you would like. 

Let me know your thoughts.

I’d love to get to a place where at least you feel safe and some ease with our relationship. Mama”

Her reply was just another reprimand and it stung. “Mom, I’ve had some time to think about counseling, and it’s not something I want to do. You and I have talked about the important rules that we have for anyone watching our kids, I’m not sure that going to counseling will do much. I felt good about the conversation you and I had and could tell that you took the rules seriously. Are you feeling like they are ones you can go by?”

It was after that we had arranged to meet. It was my idea. I hoped that we could talk things out and clear the air. 

As I parked my car at the coffee shop, I spotted my daughter waiting at the door. She smiled and waved. I felt a twinge of hope, maybe we could work things out. My thoughts jumped back to just before I knew she was pregnant, when she was working as a preschool teacher. She asked if I’d like to come volunteer and help in the classroom. I jumped at the chance and went off to get my background check. I spent every day of the next week immersing myself in the world of three-year children, singing songs, reading, serving meals, cleaning and getting all the little ones settled for naptime. During naptime my daughter and I would talk, whispering and laughing about all the cute things the children did. It had been 15 years since I had run my own childcare. I was in heaven. While we worked alongside each other she remarked, “I forgot how good you are at this.” It meant the world that she recognized this. During her elementary and middle school years, I ran an at home childcare, Frankie’s House. One of my many goals in having a childcare was to have my own child at home, while providing an as close to home feeling childcare for other children. My daughter had grown up witnessing me provide care, create fun and educational activities in a safe environment for the children who came to our house. Taking care of these children while being at home with my own child was one of the happiest times in my life. 

One afternoon, once off work from her pre-school job, my daughter texted asking me to come over. She said she wasn’t feeling well. As I headed over, I got a text saying, “where are you, hurry.” Now I was worried and sped up just a bit.  She was standing in the doorway when I got there looking quite well and smiling from ear to ear. She reached out and hugged me “You are going to be a grandma” she said. We held each other while I cried for the possibility of being a grandmother and the possibility that my daughter and I might heal our bruised relationship. 

We ordered coffee drinks, making small talk while we waited. She suggested we sit outside for privacy. As soon we were settled, she launched into it, “do you think you can follow our rules?” As always, I felt I had been punched in the gut. I had to bite the inside of my lip to keep from showing my hurt. I locked my eyes on her and steadied myself. “Yes”, I replied. I took a deep breath summoning all the courage I could muster and asked, “In return will you let me know when you are not feeling comfortable or you feel I am not following rules, as it comes up and not wait to talk to me about it?” She nodded, yes. Now that we were talking openly, I was determined to push forward. I could feel the sweat beads forming, I wasn’t sure if it was the 90-degree August heat or my nerves. I took another deep breath and went for it, asking one more time, “Are you interested in going to counseling together so that we can heal our trust issues?” I was feeling exhausted from the pain of our disconnect.  I was tired of feeling unappreciated and wanted a real change and that meant addressing another painful accusation. Ever since her teen years, my daughter had tried to diagnosis me. Certainly, when you see your mother as an angry alcoholic, you want to label it in order to understand it. At one point she entertained that I might be bipolar. Her latest diagnosis earlier in the year felt cruel and demeaning and I wanted her to know it wasn’t OK. She had asked me if I ever considered that I might have borderline personality disorder. I asked my therapist and close friends if they felt this was true. I got a clear no from all parties. My daughter and I had never discussed this again. I was never given the opportunity to let her know that was I not borderline.  I pushed further and said, “I’d also like to follow up with the question you presented to me earlier this year, whether or not I feel I might have borderline personality disorder. That was upsetting and needs to be talked about.”  I could see her demeanor change and her body stiffen.  “No, and I will not apologize for that” she said. Her words felt like a slap across the face. That’s when she delivered her knock out blow, “I do not see any hope for you and me in this lifetime.”  I sat for a bit, shocked, saddened and broken hearted. For twenty years, I had tried and failed to mend our broken relationship. 

Yet, I wanted to make sure my grandchildren would be taken care of, I wanted to stay in their life, but I didn’t want this painful pattern of allowing my daughter to keep punishing me for past mistakes to continue. After a couple of minutes of silence, I found my words, “do you have someone else who can keep the twins on the days you need?” I hoped that would snap her back to the present. I hoped that would soften her and get us back on track with our conversation. It was the whole reason we had come to talk. I’d do anything for my grandchildren and my daughter. I wanted this to work. Maybe if I gave her an out, if she didn’t really feel comfortable with me watching the twins, we might avoid more conflict and I could remain in their lives. Without hesitation, she answered, “I do.” With that she gathered her things and rode away on her bicycle. 

Hey, Lighten Up Francis

Copywork – copying down what others have written to develop writing skills, an age old method of learning.
I once heard an NPR interview with a writer (embarrassed to say I can’t remember his name) who practiced copywork everyday for a year. I’ve done it some and can feel my brain shifting in a good way.
I’ll share my copywork for today from Anne Lamott’s, Bird by Bird, Some Instructions on Writing and Life. This passage I think has something for everyone in it.

“So after I’ve completely exhausted myself thinking about the people I most resent in the world, and my more arresting financial problems, and, of course, the orthodontia, I remember to pick up the one-inch picture frame and to figure out a one-inch piece of my story to tell, one small scene, one memory, one exchange. I also remember a story that I know I’ve told elsewhere but that over and over helps me to get a grip: thirty years ago my older brother, who was ten years old at the time, was trying to get a report on birds written that he had three months to write, which was due the next day. We were out at our family cabin in Bolinas, and he was at the kitchen table close to tears, surrounded by binder paper and pencils and unopened books on birds, immobilized by the hugeness of the task ahead. Then my father sat down beside him, put his arm around my brother’s shoulder, and said, “bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird.”

     I tell this story again because it usually makes a dent in the tremendous sense of being overwhelmed that my students experience. Sometimes it actually gives them hope, and hope, as Chesterton said, is the power of being cheerful in circumstances that we know to be desperate. Writing can be a pretty desperate endeavor, because it is about some of our deepest needs: our need to be visible, to be heard, our need to make sense of our lives, to wake up and grow and belong. It is no wonder if we sometimes tend to take ourselves perhaps a bit too seriously. So here is another story I tell often.

     In the Bill Murray movies Stripes, in which he joins the army, there is a scene that takes place the first night of boot camp, where Murray’s platoon is assembled in the barracks. They are supposed to be getting to know their sergeant, played by Warren Oates, and one another. So each man takes a few moments to say a few things about who his is and where he is from. Finally it is the turn of this incredibly intense, angry guy named Francis. “My name is Francis,” he says. “No one calls me Francis­­­—anyone here calls me Francis and I’ll kill them. And another thing. I don’t like to be touched. Anyone here ever tries to touch me, I’ll kill them,” at which point Warren Oates jumps in and says, “Hey—lightened up, Francis.”

     This is not a bad line to have taped to the wall of your office. 

     Say to yourself in the kindest possible way, look, honey, all we’re going to do for now is write a description of the river at sunrise, or the young child swimming in the pool at the club, or the first time the man sees the woman he will marry. That is all we are going to do for now. We are just going to take it bird by bird. But we are going to finish this one short assignment.” Anne Lamott

Thank you Anonymous for the gift! And thanks all for reading.

Choices

I change the subject hastily when she asked, “Where’s you daughter? How is your daughter?”

“Good”, I reply, “How’s your son? What have you been up to?”

I choose to focus on how good it is to see this lovely woman I haven’t seen in such a long time.

This is how it goes when you haven’t seen someone who knew you 20 years ago and it’s been that long since you’ve seen them. I don’t really know how my daughter is, it’s been five years since I’ve spoken with her. 

I’m surrounded by people who love me. A dear friend is hosting a gathering in her backyard to celebrate me on my day of birth and that’s what I choose to focus on. 

My brother calls to wish me a happy birthday while mentioning my sister was there visiting not too long ago. He and my two older sisters were all together. I haven’t seen or heard from either sister in a couple of years.

I choose to focus on the fact that he called to wish me a happy birthday. 

I run into another woman I haven’t seen in twenty years. She is proud to be a grandmother now and I am happy for you. She asks how many grandkids I have. She knows my daughter had children. “Two, they are twins” and quickly change the subject. I cared for this woman’s daughter when I had a childcare. We used to gather, with our husbands and our daughters. Where would I begin to tell her I don’t see my daughter anymore, that I miss her and my grandchildren everyday?

I choose to focus on the fact that I am recognized as a mother and a grandmother and this is someone I created good memories with. 

This morning, I choose to honor my sadness. I will give it what it asks of me, to allow the tears, to trust it will pass as all feelings do. 

Then I will choose to go visit a friend.

Re-write your story

This woman walks the talk and I am lucky to have her as a writing coach. She keeps me on track, keeps it real and pushes me forward with a gentle firmness.

“On the verge of self-imploding after a one-two punch of breast cancer and blindness, Ingrid Ricks, NYT bestselling author and mother of two, realized she had a choice: let fear and self-loathing swallow her whole, or give her inner demons the boot and rewrite the soul-destroying stories she was telling herself.”

Tuesday, June 15th, 8:00-9:00 PST AM, she will be sharing how she transformed her life and changed the stories she was telling herself. You will learn steps she uses to keep the negative voices at bay. It’s free and sure to be enlightening.

Register here: Rewriting The Stories We Tell Ourselves



I don’t wear jewelry anymore

I don’t wear jewelry anymore

Did I beg mama to give me the cluster of pearls ring that was my grandmother’s
Or did she just give it to me willy nilly and send me on my way
all I remember is I was around nine. 
Memory is sometimes vague, often it only comes with a certain feeling. 
I remember being in the back yard searching for it, just me. 
Did she know I lost it, I don’t know but I hate that I don’t still have it.

My high school/college boyfriend, yes he was the love of my life really in truly, brought me a necklace of an etched whale’s tooth from his family trip to Hawaii. I still have the Bulova watch he gifted me. Wish I still had him, ha. He is dead though, he died from ALS. His wife invited me to come visit several times before he died. It was precious. 

Mama wouldn’t let me pierce my ears. I took care of that with an ice cube and a sewing needle. I don’t think I got in trouble. She usually didn’t have the energy to punish or guide me. My pierced ears created a tradition, my daughter would always get me a new pair of earrings for my birthday. I kept some of those earrings even though I don’t wear them anymore. 

A few years ago, my ears began to turn red every time I put an earring in. They would itch and burn. The best solution was to no longer wear them. I gave away most of my earrings, kept the ones that hold a special memory in my heart. 

In 9th grade, Mama took me and my older sister, on a ten day tour to Europe. In ten days we went to London, Stratford on Avon, Paris, Lucerne, Rome, (day trip to Assisi), Florence and Venice. My memories are fairly vivid from this trip. We were blessed by the Pope at the Vatican. In Lucerne, Mama announced we could get a special piece of jewelry to commemorate our trip. My sister chose a watch. I chose a sapphire diamond ring. Eventually I passed it down to my daughter. I hope she still has it.

The one last piece of jewelry I possessed from my grandmother, a stunning, unusual turquoise and diamond ring was stolen a few years ago. Traveling through Portland. I went out to my car after a night’s stay at a boutique hotel in the northeast neighborhood. Not only was one window busted out, but two. I had the ring in the car because I was taking it to be repaired. It is gone. I searched craiglist ads, placed an ad. I still think some weird miracle could happen, shopping in Portland and spotting it. Who knows, none of us know. 

There are no excuses


I am writing my story as I remember it and what is true for me.
While I share my struggles and grief, I acknowledge and do not want to discount that my daughter had an experience of me that has caused her to cut me out of her life. I was a practicing alcoholic during my daughter’s crucial adolescent and teenage years. My marriage at the time was full of lies and betrayals. I was angry. She was witness to my drunkenness, my anger, be it shouting, leaving the house abruptly or feeling the tension of my silence. This was traumatic for her. If I could heal her trauma I would.

I can not undo what I did. There are no excuses. There are explanations.

Worthless or just misunderstood

One of the gifts of isolation time during Covid has been time, time to write, time for online writing classes and time to read. Reading other memoir is a great teacher while writing my own memoir. The latest memoir I picked up, What We Carry by Maya Shanbhag Lang is about mothers and daughters, family secrets and how we cannot grow up until we fully understand the people who raised us. I can’t put it down only stopping to re read and underline phrases.
Maya’s mother was a psychiatrist, her father had a temper and did not hold women in high regard.


“Against this backdrop, my mom’s stories provided a glimpse of an alternative universe where people aren’t worthless; they were simply misunderstood.”

This week, I was fortunate enough to have a small piece of writing published by Visible Magazine. A boost in the arm, knowing my writing is worthy of publishing. Maya’s quote worthless vs. being misunderstood struck a cord. I’d like to believe that if some understanding came to be, my family could heal. If grace ever presents itself for the opportunity to understand, I will surely welcome it. Meantime, I’ll accept what is and keep writing.

In honor of National Independent Bookstore Day

This is an excerpt from my memoir in honor of National Independent Bookstore day. Bits of it have been revised but for these purposes I like it. Thanks goes out to John, my previous boss, who has taken the time recently to speak with me about my days working at his bookstore. Lemuria bookstore continues to be a top independent bookstore in the United States in large part because of John’s dedication and hard work.

The Mousehole Cat

My daughter was five when her stepdad and I meet. After eight magical years in Missoula, MT, I had returned to my Southern hometown of Jackson, MS. Paul and I worked alongside each other at a local bustling bookstore. As a previous frequent customer, he had waited on me for years. Eleven years my elder with his salt and pepper hair, beard and blue eyes staring through wire rimmed glasses he looked the part of a wise, caring bookseller. Here we were sitting and working together at the open circular customer service desk, right in the middle of this beautiful bookstore. 

Lemuria bookstore had just moved to this new location a year before. It had grown out of the small space it previously housed. Now it was nationally known for its first editions collection as well as author events. The first editions had its own room, the children’s section, OZ, was like a little store of its own. Visiting authors would read to a packed crowd from their newest book then situate themselves in a booth tucked away up a couple steps. This allowed readers a moment to say a few words to the author while having their book signed, then walk through and down steps on the other side making for the perfect flow. 
It was an honor to meet writers such as Lorrie Moore, Kaye Gibbons, Jim Harrison, John Grisham, Tim O’Brien, Mark Childress and Tom Robbins. I would assist in the signing, sitting next to the authors in the booth, greeting their fans and getting the books opened to the correct page to sign. As the endearing Willie Morris signed and visited with readers of My Dog Skip, I dutifully kept his coffee cup filled with his favorite whiskey.

Behind our little world at the customer service desk, Paul proved to be nothing but helpful. Each morning for my first week of work, Paul would greet me, look at me as if looking into my soul saying, “Frances, let me know if you need any help finding a book, anything, I’m here to help.”

Since I was a single parent, my parents were helping quite a bit with my daughter. Part of the routine was for them to drop her off at the bookstore just before I would be leaving work. She would come behind the counter, proudly sit in my chair while I balanced the register at closing.  She and Paul struck up a friendship. It was so heart-warming to look over and see the two of them drawing or looking through a book. He was giving her undivided attention while encouraging art and reading. Paul would get downright silly with her at times. Over time, his kindness won me over. I asked him if he would like to spend time with us outside of the bookstore, so my daughter would have a male role model in her life. Her dad lived a thousand miles away. He jumped at the chance. He was married, but his wife traveled often for work. On days off, the three of us would find a local hike, visit the Mississippi petrified forest, hunt down the best shaved ice shop or the best local BBQ for dinner.

It was all innocent enough. I cannot remember the reason, maybe he had a book in his extensive book collection at home to show me. I went by his house. My daughter wasn’t with me. We were alone. As I was leaving through the kitchen door, he kissed me. I was baffled but before I knew it, we were sneaking off for private moments together whenever we could. He wrote me beautiful love notes, bought me tasteful romantic gifts. Including a fused glass heart brooch, which I still have. Other gifts were well thought out and much appreciated. When my coffee maker went on the blink, he showed up with a high-end coffee maker that could be set to make coffee as I was waking up. What more could a girl ask for?

Paul eventually divorced his wife and we moved in together. Our bookshelves were full, our decorating taste matched perfectly, and I had a family to cook for. 

The three of us, Paul, me and my daughter found much comfort in each other. Paul loved finding the perfect book to bring home and read aloud to my daughter. There was one children’s book we loved for the story and the illustrations, The Mousehole Cat. A beautiful black and white cat was the main character. The cover of the book was a sea captain with a full gray beard holding the cat. Paul resembled this sea captain with his kind eyes and full graying beard. We felt it was fate, when on the day before Christmas eve, a woman came in the bookstore and shared that she had a litter of kittens that were looking for homes. One was a black and white tuxedo kitty that looked just like our favorite character. Paul phoned me from the bookstore. We quickly made arrangements to have this kitty as a Christmas surprise on Christmas morning. It was magical. Nick the cat, who loved only us, was with us until the end of our marriage.

*Kaye Gibbons wrote one of my favorite books, Ellen Foster.
*Lorrie Moore came to the bookstore to promote, Like Life. She is a delight.
*Willie Morris’s My Dog Skip is also a movie, a tear jerker, highly recommend.

Order and Appearance

Order and Appearance

The mimosa tree was a place of refuge with it’s smooth bark short truck, not too high limbs that were perfect for climbing, sitting in and reading. 

The Seuss-like spiky, pink, white with a bit of yellow puffball blossoms shot up from fern like leaves and put out a faint sweet smell.

Girlfriends came over to climb with me, photos give evidence that we are related to monkeys.

It was the only tree in our large front yard that was mainly green St. Augustine grass with a couple of low growing red azalea bush flower beds. 

Our yard was neat and tidy. In fact, we were Yard of the Month once, and a sign was placed by the local garden club near the street for all to see. Certainly, John Henry, our sweet yard man should have been given this award, but that’s another story.

One day Daddy cut down my mimosa tree because the blossoms were messy.