Small town life puts a special bubble around you. We didn’t get out much as kids, except to run errands with our mom in a larger, but still small-ish town. Orthodontist appointments, groceries, Pizza Hut buffet, and if we were lucky, a visit to the music store.
Contests from cereal boxes, Columbia House subscription forms, magazine inserts for free Banana Republic catalogs, and addresses from Teen Beat to swoon-worthy heart throbs were our way to connect to the world. Except, we weren’t allowed to send any Columbia House cards, ever. Don’t you dare was warning enough. I filled out my selections and address anyway, but it never went in the mail. I’d imagine life with endless cassettes.
Any letters that were exchanged were slipped to friends between classes in that fancy 80s wrap around fold. If we sent anything, it was lost forever, but it was fun imagining winning a lifetime supply of corn flakes. Little Debbies. Willy Wonka candy.
One day, there was a surprise. I arrived home after school, dropping my backpack on a chair at the kitchen table. Everyone else gathered around the buzz of the kitchen, willing dinner to be served, hot tortillas flying off the griddle and onto a cloth dish towel to keep them warm.
“You got something in the mail,” Mom mentioned between the rolling pin sliding across the counter, flattening balls of dough.
“Me?” I looked through the stack and found something with my name on it. I didn’t request anything. Perplexed, I flip the envelope over and retrieve a letter. Brochures I ignore are stuffed in the envelope, but I place them on the table in favor of the letter.
It’s addressed to me and I start reading aloud.
“…bedwetting is not a problem you should be ashamed of…”
“BED WETTING?! I don’t wet the bed!”
“Bed wetting?” Mom asks.
I look at the brochure full of resources to rectify the problem. People of all ages…
“Where did this come from and why does it have MYNAME on it?”
I hear giggling. It gradually grows into full-blown laughter. My younger sister can’t contain herself. “It was me; I did it!”
“What did you do?” Mom asks.
“I filled out the card,” hysterical laughter.
“At the orthodontist’s office, when you had an appointment. I didn’t think they’d send anything!”
“Thanks a lot!” I scream only like a first-born annoyed by a sibling teen can scream. And then I started crying of embarrassment. Someone, somewhere, sent me mail because they think I’m a bed wetter. How humiliating.
Everyone else laughed. Mom kept making tortillas and brushed it off. “Throw it away, it doesn’t matter.”
For the third week, I meant to remove nail color and re-do my pedi. DIY. I don’t have time to mess with appointments. Too many touch-ups to count because late at night, I’m in no mood to inhale sharp nail polish remover fumes before turning in for restless slumber.
This morning, I have to do something. Taking it all off means I have to wear close-toed shoes. It’s a deep shade of red and there will certainly be residual color stains. We’re still at near ninety degree temps, so I’m wearing sandals. Touching up the chipped off parts means uneven color, most of which is now on the sixth (seventh?) coat. From a distance, some color is better than none. Touch-up it is.
I have an hour commute to a meeting downtown. It’s been years since I’ve driven this direction in rush-hour traffic. If you would’ve told twenty year old me how urban sprawl would choke up everything around it, she would’ve laughed it off and said, “Nah, not here!”
I easily slip into a parking space, not bad for being half an hour late. The opening keynote speaker discusses stories. Making connections with people by telling stories is key. It’s Tuesday. I’m reminded to write something tonight. What story will I tell today? The one about why I chose this career? What about my first experience at a library? You already wrote about that. Did I? Telling stories means we become vulnerable. Am I ready to write about a tough conversation I had this weekend? No. Not that. Not yet.
I fuss at myself for not making myself write regularly despite my need for it. Stuck. Blocked. Frozen. Too many unimportant but urgent things needing to get done. But writing is important.
Our closing keynote speaker asks us to discuss the difference between belonging and dignity. That weekend conversation smacks me with meaning. My sisters and I have entered into a space where we’re balancing both, inching our way through whatever happens.
View from 6th floor-Austin Public Library
It’s a warm, beautiful afternoon. From the sixth floor terrace, I see what once was not visible from the ground. Twenty years ago, the space where I now stand was only air. Buildings seem to have appeared overnight.
I’m glad I wore sandals today. My multi-layered pedi looks fresh. I’ve Got the Blues for the Red. It’s a deep, fall inspired shade of red. I’d call it Glass of Merlot. They go together, the blues and merlot. Stories and vulnerability. Belonging and dignity.
Estas son las mañanitas que cantaba el rey David...
There was no Spanish birthday song yesterday morning. No serenata from family or even Spotify. No elaborate party to tap in to our culture. It was more “Can I have my phone back? I didn’t get to talk to him all day yesterday. This day is turning out terrible!” There is still much to do for a fifteenth birthday celebration later in the afternoon, despite a plan for something low-key. I proceed to take pup out for a morning walk, carry on as usual.
But it’s not usual. It’s her fifteenth birthday. A decade ago, a decade, we vacationed in Mexico and a mariachi did sing Las Mañanitas. Inside of a McDonald’s. We were getting ice cream for the kids. Our friend found them strolling along the street, so he arranged the surprise. I held her, lanky five year old legs dangling past my knees as I propped her on my hip, her face buried in my shoulder while she covered her ears with her hands because it was too loud.
Last year, she came out on the other side of middle school. An entire 365.25 days (there’s that quarter again) and we’re at 15. One and a half decades of mothering a daughter and I can only think of hollering, “Well at least you don’t have an older sister getting married on your birthday like on Sixteen Candles!” as I walk out, holding the leash with a death grip so bucking bronco Dipper doesn’t yank me out the door. I have to remember though, I’m not fifteen. I keep my mouth shut.
It’s the day of her birthday and there is a quasi-plan. On our way to pick up a friend for a bowling outing, the plan changes. Again. It’s decided to hang out at our house. Stir-fry for dinner at home courtesy of Chef Dad because it’s her favorite and he’ll cook anything for anyone, but especially her. Cake at 7:00 because E is adulting and needs time to get home from work.
My mind races to think about everything fifteen will bring. 2024 fifteen is a long way from 80’s fifteen. Different issues. Different dangers. Too much for me to handle. Too much for her to handle?
On the drive back (then there’s driving!) from dropping off her friend, she says thank you. “The day got progressively got better. I had fun.”
“You’re welcome.”
She puts her phone back up to her ear (earbuds are lost—again) to listen to her music. When we get home, I go to the front yard to take out the black and white polka-dot birthday letters announcing her day to passersby. I realize we forgot to sing when she blew out the candles on her cake.
There’s a pie baking in the oven. Nothing fancy. Not even homemade. It’s a frozen Marie Callender’s Razzleberry pie, a family favorite. Hubster planned on baking an apple pie for Easter Sunday dessert.
Are you set on apple pie or are you open to suggestions? Are you making it or buying it? I sent him a message yesterday while he shopped for today’s lunch. E and his roommate are joining us. I holler at S. to ask to get her opinion.
“Umm, isn’t that more of a fall dessert? I will not eat it. Ask him to do something with berries. Berries are good right now, apples, not so much. But I’ll eat ice cream.”
Coconut cream, he replies.
Okay. Not arguing. She won’t eat that either, but most of us will.
We have lunch and make our way to take pictures in the bluebonnets. Some families are good about taking pictures in them every year. We like the idea of traditions, but sometimes we can’t keep up. Like the one year the rattlesnakes were bad and I didn’t want to chance it. Other years, they weren’t as showy. Then 2020, when bluebonnet pictures were the last thing on people’s minds for fear of getting sick. We skipped them. Not in the mood. Attended Easter service online. One year, the Texas Snowpocalypse ruined them. Followed by another freeze. Then one of those, we’ll get to it, we’ll get to it, but we never got to it.
In the meantime, the kids have grown. E has his own apartment. S. is in high school. It’s been a while. Was it actually ten years? Really? I look at social media posts and I think it’s correct. Wow. Ten years of putting it off.
We had lunch and headed out. It’s the sweet spot of the season. They’re popping and in a week or so they’ll go to seed. There will be some places where they’ll last a little longer, but soon they will make way for other flowers to have their turn. There’s no sense in driving out to find the perfect place when there are plenty nearby. We take our Chihuahua mix, Reeses, and Dipper, our newest addition.
Family pictures are hard enough. Add two dogs, one being five months old, along with zooming cars on the highway, and we remember why it was such a chore. We got a few good shots with many bad ones, but that’s where the fun lives. The outtakes of those bad photos are where memories seared themselves into our souls.
The pie is cooling. If we cut into it too soon, the filling oozes out. We can wait though. The kids took the dogs to a dog park and just returned. My Polaroid camera sits next to my laptop. I have 5 pictures left to take. One came out over-exposed, but E. is keeping it anyway. That’s how pictures turned out back in the day. You’d take what you could get, saving film for important moments, we explain. Special moments. Memory making moments.
Taking time to document days like this, in picture-words, brings life to seemingly mundane days. It’s in the mundane where life happens. In the ordinary where we experience the extraordinary. We take slices out of our lives and savor them. Some days, we slice right in. Others, we need to wait, that’s what makes it good.
I like pie! I hear E. announce as a seven year old. We pick up where we leave off. Go back to the bluebonnets to take pictures. Pick up those moments we somehow allowed to escape us, bringing the pieces back together.
There is pie with ice cream, ready to eat. And a new set of bluebonnet pictures, documenting the changes in between.
In two weeks, we’ll be in total darkness. For a little over three minutes, nine seconds, where we live. Partial begins at 12:18 p.m. Full eclipse starts at 1:36:21 and will end at 1:39:27. At 2:58, it ends.
Hubby couldn’t be more happy. He has been anticipating this event for years. He wasn’t able to snag a camping site at Enchanted Rock, to his dismay. Eclipse glasses have been acquired. Plans changed. He’s biking to a nearby park. E. already ordered neon colored plastic framed viewing glasses oozing with 80s vibes. They’re hanging out together that day.
Geekdom at its finest because nerds beget nerds.
Some school districts in the path have canceled school. Ours did not. I’ll be at work, participating from there. Most likely helping wrangle kids so they don’t wander off campus. Or actually look at it. Without their eclipse glasses. I’m sure many of our staff will call in sick, leaving the rest of us to deal with covering classes.
The Texas Department of Transportation estimates high traffic, suggesting against people parking on the sides of roads. Avoid scheduling appointments. Don’t use binoculars or telescopes even if you have eclipse watching glasses. Have a full tank of gas. Refrain from wearing eclipse glasses while driving. The weather, so far, should be clear.
Campus principals are responsible for making a plan. We got that plan today. I wonder how often it will change?
Until then, my husband and oldest will be hanging out, enjoying the show. I’ll be at work, S. will be at school, and we’ll be outside participating for about three minutes.
This song repeats in my head every time my husband mentions it. I’ll work on a playlist to gift him to mark the occasion.
Besides Rocket Man, Weird Science, and She Blinded Me With Science, share your favorite eclipse watching songs.
Prom season is my favorite. Not my favorite as a high schooler, but it’s my favorite now. When people I know post pictures of their kids in their prom dresses or tuxedos, I imagine I’m a Hollywood entertainment personality commenting (silently) on each outfit.
I even give imaginary awards. Best Overall. Classiest. Best Two-Piece. Best Tux. Most Unique. Favorite Dress/Tux Combo. Best Friend Group. Best Formal/Chuck Taylors combo. Dumb little awards I make up, but have such fun deciding on awards.
My niece, a high school senior, went prom dress shopping. Of her four choices, she chose one of my two favorites. One, a white form fitting, low-backed floor length dress with a sequined overlay was on of the lucky dresses chosen for the occasion. It’s gorgeous on her. The second was a royal blue floor length dress with criss-crossing back straps and glittery overlay. I’m partial to sparkles. Lucky kid, she gets to attend two proms this year. I’m sure she’ll have the time of her life.
I wonder if S. will go to prom? Will she want to attend? Will she go to one of those popular un-proms? What color dress will she choose? Will she go with a friend group or solo? Will she decide to go with her bff from kindergarten, who is like a brother, but better because they aren’t really siblings so it doesn’t count?
It’s coming too soon. A memory from Facebook popped up last week. She must have been in second or third grade, but there she was, pictured next to one of her favorite dresses in a department store. The same one where my niece found her dresses. That’s when she liked all things fluffy, princess-y, and of course, sparkly.
I’ll gladly wait for prom dress shopping day. Unless she dumps me like she did for homecoming dress shopping. I didn’t even get to take her shoe shopping for that either. I’ll lower my expectations and hopefully be pleasantly surprised. It sure would be fun going prom dress shopping again.
Until then, I’ll pour myself a bottle of bubbly rosé, kick back, and re-watch my favorite John Hughes film in honor of prom seasons past and present, Pretty in Pink.
I spent a lot of time with my grandparents when I was young. One year, a couple of months after my fourth birthday, they went to a church conference in Kansas. My parents allowed me to tag along. Two of my uncles, the ones who doted on me most, assured my parents I was in good hands.
We arrived and I don’t remember much about events other than attending church services and eating meals with people in attendance.
One day, we stopped at a grocery store to pick up a loaf of bread and cold cuts for sandwiches in the motel room. We passed a bakery case full of birthday cakes. Growing up in a small town, our grocery store didn’t have a bakery. I stopped in front of the case and wistfully looked at birthday cakes displayed for other people’s happiness.
I noticed a chocolate cake. Double layers, decorated with a bear riding a unicycle while juggling red, blue and yellow balls. “Happy Birthday!” declared the talented circus bear. My mind created a birthday party with all my friends singing the birthday song. Candles lit on a cake presented to me, the birthday girl. Gifts wrapped full of surprises surrounding me.
Uncle Oscar stood nearby, and I pulled away from the case, getting ready to leave. He began speaking with the baker. He asked me which one I liked. I wasn’t sure why he asked, but I pointed to the chocolate unicycle riding bear cake.
“It’s her birthday, and that’s the one she wants…”
It’snot my birthday, it already passed… I tried to explain. How could he not remember?
“It’s her birthday,” he insisted, “we’ll take the chocolate cake.”
The baker boxed it up, my uncle paid, and we left the grocery store.
At the motel, after a lunch of sandwiches, Uncle Oscar unboxed the cake. My grandparents, Uncle Oscar and Uncle Danny sang me the birthday song, Nana and Papá belting out “Happy birthday to ju…” I blew out candles and we sliced into the cake.
It was my first bakery cake, chocolatey and delicious. I did have a birthday, but it was in July.
Mom had two jewelry boxes. One held jewelry she wore frequently. The other was a larger cedar box with a hook closure. I liked organizing what she had in the first box, but everything was usually off limits. On special occasions, she’d let me wear a gold chain or her favorite pair of hoop earrings.
The cedar jewelry box held the exotic stuff. In a white cardboard box in one corner, there lived three thin glass bangles, two bright orange and one purple, both with a white stripe in the center. I can see why she never wore them. Carefully, I tried them on, making sure they didn’t hit one another too hard. “A friend from India gave me those.” From India? With a limited worldview and vacations consisting of family road trips to south Texas, I wistfully imagined having a friend from India.
Replacing the bangles before I had a chance to break them, I went on to a necklace. She had several silver with turquoise and coral pieces. One necklace held a Buffalo nickel. My dad, an avid coin collector, bought it for her long before we were born. She wore it occasionally, but it usually remained well protected in the cedar box. There were several rings with large stones. “They’re not worth much,” she’d say. To me, they were treasures.
One of my favorite pieces was a sterling silver charm bracelet. Popular in the sixties, she saved money to buy one. The story it held was that of my parents when they started dating. My dad was stationed at Ft. Hood in Killeen, Tx, just north of Austin. Against my grandma’s wishes, as typical love-struck teen girls do, she hopped on a bus to visit him. My dad took her sightseeing and they stopped at the capitol. He bought her a silver mini-capitol charm. I was fascinated with it. The other charms were silver disks, one with a Capricorn etched onto it. “It’s my birthday sign,” she’d remind me. One had her birthdate engraved on it. Another was a little boy’s head silhouette, maybe for my little brother? I’d try that one on too, little shiny disks dangling, with the capitol in the center.
When I graduated from college, I was at home chatting with Mom. I took out her jewelry boxes again, organizing everything in the first jewelry box, scoping out new additions. Saving the cedar box for last, I went through the same pieces. Not wanting to break the glass bangles, I didn’t try to slip them over my hand. I mentioned that charm bracelets were making a come-back as I shook my wrist, her silver charm bracelet tinkling in response. “You can have it if you want it. I never wear it. Take the charms off if you don’t like them.”
“What? Mom, I can’t…”
“Just take it. I haven’t worn it. I’d rather you get some use out of it.”
“Well, okay, but I can pay you…”
“No, it’s yours. You’ve always liked it.”
I took the charm bracelet, jumping a little inside. I liked the capitol charm even more since I attended The University of Texas. The capitol was a familiar view from the main mall on campus as I went to class every day, just down the hill. At night, I’d see it from the fifth floor window of the Perry Castañeda library, white against the dark sky. I’m really here!
I removed the charms except for the capitol. The first one to accompany it was an interlocking UT logo. Then it was a longhorn. I collected charms along the way, purchasing some, but many were gifts.
I was rarely without my bracelet. By now, it had become a conversation piece. Each charm told stories about me, but it always started with my parents’ story. My fourth grade students often checked it for new charms. Their favorites were the mini crayon and globe charms, symbols of the beginning of my teaching career. Because it’s bulky, I’d often take it off while I entered grades on my computer. I’d put it back on before leaving for the day.
One morning, I couldn’t find it. Before panicking, my husband asked where I had been the day before. School, pretty much. Where else do I go? I remembered entering grades before I left. Surely it’s still next to my computer. I got to school and immediately checked my desk.
It wasn’t there.
My heart pounded. Kids began entering the classroom. I’d check with the custodians. If they saw it on the floor, they would have saved it for me. Fortunately I worked at a small campus. However, they didn’t find it. I racked my brain retracing my steps.
Sonic! I had gone to an indoor Sonic after school yesterday, but before a meeting at church across the street. I would’ve known if it fell off though, it’s heavy. If I dropped it in the parking lot, it would either get run over or picked up. I might not see it again. My heart raced as I called the restaurant when it opened.
“Can you describe the bracelet?”
“It’s silver, there’s a capitol in the middle, a crayon, globe, angel, interlocking UT charm…”
“We have it. You’re lucky. Someone found it in the seat yesterday and turned it in. We’ll hold it until you get here.”
I drove there during my planning period with someone as back up to pick up my students from specials in case I didn’t make it back in time.
Sure enough, it was my bracelet. I put it on right away. When I returned to my classroom, I took it off to inspect it. The safety chain was broken. I never thought I’d see it again, but I’m ever grateful to the person who picked it up and knew it was more than a bunch of cute silver charms.
Si Nana estuviera con nosotros, hubiera escrito sus historias. Le hubiera preguntado de su educación. Le encantaba leer, pero casi siempre leía la Biblia. Su biblia la acompañó por tantos años. Yo sabía que no fue a la escuela muchos años. Era raro, con su experiencia, que sus padres tuvieron maneras de mandarla a la escuela. En ese tiempo, ella tenía la responsabilidad de ayudar con el trabajo de mantener el hogar.
¿Quien le enseñó escribir? También le encantaba escribir. Cuando fui a la universidad, me mandaba cartas por correo. Algunas veces, también me mandaba dinero. Sabía que para ella, era mucho, pero lo guardaba para algo necesario.
Nana era cuentista. Le encantaba el chisme y le encantaba contarnos de cosas que le habían pasado, siempre cuentos chistosos. Algunas veces, con lagrimas, nos contaba de su tristeza. Había mucha tristeza y tiempos difíciles.
Dos nińas, mis tías que nunca conocí, murieron demasiado temprano. Una se llamaba Olivia y la otra era Lydia. Eran las únicas hermanas menores de mi mamá. Olivia murió a los nueve meses de tos ferina. Lydia murió algunos meses pasado su primer cumpleaños de polio. No las llevaron al médico porque no había como pagarles.
Solo las conozco por sus fotos, en blanco y negro. En una foto, Nana estaba en seguida de mi mamá cargando su hermanita como si fuera muñequita. Otra foto era de Lydia frente de su pastel de cumpleaños.
Siempre pensaba en vida con mis tías. Imagino que, como mis siete tíos, ellas también me amarán muchísimo, y yo a ellas.
Si Nana estuviera con nosotros, imagino que cada sábado por la mañana, nos juntaríamos virtualmente. Frente de la computadora o teléfono, mi mamá y Nana en la pantalla, enseñamos nuestras tazas de cafecito. Nana con sus carcajadas, mi mamá y yo temblando de risa. Con tiempo, imagino que la plática incluirá la historia de mis tías que nunca conocí. Ahora que tengo hijos, entiendo su dolor profunda. Le diría que yo también las extraño. Escribiría sus historias.
If Nana was still with us, I would’ve written her stories. I would have asked about her education. She enjoyed reading, but she usually read her Bible. It accompanied her for many hears. I knew she attended school for a few years. With her experience, her parents didn’t have the means to provide a formal education. She had the responsibility of helping maintain the household.
She also loved writing. Who taught her how to write? When I left home for college, she’d write me letters. Sometimes, she’d send money. I knew that for her, it was a stretch, but I saved it for something important. She wouldn’t let me refuse it.
Nana was a story teller. She loved gossip and enjoyed telling us stories about funny events that happened to her. Sometimes, through tears, she’d tell us of her sadness. In her life, there were many hardships.
The stories she spoke most of, were those of her two daughters, aunts I never knew. They were my mother’s only sisters, Mom being older than them. They were named Olivia and Lydia. At nine months old, Olivia died of whooping cough. A few months after her first birthday, Lydia died of polio. There was no money to take them to the hospital.
I only know them from their black and white photos. In one, Nana stands next to Mom who is holding her little sister. She looks like a doll. In another photo, Lydia stands on a chair in front of a birthday cake.
I’ve always thought of life would be like with my aunts. I imagine, like my seven uncles, they’d also love me as much as they do. I’d love them just as much.
If Nana was still with us, I imagine we’d meet virtually on Saturday mornings. In front of a phone or computer, Mom and Nana would appear on screen. We’d show each other our cups of cafecito. Nana’s cackling laugh would have us shaking. In time, our chat would include the stories of the aunts I never knew. With children of my own, I understand her profound grief. I’d tell her I also miss them. And I’d write her stories.
She knows better than to holler for me. I won’t budge.
“There’s a BUG in my bathroom and I can’t get ready! They’re all over the place. Help me now, please!”
“It’s just a mayfly, they’re harmless…”
“But they’re ugly, I want it out. Ahhhh, there’s another one, where are they coming from?”
On it goes, back and forth. He gets to her bathroom and they’ve magically disappeared.
“I can deal with insects, outside, where they belong, but inside? They’re awful,” she exclaims.
I’ve been sweeping dead ones that bounce in when we open the front or back doors. They flit and bounce around, looking like they want to come inside. I try to move them aside, but some sneak in regardless. Occasionally, I’ll catch one and put it back out, but two more sneak in.
I mis-identified these insects. They’re called crane flies. We’re in the sweet spot of crane fly season. Resembling Texas-sized mosquitoes, they’re harmless and tickle your arm if they get close. They seem to hover, rather than fly, unsure of knowing whether they want to befriend or scare us. I don’t care much if they come inside, but if I can keep them out in favor of calmer mornings, I shoo them away, letting them live their happy little fluttery crane fly lives outdoors.
Nerds Beget Nerds 