Author: admin

We have too many ornaments. Though they all hail from different places, they’ve ended up in three giant plastic bins, one of which won’t close, in my closet. This year after decorating several Christmas trees in our house, we still had some left over, so I decided to purge what we didn’t need anymore.

For the past few months, I’ve been trying to declutter our house. I’m not the neatest person in the world and I am by no means a minimalist, but I’m tired of being surrounded by stuff, so I try to make a dent in it every week. My ambitions seeped over to our ornaments, so that’s how I wound up sifting through the unabridged history of my Christmases the other night.

Turns out that organizing an ornament bin isn’t the same thing as streamlining your sock drawer. With socks, it’s easy. If they don’t have a mate, they get cast aside. If they have holes or stains, they’re gone. With ornaments it’s different. Even if they’re in need of repair, the story behind them is still intact, making it impossible to throw them out.

The gold star my mother made many years ago.

Looking through the bin that won’t close, I found the angel I made in Sunday school when I was five years old. This poor angel has lost her wings, and her yellow yarn hair is thinning on her round Styrofoam head, but I refuse to throw her away because every time I pick her up, I hear my Sunday school teacher’s sweet voice. Then there’s the miniature White House my best friend’s mom gave me after we waited in the freezing cold for a tour, and the blue and pink “Baby’s First Christmas” balls my late mother gave me when I had twins. Those babies are almost 15, and even though their ornaments look a little beat up, I can’t part with them.

Some of our ornaments don’t make it on the tree, but their purpose isn’t about decoration anymore. Each one tells a tale, and I like remembering those tales when Christmas comes around. They’re a portal to holidays past.

Over the years things have changed. My parents are no longer with us, so there’s no going home for Christmas for me, but when I open my ornament boxes, I’m there. I can hear my mom telling dad which decorations to bring down from the attic. I can see my dad wrapping white lights around every branch of our tree, and there, in the middle of all the chaos, are the ornaments. A constant then and a much-needed constant now.

The holidays can make change harder than peanut brittle, but the beauty of the season is that it’s okay to mix the old with the new. When I open our boxes of ornaments, I know I’m going to find the white cat my cousins gave me when I got my first pet and the gold felt stars my mother made when I was in elementary school. They’ll be there mixed with ornaments my kids made, as well as ornaments from places we’ve traveled, working together to illustrate the past and present.

I’ll get back to decluttering our house in January, but I’ve decided my ornaments are off limits. I don’t need closet space that badly. Besides, these trinkets help me celebrate all my Christmases at once, and that’s something I can count on every year.

This article was initially published by News of Davidson on December 19, 2024.

My beautiful mother, ready to go on the adventure of parenthood.

My windshield kept fogging up the other day. I’d push the defroster button, and minutes later it would fog up again. My engineer husband would have tried to figure out what was wrong with it. But me, being as right brained as they come, simply went along with it until my windshield finally cleared for good.

Sitting in my Subaru pushing the defrost button over and over, I felt like I’ve felt the almost five years since my mom passed away. There have been moments of clarity, but grief always seem to cloud them. I miss my mom more now than when she first died. Maybe it’s because I’m realizing its permanent. Maybe it’s because I’m mothering teenagers. Maybe it’s because 1,726 days isn’t that long when you think about the span of an average life. However, my mom’s life was anything but average, especially when she became a mother.

From as long as I can remember, my mom and I would go on little adventures together. Whether it was sliding down the swirly slide at Les Myers Park, riding bikes to the Green Top gas station, or flagging down a tour bus in New York City, we always managed to have a good time.

I miss those times more than I thought I would. It’s like when you’re preparing to have a child. No one can explain to you the love you will feel for that child or how complex the task of being a parent is. It’s something you have to experience to understand.

The doctors gave my mom four to six weeks after her cancer diagnosis, but mom was always one to beat expectations. She passed away six weeks and two days after they told her she had stomach cancer. I marched through those six weeks like a soldier — handling logistics, answering questions, monitoring every little thing — and then she was gone, leaving me with a void that has only grown bigger with each passing year.

 Mother’s Day has been difficult since then. There’s no one to buy a present for or go shopping with. There’s no lunch where we celebrate being mothers together. And there are no more hugs. For the past few years, I’ve toned down the holiday just to get through it. But this year, I feel like my windshield is finally clear. I’m not sure what the difference is, but I’m realizing that this is my time to be the mother, to go on the adventures with the family I’ve made, to live my life.

A switch wasn’t flipped to get me here, instead the balm of time did it. Somehow you learn to live with your loss, and it grows into whatever you need it to be. I feel the presence of my mom when The Tots grunt about having to unload the dishwasher or pick up their clothes. I feel her when my children face disappointments or when something is unfair. I feel her when my daughter is on stage, and I feel her when my son earns a new rank in Scouts. She is always with me, and the best way I can honor her is by being a good mother.

Today, I’m not sure what our family is going to do to celebrate Mother’s Day. I get to pick, but I’m often overwhelmed by the choices and usually end up spending a relaxing day at home with a good book. That’s how my mom chose to spend so many of her afternoons, and I’m happy to say that I am like her in many ways.

I learned so much from my mother growing up, but I’ve learned tons more from her since she left. So instead of dwelling on what I had, I’m choosing to continue the course my mom so graciously set. It’s my time to go on the adventures and teach my kids what a good mother is. I only hope I can do as good of a job as my mom did.

Happy Mother’s Day!

I need a new bag that reads, “Please move forward.”

A few years ago, I bought a tote bag that read “keep going.” I liked the sentiment because, at the time, I was adulting a lot with bankers and lawyers, and they’ve never been my favorite playmates. I needed a daily reminder to, well, keep going.

I love my bag and carry groceries in it when I remember to take it to the store. I’ve even used it as a beach bag, but after hearing something at the airport the other day, I think it could use a little editing.

While walking through what looked like glass closets after my return flight, a polite woman’s voice came over the speaker saying, “Don’t stop. Please move forward.” The latter part of her mantra is what struck me — “please move forward.” I couldn’t get it out of my head. I liked it so much better than “keep going.”

“Keep going” implies a struggle where you want to stop but you can’t or don’t. It’s a runner in a marathon, limping to the finish line. It’s a new mom gulping caffeine to stay awake with her colicky baby. It’s Bill Withers holding the long notes in “Lovely Day.”

Moving forward has a much more positive spin. Instead of trudging through something, you’re moving beyond it. You’ve been through the yuckiness of the situation, done the work, and are ready to move on. Think of a grieving widow who finally accepts that her husband is gone or a cancer patient ringing the bell after her final round of chemo.

During the past six years, my family has experienced radical changes in the aftermath of the deaths of parents and friends. More than one person told us that we had to keep going during our grief storm. No doubt there are times when you have to keep going to survive, but it’s easy to forget that you don’t have to do it forever.

Our culture is rooted in constant motion. Having a packed agenda carries as much status as carrying a Louis Vuitton bag. Don’t get me wrong, I like to check off a to-do list as much as anyone else, but I’m not willing to run myself ragged for it anymore. That’s when the “keep going” mentality turns toxic. We admonish the people who (gasp) stop to take a break or, God forbid, take a leave of absence. How dare they have the audacity to do nothing for a while.

I have tremendous respect for my friend who recently lost her husband. A mother of two, she is strong as steel and has since implemented “freedom days” at her house every now and then. On freedom days, no one has to do anything. There are no chores, no outings, everyone makes their own meals. No one tells anyone what to do, and the words “keep going” are prohibited. She says this has helped the non-freedom days go smoother. I’m not surprised.

When I got my first job out of college, I worked through lunch every day to impress my boss. It finally caught up to me one day when my dad told me that I needed to “sharpen my saw if I was going to cut wood.” With those sage words, I started taking my hour-long lunch outside at the picnic table. My work improved, my stress level decreased, and my boss gave me a raise.

This is where the airport lady has it all wrong. It’s okay to stop. In fact, I highly recommend it. It’s okay, even beneficial, to pause and take notes about where you’ve been, where you are and where you want to go. Add a dose of forgiveness and grace to the mix and you’ll be surprised at what happens.

As I venture into the second full month of spring, the idea of new beginnings seems more than appropriate. Not a fan of New Year’s, I prefer to start over when the azaleas make their debut and the honeysuckle smells just right. I’m so into the idea that I bought a new planner last week. I have no idea what I’ll fill its pages with, but I know that even though I’ve ditched my “keep going” philosophy, I’ll still be moving forward.

The Schweinitz sunflower brought me back home.

The universe threw me a “gotcha” moment the other day. It started innocently enough, but then that’s the fertile ground where these moments derive their potency. They pop up unexpectedly and result in the equivalent of being hit on the head with a celestial frying pan.

My moment began with a story assignment about an endangered wildflower. My editor asked me during the summer if I’d be interested in writing about the Schweinitz sunflower and the efforts to save it. I love flowers, my dog’s name is Sunflower, and I have a framed copy of Georgia O’Keeffe’s “A Sunflower for Maggie” hanging in my house. I couldn’t say “no.” Plus, I like to venture out of my coifed corner occasionally to see how the rest of the world is doing.

The night before the interview, the biologist I was meeting sent the address where the flower resided. I knew it would be off the beaten path, but I had no idea that it would be off my beaten path. Turns out, this botanical wonder was in Mount Pleasant, my hometown. Though I could envision the street name in my mind, I couldn’t match it with a road, so, yes, I typed the address into my phone so I could find my way home.

Driving over, I passed the old fair grounds, the road my sophomore crush lived on, the beauty shop where I had my ears pierced, and the church where I was baptized — the church where my parents’ ashes are filed away. Hurrying to be on time, I didn’t stop. I don’t visit their gravesite often because it obliterates any fantasy that I have of them being on an extended vacation.

Onto the flower I went, slowly realizing its proximity to my parents’ house, the same house I sold last year after my father died two years and two months after my mother. Turns out, the Schweinitz sunflower flourishes a seven-minute drive from where I spent a chunk of my life.

Anyone who’s been through the death of a loved one knows the grief route involves a mixture of reflexes. At Christmas, you want to help your mom slice her red velvet cake, a recipe I still can’t seem to master. On Father’s Day, you want to buy a goofy card with a tie on it for your dad, and when something cool happens, you want to tell them. Pulling into the parking lot of the nature trail, I wanted to call my mom and dad more than ever. We probably would have met for a What-A-Burger after.

When I met my contact, we walked 15 minutes of the trail to discover that the flower that summoned me home wasn’t blooming yet. Undeterred, my tour guide suggested we go look for some more a couple of miles away, so I hopped in my Subaru to follow his Subaru. Approximately a half-mile from my old neighborhood, we discovered a Schweinitz sunflower standing as regal as a giraffe. This jewel of nature randomly sprouted beside the country road our family took to church every Sunday of my childhood.

I studied the flower, touching the sandpaper-like underbelly of its leaves and thought how brave this plant was to bloom less than a foot from the road. After the biologist left, I decided to be brave, too.

I drove through my neighborhood, past the house that holds more memories for me than any other structure on this earth, past the dock where I had my eighth birthday, past a part of my life that now rests in the past. When I was leaving, a yellow monarch fluttered across my windshield. As she always was in life, my mom was there for me, letting me know that everything was going to be okay.

On the way back, I stopped by the columbarium to fill my parents in on how everyone was doing, and near the end of my update, a calmness soaked through my soul. I finally realized that my parents are at peace, and for the first time in a long time, I felt like I was, too.

This post was first published on the News of Davidson website on October 3, 2023, https://newsofdavidson.org/2023/10/03/64658/g-is-for-griefand-goodness/.

This is me turning 50 last August. Notice how I’m not disintegrating.

            My right knee gives me a hard time. It’s not a constant battle, but when it gets aggravated, it lets its voice be heard. Case in point, the other morning while working out, I had to go lower on my dumb bell weight for step-ups because said knee was pitching a fit.

I hate having to modify workouts because I have a bad habit of all or nothing thinking. My thought process goes something like this, “If I have to use a lighter dumbbell on this move, I’m going to start disintegrating like the character Walter Donovan in Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade when he drinks from the wrong cup, and I won’t be able to work out or do anything because I’ll be a pile of dust by the rowing machines.” A bit eccentric, I know.

Anyway, when I told my trainer that I couldn’t go heavy on the move, he simply said, “motion is motion.” This coming from the same sage trainer who introduced me to the term, “smart rest.” (A gem that I treasure and use frequently in all sorts of situations.) Immediately, I felt better and realized that I would not suffer the same fate (or anywhere near it) as Mr. Donovan.

After class, the idea of “motion is motion” stayed with me. I’m stubborn and a tad vain, so aging isn’t the best activity for me, yet it is one in which I am fortunate to participate — I’m not that vain. Talking with friends who’ve hit the 50 mark, as I did ten months ago, it’s clear that our bodies are changing. It’s not an overnight thing, but gradually we’re noticing we’re not able to do things exactly the same ways we once did.

For instance, when I ride the Woodstock Express in Camp Snoopy at Carowinds, I have to sit a certain way so I don’t jerk my back on the first hill. Road trips now include stops simply for stretching, and the first ten minutes of my runs aren’t as pleasant as they used to be. However, despite all that, I’m moving, refusing to stop, and that’s the mantra I’m applying to everything.

It’s no secret that women are often cast aside when they reach a certain age, especially in media, with the exception of Martha Stewart. (Go Martha!) But whether we like it or not, the world often assigns women an expiration date regarding when we can be and do certain things, and as someone who’s not nearly finished doing things, I give that a “whatever” from teenage me — complete with an eye roll.

When I turned 50, everyone asked me how I felt, as most birthdays don’t offer the perceived seismic shift that a half-century does. I was honest when I answered that I was a little freaked out, but more liberated than freaked out. Freaked because 50 years is 50 years. If a company stays in business that long, it’s a big deal, so it only makes sense that living for 50 years is too. Liberated because it is what it is, and this is who I am. I’m a 50-year-old woman who’s so very tired of worrying about who she’s supposed to be.

I was 14 when my mother turned 50, and I don’t remember her as an old person at all. She was still doing all the things, and she looked beautiful while doing them. Back then, 50 wasn’t as young as it is now, but for my mother it was.

She’d always say that having me at an older age kept her young. Older parents are more common now, but back then, she was a unicorn. That said, I remember her being more fun than the other moms, especially the younger ones who were always stressed out. She loved throwing parties and traveling. She was the one you wanted to carpool with on field trips because she’d let you listen to whichever music you wanted and most likely offer you a Breath Saver. She was the adult who would swim in the lake with my friends and I while the other grown-ups stood on the porch. Mom didn’t let anyone stop her.

When I went away to college, she started taking college classes, a dream of hers that couldn’t be fulfilled when she graduated high school. People (including my dad) would ask why she was doing it, and she’d simply say because she wanted to. She wore out at least three stationary bicycles, walked on the beach every chance she got and even tried to learn how to play the dulcimer. That didn’t turn out so great, but motion is motion. Instead of whimpering about growing older, joking about hot flashes or surrendering to dowdy fashion, she tried new things. She lived her life.

Now it’s my turn. Yes, my knees sound like a bowl of Rice Krispies some days, but so what. I’ve got 50 years of joy, sadness, heartbreak and hilarity in this body, and there’s room for plenty more. Bring it on!

“I’ve always been crazy, but it’s kept me from going insane.”

I’ve never been struck by lightning, but song lyrics have been known to stop me in my steps, which is ironic because I’m notorious for singing the wrong words. Up until two years ago, I thought ELO’s “Evil Woman” was, in fact, “Medieval Woman.” This song came out when I was three years old, and now I finally understand it.

            I must have passed this gene down to my son because this morning at breakfast we were listening to “Bennie and The Jets,” and he thought Elton John was singing, “Baby, I’m a Jack.” Regardless, music is my second language, and when I (correctly) hear a lyric that punches me in the gut, I take notice.

            While I can listen to most all genres of music (in various doses), I find classic country to be the most fertile for good songwriting, and one of the masters is the late Waylon Jennings. If you’re in the nucleus of my inner circle, you know that I love Waylon Jennings as much as I love driving a pickup — a whole flippin’ lot. Waylon’s solo work, his songs with The Highwaymen, plus his epic duet with Big Bird in the underrated musical comedy film Follow That Bird (1985), make him a certified badass in my book.

That said, when I heard his marinated baritone seep through my speakers earlier this week, my listening ears clicked on. It wasn’t one of my top favorites — think “Mammas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Cowboys,” or “Lukenbach, Texas.” Nope, it was “I’ve Always Been Crazy.”

I’m sure others can relate when they hear the line, “I’ve always been crazy, but it’s kept me from going insane.” Of course, that tracks for me, but the line that scooped my heart like a cantaloupe was this, “Are you really sure you really want what you see? Be careful of something that’s just what you want it to be.”

Obviously, when I heard this song walking around my dad’s machine shop as a kid, it didn’t have quite the philosophical effect it has on me now. Turning 50, which I did last August, changes your outlook on so many things, as it’s a summit of sorts. You have no idea how much longer you’ll live, but odds are it’s going to be less that what you already have. There’s a sense of accomplishment, a tug of grief and the relentless realization that you need to spend your time wisely.

I’m not gonna lie, turning 50 hasn’t been easy for me. Yes, I’m fortunate any way you slice it, but a part of everyone aches in some way or another. For me, it’s weird that my parents aren’t here for this milestone to give me a high five or better yet, a hug. It’s strange (and sad) that the home and community that rooted me for the first big chunk of my life is mostly gone. And it’s baffling that a vertical wrinkle beside my nose just decided to pop up one morning. (I’m trying come up with a story to pass it off as a scar. Suggestions welcome.)

All that said, with my new box (I’m in the 50-59 group for 5Ks now) comes perspective, candidness and if you’re lucky, humor. When I see a fellow Gen-Xer wearing Peepers and a Cure T-shirt, I feel seen. The same is true when someone gets my Seinfeld references. Conversations with friends have also numbed the sting, as I’ve noticed we talk more about real things than we used to. It’s not that we were valley girls before; it’s that we’re finally at a place where it’s okay to be a little vulnerable, a little less guarded and way less perfect.

At this stage of the game, we’re all looking for life rings, something to hold on to while navigating these new and often complicated waters. We’re not scared to share that we’re in marriage counseling or that our teenagers are struggling with depression or that we spent the past weekend changing a parent’s diaper. And we’re also happy to drink a bottle of wine on the patio while listening to Yacht Rock or act silly during a girls’ night out. The days of glitz and glamour chit-chat have subsided to make way for reality, no matter how messy or crazy it is.

It’s probably not exactly what you thought you wanted to see or exactly the way you wanted it to be, but it’s your life, beautifully appointed with dents, scratches and detours. You can tuck it away behind a curated façade or you can embrace it. I vote for keeping it real, and I think Waylon would agree with me.  

The other day my voice teacher said, “Give me less time, more consciousness. Don’t go through the motions.” She initially said this because I kept holding a half-note too long, but then she said, “Don’t go through ANY motions in your day.” That’s when it hit me that that’s all I’ve been doing for the past four years. And judging by the increase in pajama sales, that’s all a lot of us have been doing. 

As much as I’ve tried to be strong and continue being a productive human through the pandemic and the deaths in our family, my go-to approach in dealing with it all has resulted in doing exactly that. Going through the motions. 

Some of you might be thinking, “Lori needs to breathe and be more mindful.” Thanks, but I don’t have any deep breaths left to take, and I’m sick of that trendy, overused and marketed word — mindful. People are good at commercializing meaningful things. It’s like when I saw a 1000-piece Where the Crawdads Sing puzzle at Barnes & Noble. One of the best books I’ve read in a long time was immediately diluted when I spotted that puzzle, along with a matching tote bag and pouch. It killed the magic for me as much as seeing a mug with the words “Practice Mindfulness” on it at Target does. 

Instead of going through the motions of working, exercising, running errands, signing up for yet one more thing on Sign-Up Genius and toting our children to more activities than a diplomat tackles in a day, why can’t we cut the fat and focus on what’s real? What matters? Don’t volunteer because it makes you look good. Don’t go to church to be seen. And don’t go out to dinner with friends just so you can post about it. Focus on the intangible things you want to get from these experiences. 

Last August, I turned 50 and proceeded to celebrate this momentous, and frightening, occasion by going on a yoga retreat to Turks and Caicos. That’s right, I left The Tots with my husband and jetted off to the islands with my bathing suit, sun dress and the hope that I could somehow find a little peace. 

Part of this experiment involved using my phone sparsely and spending as much time as possible in the ocean. On one of my first days there, I swam freestyle, floated on my back and did flips (forwards and backwards) for hours in the clear, turquoise water. My friend started calling me a mermaid. I wasn’t trying to burn calories (well, maybe a little), I was trying to wash away the pain and grief my father’s death left behind.

Dad died on November 5, 2021, and when the Hospice nurse woke me up to tell me he was gone, my body went numb. All I have done since that moment was break down his life and legacy into folders on my desk, sift through boxes of newspaper clippings and birthday cards, and cry when the right country song comes on the radio. Numb. That’s all I could muster.   

My days in the ocean were different. I had energy. I had fun. I had intention.  (Yes, I realize that’s also a trendy word, but it’s my word for 2023, so I’m going with it.) It felt exhilarating to open my eyes under the water, brush my feet on the sandy ocean floor and come up for air. Every time I thought I was ready to retire to the shore, I dove back in, vowing that I would take this feeling with me when I returned to the real world. 

I’d like to say I succeeded in doing that, but a couple weeks after reentry, I was back to where I began, checking things off of my to-do list wearing a blindfold. There was no consciousness, just doing. 

Over the last few days, I’ve heard about the deaths of two people. Both were students at my high school when I was there, both younger than me. I didn’t know them well, but does that matter? Hearing about someone your age leaving this world for one reason or another is jarring. You start punching numbers into your own calculator, wondering how much time you have left. It’s ironic how death brings numbness as much as it injects life. A wake-up call as potent as my voice teacher’s sage advice. 

Today, I’m not doing back flips in the ocean. I’m not cutting pictures out of magazines for a vision board. And I’m not claiming to be enlightened. I’m giving less time and more consciousness. Fingers crossed this takes me where I need to go. 

Growing up, my father always told me that my problems were my problems. He wasn’t being flippant. He was trying to show me how to have compassion for others — and for myself. He did a good job of teaching me that there were always people worse off. But even though that is and will always be true, dad wanted me to know that my struggles mattered. 

I’ve thought about that a lot lately, as my little segment of the universe has been pelted with loss. I’ve lost my parents and my father-in-law in less than three years, and my dear friend, Jessica, passed away while I was at a family wedding in England two weeks ago.

Standing outside a restaurant in London, I listened over the phone while another dear friend told me she was gone. Instead of delivering funny texts and memes, my phone has morphed into a death and dying reporter over the last few years. You can only prepare so much for a loved one to leave. Even if you know it’s coming, you don’t really know, and the fact that I was half-way around the world didn’t help matters. 

I get so frustrated with our society’s obsession with prescribed perfection. People get so wrapped up in what they’re told will make them happy that they forget what creates happiness. Life is not supposed to be back-to-back Instagram photos. Life can be cruel and harsh. It can hit you in the gut and come back to hit you one more time — #reality. Some of the most beautiful moments in my life happened around tragedy, pain and heartbreak. I wouldn’t have gotten the goody out of those experiences if I would have glossed over them with a “fine” reply laced with a fake smile. I would have missed the point. 

As I stood on a cold cobblestone street holding my phone, young British bankers downed pints after their workday, enjoying a Tuesday night as if it were Mardi Gras. All I could do was cry. I was crying for Jessica, for her husband, her four kids and her parents. I was crying because I hate f*(@%$# cancer, and I was crying because sadness was the only emotion available. Instead of cramming it down my throat until we got back to where we were staying, I let it out. Maybe not everyone would do that. Maybe more people should.    

Through a series of travel miracles (five trains, a plane, a three-hour hotel nap, a shuttle, another plane and an Uber), I came home early for Jessica’s service. More importantly, I was able to sit with some of the people I love most in this world as we said farewell to one of our own. Turns out wearing eyeliner wasn’t the best idea, but I didn’t care. I let the tears roll down my face.

Sitting there holding my friends’ hands, I felt a tremendous sense of peace, a feeling hard to come by for tortured souls like me. I was grateful for Jessica’s life. I was grateful for our friendship and shared mom fails. I was grateful that our children are friends. And my Scottish heritage was grateful to hear more than twenty bag pipers play Amazing Grace. Yes, I was at a funeral for someone who was too young to suffer and die, yet I was surrounded by so much beauty. When life throws moments like that at you, you need to pay attention.  

As I soaked it all in, I thought about how Jessica lived every second of her life, even before her diagnosis. She took the trips. She threw the parties. She had the hard conversations. She got the tattoos. Hell, she was a scuba diver. One time before cutting sugar, she pulled me aside to tell me that she’d had chocolate Turtles and Sun Drop for dinner the night before. And the last time I saw her, she was the one telling me that everything was going to be okay. 

            The other day while driving to pick up The Tots, Jimmy Buffett’s He Went to Paris came on the radio. It’s one of my favorites because it’s honest and real. Years do slip away, and bad, horrendous things happen. It’s true for all of us, but the best line in the song is this, “Some of it’s magic, and some of it’s tragic, but I had a good life all the way.” 

            Jessica didn’t get the 86 years the guy in the song and my father-in-law did, but she took the tragic with the magic in the 42 years she did get and ran with it. That’s what it’s all about. You have to have both. Light can’t exist without darkness. And Jessica was such a light. 

            I miss my friend, my parents and my father-in-law like crazy. Moments of pure anger are followed by moments of joy as I parse through memories, making sure I learn all I’m supposed to learn. It’s not always pretty, and lately it’s been pretty ugly, but I’m taking the tragic with the magic. It’s hard, and it’s maddening, but I know I’ll arrive at a happy ending one day.  

Dad called me every year when his azaleas were blooming. He always wanted me to come over and see them before they returned to their inconspicuous, boxwood-like appearance. Sometimes I made it over, sometimes not. If I couldn’t get there in time, dad took pictures of them, had them developed (smartphone user he was not) and delivered the photos to me with the pride of a kindergartener at show and tell. 

Last week, driving up my parents’ driveway for one of the last few times, I saw a patch of pink by the carport. It didn’t register at first, but there they were, as vibrant as ever — my dad’s prized azaleas in full bloom. I immediately parked my car and ran over to them like you would an old friend. 

All I wanted was to tell my dad how beautiful they were and give him a hug. But I couldn’t. Standing in the driveway where I rode my bike as a kid and drove for the first time as a teenager, all that was left was me and a bed of azaleas that shared the same memories. 

When I was younger, I relished the chance to be alone at my parents’ house. After school, I could watch General Hospital, eat Cheez Doodles, live what any teenager in the ‘80s would deem “the good life.” If it was a summer morning, I could watch as many game shows as I wanted in a row — while drinking a Pepsi. (Anyone remember Sale of the Century?) Back then I couldn’t imagine life being any other way, and I certainly couldn’t imagine the three of us not living together on Shoreview Drive. Things change.

Ever since my dad passed away in November, I’ve been striking the set that served as our family’s home for 42 years. Sifting through yellowed elementary school programs, photos of birthday parties and racks filled with everything from the matching dresses mom made us for the 1976 bicentennial to my prom dresses to the Carolina blue dress she wore at my wedding. Every corner conjures a memory. Every chotchke reminds me of a trip. Without fail, the furniture in the living room takes me back to our Christmas Eves, where the three of us would take turns opening presents for each other after church. 

Once the floor was covered with empty boxes and wrapping paper, dad would sneak behind the tree for two envelopes. One for mom, and one for me — money for after-Christmas sales. Sure, I loved scoring a marked-down Swatch at Carolina Mall with my mom, but the best part was watching him sneak up to the tree like we had no idea what was going on. He got such joy out of it. The same joy he gleaned from his azaleas.

As the sting wore off from seeing dad’s favorite part of spring, I walked the perimeter of the house, looking for any other flowers that had decided to join the party. No, only the azaleas, always the stars of the show. Staring at them more, I realized what a miracle it was that they had bloomed at all. I hadn’t touched them since dad died, and I’m not sure if dad remembered to prune them last year. I hoped that they would make an appearance, but I understood if they wanted to take a break. They lost dad, too. 

But instead of sulking in a wilted state, these pink miracles did their job. They reminded me that things can be good, even beautiful again. They gave me a moment with my dad that I so desperately needed. They made me cry as they gave me permission to move forward.

When you’re mired in grief, it’s hard to see the beauty in anything, much less the future. Glimpses of light are rare, and hope seems to be a novel idea created for other people. You forget how to have fun, how to dream, how to live, how to be. 

Dad’s azaleas reminded me that there’s more to come in my life. And no, it won’t all be great. It can’t be, and that’s okay. The crummy parts make the good parts shimmer, and knowing that something somewhere is about to blossom carries us through the in-between. I’m grateful for a dad who loved azaleas, and I’m grateful I got to see them one more time. 

I had a feeling my mom would show up. It was the first time her granddaughter was going to see a musical with a professional cast — the national tour of Wicked. No way she would miss it. 

Santa brought Margot tickets for the show in 2019. I don’t need to explain why we had to wait until last Saturday to use them, but if anything, the excrutiating delay only made the day more exciting — for both of us. 

Once we were zapped in, something I always worry about until the mission is complete because I miss paper tickets (see photo), we were set to experience the show. When we found our seats at Ovens Auditorium, I looked a few rows down to where my mom and I’s season tickets used to be. For years, mom would meet me at my apartment in Charlotte, and we’d go to dinner and a show. It was the best because it was just us. 

Sometimes we’d go to a cool restaurant and pretend we were in Greenwich Village beforehand. Other times we grabbed snacks at the local convenience store because we were late for the theatre, and one should never be late for the theatre. It didn’t matter whether we ate fancy pasta or crackers, all that mattered was that we were doing something together that we loved. 

Even before we started buying season tickets, we’d go to shows — a couple of times in New York and frequently in Charlotte. During high school, when I was obsessed with the score from Les Miserables (what theatre nerd wasn’t in the ’80s?), mom bought us tickets for the national tour as soon as she heard it was coming to Ovens. We sat there crying our eyes out as Fantine sang “I Dreamed a Dream” only to return home to finish my science project that was due the next day. Being tired at school was completely worth it because I can’t remember what my science project was about, but I remember everything about watching Les Mis with my mom. 

It didn’t matter what the show was; it was magic. Magic because that’s what theatre is and magic because it was our thing. As I sat in Ovens with Margot, I began to get a little weepy remembering all the good times mom and I had. A few scenes later, my mask began smelling like my mother. Sure, we were sitting in a sea of ladies wearing a variety of Estee Lauder fragrances, but I’d like to think it was my mom joining us for a matinee. 

If that wasn’t enough to convince me she was there, what occurred in the second act did. Starving, I pulled a piece of gum out of my purse, pretending that it was a snack. After I chewed all the sweetness out of my Doublemint, I placed it back in the wrapper (during a loud number, I’m not one of those people) and held it in my hand so I could throw it away after the show. After cradling my wadded gum for a few minutes, I realized that it was my mom. 

A little backstory here. My mother wasn’t the tidiest person in the world, a trait her lovely daughter inherited. And mom also loved gum, another trait she passed down (don’t judge). Mom was famous for leaving gum wrappers in her wake. It drove me crazy because who doesn’t have time to throw away a gum wrapper? Still, she persisted.

Now that she’s gone, I miss finding those gum wrappers. That’s the hardest thing about losing someone, stomaching the random reminders that pop up on your path just when you’re certain it’s cleared of roots. In Kacey Musgraves’ latest song “Justify,” she sings that healing doesn’t happen in a straight line. No truer words have ever flowed through my speakers. 

Grief comes in all shapes and sizes, and it never runs on a schedule. But just as it grabs and tugs at unexpected moments, it also delivers these random ethereal connections, reminding you that person is always there. 

            Watching Elphaba and Glinda sing “Because I Knew You,” I clinched my gum wrapper in my hand, knowing we were all together. Three generations sharing a family tradition in beloved Ovens Auditorium. For a moment, I felt at peace, a feeling that’s been hard to come by lately as I navigate tweens, middle age, covid and an aging father. I need my mom’s guidance and wisdom more than ever. I constantly toss questions and requests into the air, hoping at least one will make its way to her. Most of the time I hear crickets, but once in a while, mom sends a Wink my way. 

            That’s exactly what she did at Wicked. She did what she could to be with her granddaughter as she watched her first show. Knowing mom was with us was all I needed to sit back and enjoy my daughter discover the thrill of live theatre.