Brothers & Sisters = Love and Thorns in the Side

Today I am thankful for my only sibling - my baby brother - Garry.  In our mother’s last years we became a team to lovingly care for her until her life on this earth was over on March 5th of this year.  During our childhood and adult years, both Garry and I had seen families (including our own) sometimes splinter and fracture over family funerals and their aftermath.  I am so proud to say that Garry and I stood together - once again as a team - to make it through the difficult task of handling Mama’s funeral and estate without disagreement.  I will be forever thankful to him for that.

New Arrival   I am also thankful that when I think of my childhood, he is there in my memories.  I still remember climbing up on the rail of his baby bed, peering down at that tiny four-day-old baby boy, and wondering to myself what all the fuss was about.  You see when he came home from the hospital, he was responsible for redirecting the path of my little life.  His mission, if he decided to accept it (and he did) was to make sure I did not become a spoiled, only child who was the center of attention of both her parents.  Um, thanks, Garry.  (Wink)

New Baby Brother

Dollies   One summer day when Garry was a cute little two-year-old with a mop of cotton-colored hair, I realized that he was the exact same size as my life-sized doll.  Barricading both of us on our screened-in porch, away from Mama’s ears, I proceeded to force my new live wriggly doll (Garry) into a pretty pink doll’s dress.  It was a perfect fit on a crying baby boy.  Although I tried to hold him down, he eventually ran to Mama for rescue.  To this day, he loves to tell this story and say that it damaged his psyche.  I beg to differ.  I think he would have turned out the way he is no matter what. (Wink, Wink)

Me and my life-size doll

A Thorn in My Side!    On another morning when Garry was about 8 years old, we were standing together in front of an antique dresser mirror.  He had recently become fixated with looking at himself in the mirror.  Being taller I stood behind him, looking over his head as I combed my hair.  He picked up a comb with an impish grin on his face and began slowly running the comb through his blond hair in greatly exaggerated movements.

Out of the blue he said, “I sure am good looking."  Then his blue eyes stared at my brown ones in the mirror as he continued without a beat.  "What happened to you?  Are you sure you aren’t adopted?”  I was so mad that steam must have been coming out my ears.  He just laughed and with even more conviction began to tell me all the reasons that he was sure I was adopted.

A few days later Mama caught me rummaging around in the dresser drawers in her bedroom.  “What are you looking for?” 

“My adoption papers.  I know I am adopted.” 

Mama laughed right out loud and told me I most certainly was NOT adopted.  “It’s okay, Mama.  I know I’m adopted and it is okay.  You can show me the adoption papers.” 

It took me a long time to accept that I was not adopted and Mama wasn’t trying to protect me from the “truth”.  Bummer.  I thought it would be cool to be adopted and also it would explain what Garry had pointed out.

Touche, Baby Brother.  I received my payback for that pink dress.  But you have to admit, you were cute!

Now I must lick my finger and with gusto draw an imaginary check mark in the air for my side.  These days Garry doesn’t have enough hair to run a comb through. 

I love you, Garry B!

Me and my brother

Halloween Reminiscing

As a little girl in the late 50’s and early 60’s I remember wearing a costume with tie strings.  Since the costumes were made of thin, flimsy scraps of material, it had to be tied over my regular clothing so I would be warm on Halloween night.  Today I couldn’t tell you what any of my costumes looked like back then, but I certainly remember that too tight elastic band on the matching mask that would cut into the tender skin above my ears, causing the nose and eye openings to fit painfully tight against my face.  But no matter how uncomfortable, I would not have taken off that mask for anything.  Being normally a shy child, hiding behind that mask emboldened me for a few hours each Halloween night.

We always toted a big brown grocery bag to collect our Halloween candy.  Mama would turn the bag inside out so that the A&P logo would be on the inside.  Then my brother and I would decorate our treat bags with crayons, drawing orange jack-o-lanterns and white-shrouded ghostly figures and then printing our names on both sides of the bag. 

All the parents on the street felt secure about sending the kiddies out as a group on their own to each door on the street.  Since I was the oldest, I was in charge of my little brother and the two younger little girls who lived next door.  When we would meet other groups of children who lived on our street, we would stop to giggle and try to figure out who was who behind the scary masks. 

Our little group of four would eagerly climb the steps to the porch, the youngest two in front and the two oldest in back.  We would knock on the door, waiting expectantly for the adults to come to the screen door.  Then we would yell in unison at the top of our lungs “Trick or Treat!”.  Sometimes the neighbors would tell us how scary we all looked.  Sometimes they insisted they were really just too frightened to open the door.  Then we would reassure them, “It’s us, Mrs. Cantrell!  It’s Pat!  It’s Garry!  It’s Kathy!  It’s Diane!”  Sometimes the adults would ask us which did we prefer, the trick or the treat?  “TREAT!” we would yell, holding our brown bags up even higher!

In those days parents did not worry about sending their children to knock on doors after dark.  Every parent on our street knew all of the neighbors.  All the children on our street knew if we didn’t behave, it might not be our own mother standing at the door scolding us – it could just as well be someone else’s mother.

It was a time when as children we felt safe in our neighborhoods.  It was a time when parents didn’t worry about letting their children play outside long after dark chasing fire flies with mason jars in their hands.  In those days Halloween was just another night to play outside after dark.  It was my time of fearless joy, a time when all seemed right with the world.

The Unmade Bed

Erma Bombeck once said that no one ever died from sleeping in an unmade bed.  That might be true but it brings back memories of my Mama’s stern face as she ordered me to make up my bed each morning.  At the time I always wondered if I did not make up my bed, would I live to see the next unmade bed?

Okay, so that was a bit of an exaggeration.  Still, my Mama was strict and she had her rules and making up the bed was one rule that was not to be broken.  She did put the fear in me.  As a small child it was no problem for me or Mama because I thought that making up my bed seemed like fun.  It made me feel all grown up to be doing something so adult-like.  

Fast forward a few years and I was over that pretty quickly.  By the time I was ten or eleven years old, I no longer saw the point in making up my bed.  I mean, really, in just 12 more hours or so I would be crawling back in the bed and messing it up again.  What was the point?   Mama’s stance was more or less, don’t ask stupid questions.  Just make up your bed.  End of discussion. 

I did try to reason with Mama.  But there was no reasoning with that woman about an unmade bed.  It simply didn’t happen in our house.  No way.  No how.  So I made up my bed every single day while I lived under Mama’s roof.  And that was that.

When I married at 21, oh, the freedom I felt!  Just to spite my Mama, I did not make up my bed.  I was the master of my domain now and the same old reasoning still made sense: why make up a bed in the morning that I would just be crawling right back into that night.  Boy, it felt good to get back at her.  Of course, she never knew that because I never told her.  And if I knew she was coming over to my house, I rushed to make up my bed before she got there.  The fear of Mama was alive and well.

I don’t know exactly when I started making up my bed every morning.  I do remember that one day I realized that even if the rest of the bedroom was not as spotless as it should be, simply making up the bed would transform the room into some semblance of order.  So the habit began and I turned into my Mama.

To this day If I’m running late and don’t have time to make up the bed, it will be the first thing I do when I get back home even if it’s bedtime.  I know it won’t kill me, but I really cannot stand to crawl into an unmade bed.

Shot Through the Heart (by Cupid’s Arrow)

The day of the year when Cupid and his arrows-of-love will reign supreme is due to arrive on February 14^th.  For weeks now every store has had displays of candy and cards and balloons and cuddly animals holding stuffed hearts with messages of love on them.  No one could possibly miss the fact that the official day of love is at hand!

      I am reminded of those Valentine’s days in my other life - that long ago time when I was married for the first time at a too-young age to a boy who was so wrong for me on so many levels.  When the holiday of love rolled around, I wanted and needed that confirmation of his love.  From the start it was of mega importance that just the right gifts were presented – a card proclaiming his undying love and a box of expensive chocolates and outrageously priced roses.  It was an assurance that the marriage was on solid ground.  But it never really was.

      Taking into account my youthful immaturity along with the shaky foundation of our marriage, well more was the pity for my unfortunate first husband if he didn’t deliver a card that was romantic enough or a box of candy that was big enough or a bouquet of roses that numbered a dozen or more.  I was insecure about our relationship so consequently I desperately needed affirmation of love on Valentine’s Day.

      Let’s fast forward to my current life.  Those who know me also know that the second time around I found the right man and was mature enough to appreciate having a second chance at true love.  Monty and I exchange cards on February 14^th but we haven’t bought each other Valentine’s gifts in years.  Not because we have become complacent – that is the farthest thing from the truth.  After twenty-five years together we are blessed to still be in love.  Our only long-standing argument is about “who loves you more”.

      I don’t expect or need flowers for Valentine’s Day.  But it was lovely last week when Monty surprised me with a hand-picked bouquet of wild flowers and said, “Pretty flowers for my pretty girl.”    

      I don’t need a big box of Godiva chocolates but I do love it when he occasionally buys a bag of my favorite Hershey’s kisses and holds it behind his back.  “Who wants kisses?’  

      I have many friends with great marriages and I applaud the fact that their husbands further show their love and affection with Valentine’s gifts.  There is absolutely nothing wrong with a little extra love on February 14th!  Monty even did all those things for me early in our relationship.  Eventually I asked him to stop the gifts on Valentine’s Day because the practical side of me thinks that roses are too expensive and will eventually die.  The candy just expands my waistline even further so please don’t tempt me!  Since we stopped that tradition, he has asked me every single February if I’m still sure I don’t want flowers and candy.  My response is always, “No, but if I ever do want it, then you will know that something is wrong!” 

            My personal epiphany about love is that receiving gifts on a single day of the year is not nearly as important as feeling loved each and every day of the year.  When I met Monty, Cupid’s arrow hit me square in the heart and it has never dislodged.  I know I am loved and that I am loved well.  

* * * * * * * * * * *

I’ve also been reminiscing, pondering, and musing on these topics:
One my early dates with the hubby
My first lesson on biscuit making
The lost art of letter writing
Cups for hot mochas.Say Good Night Gracie.
My first visit to the library with my Mama
Driving Mama over the Edge
It’s a Little Off the Wall
Crushing on The Professor
The Avocado Tree
From Baby Food Jars to Peanut Butter Jars
Christmas Memories
Theory of Pancake Relativity
Betcha Can't Pop Just One

* * * * *

Don’t Mess With Mama

In 1959 my parents bought their first home on a short little street in West Rome.  There were lots of kids around for me and my little brother to play with and we made friends fast.  Mama and Daddy soon made friends with everyone on the street so I have some great childhood memories of our neighbors at backyard barbecues and watermelon cuttings. 

About two years after moving there, things changed when our next-door neighbors moved away and then rented their home to a new family.  This family made no attempt to fit in with the rest of us, ignoring all our attempts at friendliness.  The two little boys were brats with “potty” mouths and they continually picked fights with the rest of the kids in the neighborhood.  Soon the mother of the brat-boys began joining in our childish skirmishes.  She would stand at the doorway and actually “fuss” with us kids, acting like a kid herself!   

When Mama would hear the squabbles, she would come outside to see if she could work with the boys’ mother solve the problems.  As soon as Mama set foot outside our door, the boys’ mother would then retreat inside her house.  This frustrated Mama to no end and soon she began to admonish us to not play on that side of our house and to ignore the boys and their mother.  But that would be simply too boring for kids, right?  So we were always sneaking over near their property line, just waiting for a “fuss fight” to start.  

On one particular day, the “brat boys” took a water hose and sprayed it over into our yard, wetting four of us kids with water.  They told us that their Mama had instructed them to do it and sure enough, she was standing at the door grinning in approval.  When my Daddy came home during his lunch hour that day, the mother of the brat-boys came rushing outside and began telling my Daddy that he needed to “do something” about his kids.  Daddy was trying to smooth things over when Mama walked out our front door and it was obvious she was mad.  Uh-oh.

Mama confronted her immediately.  “I have tried to come out and solve this problem with you countless times.  Every time I do, you run in your house and hide.  But when my husband comes home, you think you can rush out and tell him about it instead of me?”  The woman denied hiding inside her house so Mama said, “That’s not true.”  “Are you calling me a liar?” was the woman's response.  Mama looked her squarely in the eye and said, “Yes.  If that is your side of the story, then yes, I guess I am calling you a liar.” 

At that point, the brat-boys' mother made a bad decision.  She stepped forward with one arm up in the air as if to strike Mama.  Mama also took a step forward and grabbed the woman’s upraised wrist, effectively stopping the swing.  The would-be assailant assessed the situation for a few moments and must have decided she didn’t like the look in Mama’s eye or the vise-like grip on her wrist.  As the woman began to lower her arm, Mama let go of her wrist.  They stared at each other coldly for a moment before the brat-boys' mother turned and stalked back into her house, hiding out once again. 

At lunch our parents reinforced what we had already been told countless times: do not engage in any conversation with the boys or their mother. At the end of the discussion about the would-be fight, Daddy told us, “Kids, I hope you know that no one messes with your Mama.”  Those words quickly became a mantra in our home and having witnessed our sweet-natured Mama show courage in the face of potential violence only reinforced that fact.  No one messes with Mama.

Within a couple of weeks, the brat-boys and their parents moved out of the neighborhood.  On the weekend following their departure, the neighbors spilled outside into our backyard.  We ate grilled hotdogs and drank RC Colas and then split watermelons for dessert.  It was a celebration of sorts, I suppose, because now things were back to normal in the neighborhood. 

* * * * * * * * * * *

I’ve also been reminiscing, pondering, and musing on these topics:

One my early dates with the hubby
My first lesson on biscuit making
The lost art of letter writing
Cups for hot mochas.Say Good Night Gracie.
My first visit to the library with my Mama
Driving Mama over the Edge
It’s a Little Off the Wall
Crushing on The Professor
The Avocado Tree
From Baby Food Jars to Peanut Butter Jars
Christmas Memories
Theory of Pancake Relativity
Betcha Can't Pop Just One

* * * * *

Remembering the Drive-In Theater

Anyone who knows me well knows that my childhood memories are a little hazy at times. What I remember, I remember well. But what I don’t remember, well I just don’t. Unless, of course, someone helps “jog” that nebulous bubble in my brain.

 
Through conversations and photos recently posted in a Facebook group I had a memory breakthrough – recollections of my long-ago visits to the drive-in theater. Yes, there were dates as a young woman at the drive-in, some of which I remember and some I wish I didn’t. However, my fondest memories are those going to the drive-in as a little girl with my parents.

The Cedar Valley Drive-In Theater was located at Six Mile near the intersection of Highway 27 and Highway 411 South (going toward Cave Spring). I can still recall the awe I felt as we turned off the highway onto the entrance drive by the lake. Ahead was the two-story “mansion” with the drive-in name shining brightly in neon above it on the back of the giant outdoor screen. To a little girl it seemed an enormous, but grand sight!

Cedar Valley Drive-In Theater, Rome, GA
Photo of the Cedar Valley Drive-In Theater used
with permission from Ralph Tilly, Jr.]

Those days in the late 1950s were not easy for my parents on the financial front. While Daddy worked our Mama stayed home to raise me and my brother. On just his salary alone my parents had to find creative ways for the family to have fun. Creative meant no cost or low cost. So the he drive-in was a perfect cheap date for a family of four.

Late in the afternoon before Daddy came home from work Mama would send us off for our daily bath. By the time Daddy got home from work, we were already in our pajamas and pretty much jumping up and down in excitement. After a quick supper Mama would clean up the dishes and then things would start “popping”. Since they couldn’t afford the concession stand, Mama would use a lidded saucepan on the stove to pop a big batch of popcorn and then drizzle it with melted butter. In the meantime Daddy would take the ice trays from the freezer and pack ice cubes in the cooler around RC colas, his favorite drink in those days.


Drive-In Speakers / Route 66 / Oklahoma
©1987-2011 Bucks Mtn Galleries | Patricia Montgomery


Once at the drive-in it always took several tries before Daddy could find a speaker that would actually work or one that didn’t have a lot of static. The speaker hooked onto the raised car window and was one of two metal speakers perched at the top of a concrete pole. Two cars could pull up beside each pole, one on each side. One car had a speaker pulled to the passenger window and the other car had one on the driver’s side window.


If we arrived before dark then my little brother, Garry, and I could play at the playground. Mama would put our clear galoshes over our footed pajamas so that we wouldn’t get them dirty. Does anyone remember those clear galoshes? They fit over your shoes and the top folded over as a flap and was held down by an elastic band hooked over a button on the side of the boot. [NOTE: A vintage pair of the clear galoshes can be seen in the NVintageWest Etsy store.]

I still don’t recall much about the actual movies but I vividly recall cartoon commercials with dancing popcorn boxes, drink cups, and hotdogs. Then the countdown would be splashed across the screen stating that the movie will start in 20 minutes so visit the concession stand while you wait. We waited impatiently for the countdown to end so the cartoons-before-the-movie would start.


Dancing Food Circa 1960s
[The poster of the dancing drive-in food can be viewed/purchased at Bob’s Garage.]




Once the movie started, Mama drew an imaginary line down the middle of the back seat so that she would not have to hear complaints like, “Mama, she is on MY side!” or “Mama, he touched me!”. We would curl up on our respective sides of the back seat, snuggling into the pillow and blankets from home. After a few spiteful kicks, Garry and I would fall asleep, toe-to-toe, long before the movie was over.

I do remember family movie nights at two other drive-ins in Rome, one on the site where the Big Lots shopping center is located and the other one out on Highway 53. At the West Rome Drive-In there was a huge slide on the playground. It might not have actually been any bigger than a normal slide but it seemed gigantic in my little girl’s eyes.
The first drive-in in the U.S. opened in 1933 in Camden, New Jersey. By the 1960s drive-in theaters had reached their peak with almost 3,000 drive-ins across the United States. The largest was on Long Island, New York and sprawled out on 29 acres! A decline began in the 1970s and now, by some estimates, there are less than 400 operating in the United States.


If you still live in the Rome area and would like to experience a movie at a drive-in theater, the 411 Twin Drive-In is open during the summer months in Centre, Alabama. It is located just off highway 411 South, between Leesburg & Centre, behind Mufflers & More. You can call 256-927-2855 for showtimes.

* * * * * * * * * * *

I’ve also been reminiscing, pondering, and musing on these topics:

 One my early dates with the hubby
My first lesson on biscuit making
The lost art of letter writing
Cups for hot mochas.Say Good Night Gracie.
My first visit to the library with my Mama
Driving Mama over the Edge
It’s a Little Off the Wall
Crushing on The Professor
The Avocado Tree
From Baby Food Jars to Peanut Butter Jars
Christmas Memories
Theory of Pancake Relativity
Betcha Can't Pop Just One

* * * * *



 

Theory of Pancake Relativity

It was on a trip to Tennessee in the 1970s that I met some relatives of my daughter’s father.  That’s a round-about way of saying “some relatives of my now ex-husband.”  These relatives lived in a big 1800s farmhouse way out in the country in a place called Franklin, which is near Nashville.  At breakfast on the first morning the farmhouse table was loaded with stacks of pancakes along with syrup and a big jar of peanut butter.  I watched as everyone enthusiastically spread peanut butter on top of their hot pancakes and then poured on the syrup.  No butter in sight.

I loved peanut butter.  Just not on my pancakes.  In my entire life I had never spread anything other than butter on my pancakes.  It almost seemed sacrilegious to eat pancakes without butter.  I was in my early twenties and had not yet discovered dining adventures to expand my palate horizons.  So when one of the cousins passed me the peanut butter jar, I was still so wet behind the ears that I was too timid to insist on butter.   

I slowly spread the peanut butter on my pancakes – very, very slowly so as to prolong the moment when I would have to taste this concoction.  I suppose I took a bit too long because one of the cousins noticed and said, “Have you ever eaten pancakes with peanut butter?”  When I gave a negative answer, then all eyes were on me.  Feeling a bit like an insect under an entomologist’s microscope, I brought the fork ever so slowly to my mouth. 

Everyone at the table had gone quiet as they waited for my reaction.  I chewed my first bite slowly.  I swallowed, smiled, and said, “This is really good.”  And it was!  I haven’t buttered my pancakes since that long-ago morning in Tennessee.  If you give me pancakes, then give me the peanut butter jar!

As a young wife and mother I mastered cooking pancakes early on.  The one thing I didn’t like about a pancake breakfast was that we ate separately.  Pancakes cool down quickly so the first pancake was always for my little daughter, Ashlee.  She ate while I started the next batch.  The next four to eight pancakes were for my husband and he ate while I was cooking the last batch of pancakes for myself.  Consequently, I always ended up eating alone.  That’s how my Mama cooked pancakes when I was a little girl and so that’s how I thought everyone did it.

My Big Pancake Revelation

It was the 1980s when I figured out a way for everyone in the family to eat hot pancakes at the same time.  It was my very own pancake brainstorm.  I was so swelled up with pride at my own cleverness that my big rad 80s hair almost touched the ceiling!  My large padded shoulders were thrown back with smugness and my collar was so filled with self-importance that it was standing up on its on!  

On the day of my Big Pancake Revelation I turned the oven to its lowest setting and put an oven-safe glass plate on the top rack.  When my oven reached the lowest temp, I turned it off.  When the first of the pancakes were done, I moved them from the griddle to the warm plate in the oven.  The oven was hot enough to keep the first pancakes warm until the last ones were cooked, but not hot enough to over-cook them.  At that moment, I felt like a female Einstein who had just discovered The Theory of Pancake Relativity!  The truth of the matter is that the light bulb had finally come on.

Tips for Pancakes:  Although I don’t consider myself a pancake connoisseur, the truth is that I have baked quite a few flapjacks over the years.  Depending on what is on my pantry shelf, I might use a homemade-from-scratch recipe or it could just as easily be one of those out-of-the-box mixes.  What I discovered through trial and error is that one should never over-stir the batter and that you don’t need to beat out every last lump.  Those little lumps are fine.  You can take my word for it – if you beat the heck out of the batter, the end result is always tough pancakes.

To determine if your griddle or pan is hot enough to start cooking pancakes, simply sprinkle a few drops of water on the surface.  If the water sizzles and evaporates quickly, then it’s hot enough.  How do you know when to flip?  Wait until there are bubbles forming on the top surface of the pancakes. Then flip!  Remember to put an oven-safe plate on the rack of a warm oven to keep your first pancakes warm while you cook the rest.  Oh wait.  Everyone already knew that one but me.

Oh, and don’t forget the peanut butter!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~I’ve also been reminiscing, pondering, and musing on these topics:

One my early dates with the hubby
My first lesson on biscuit making

The lost art of letter writing
Cups for hot mochas.Say Good Night Gracie.
My first visit to the library with my Mama
Driving Mama over the Edge
It’s a Little Off the Wall
Crushing on The Professor
The Avocado Tree
From Baby Food Jars to Peanut Butter Jars
Christmas Memories
Theory of Pancake Relativity
The Pajama Party

* * * * *

High School Reunion Angst

Janiece
aka "Niecey"

My best bud from high school said that we should go to this year’s All Chief’s Reunion since we missed the one last year. I was less than enthusiastic. I had dodged the bullet last year and now she was gnawing on that bone again and just wouldn’t let it go. The thought of the reunion set off all kinds of anxiety that made me feel like I was once again an insecure, bashful teen. At this age how could I still break out in a cold sweat of dread over reconnecting with my high school classmates?

After all, I am a grown woman and it had been 39 years since that day in 1971 when I received my high school diploma. Over the ensuing years I had navigated through the murky waters of life, which started at the tender age of 21 when I married the first boy who asked me. A new mother by age 23, I spent the next 10 years trying to figure out how to be happy, without much success.

In my early 30s I survived a divorce and subsequently raised my sweet daughter, Ashlee. Then I found true love and it was the real thing. With the love and support of my husband, Monty, I have slowly become the authentic me. Now my life is full, happy, and blessed. No longer am I the insecure young girl of my youth. Or so I thought.

Janiece, my friend and cohort in mischief for the last 43 years, was now asking me to step back in time by attending the 2010 All Chiefs Reunion. I could hear a roar in my head. It should have been the incantation, “I am Woman, hear me ROAR”. Instead it was all my old insecurities rearing their ugly heads and their collective roar was very, very loud.

My perception of time has changed as I have gotten older. It is almost as though time is a wheel, one where in my youth I started out at the center hub where the movement seemed painfully slow. As I’ve gotten older, I feel as though I am now moving outward toward the rim of the wheel where the winds of time are like the wild winds of a hurricane - hurtling me forward through time. And so the summer of 2010 arrived as if in the blink of an eye.

Janiece insisted that we really must go to the reunion this year. What did she say? I could barely hear her for the roar. The closer it came to July 10th, the more anxiety I felt. For one thing, I was pretty sure I had gained an additional 10 pounds for every decade after high school. Janiece called me about a week before the reunion and said, “What are you going to wear?” Oh no, I have to figure out what to wear! Would any of my clothes fit? The roar was getting louder.

Me, Way Back When

I am transported back to my time in high school, an early morning on a school day. My slimline, aqua-colored 1960’s Princess phone is ringing. I reach across my twin bed to answer, flop down on my back, and put the receiver to my ear. My fingers are twirling the curly-que cord that is stretched across my body. I can still hear Janiece’s young, teenage voice saying, “What are you wearing to school today?”

Back then I always knew the answer. Thirty-nine years later, I have no clue. I’m thinking to myself, “Will triple Spanx pull in these love handles and make me look as though I still weigh 103 pounds, soaking wet?” Reality sets in. I will need to actually breathe at the reunion. I think of pretty, skinny Sara Blakely, who invented Spanx. Sorry Sara, but squirming into multiple jiggle controllers is not going to work.

My other hero, someone I know would be my soul sister if only I actually knew her, is author Nora Ephron. She wrote the book, “I Feel Bad About My Neck”. Nora, I don’t just feel bad about my neck, I hate my neck! A close inspection in the mirror reveals that my neck now has more lines than the infamous Atlanta “Spaghetti Junction”. How can I hide my neck? Why doesn’t my head just sit on my shoulders? I can barely hear these stupid thoughts for the roar.

Maybe I should wear a scarf. The reality is that I’m a gal who lives on a farm. I could never comfortably pull off a fashionable scarf around the Spaghetti Junction lines on my neck. It would never stay put and besides that, I might accidentally strangle myself.

Wait! Maybe a turtleneck! The roar almost drowns out coherent thoughts. It is July. The temperatures are near 100 degrees. Wear a turtleneck to your reunion and be sure to look like a fool or even worse, end up on the floor after fainting from heat stroke.

In my early 40s I had to buy a magnified makeup mirror because the 20/20 vision was gone. It was now a week until the reunion and I am looking into the 150X magnified mirror. I touch the deep lines between my brows, gifts from my ex-husband and my last job before retirement. Could I get last-minute Botox? Or even better, plastic surgery! Can one recover from plastic surgery in less than 7 days? Probably not. Why-oh-why hasn’t Adobe figured out how to Photoshop someone in the flesh?

I was wringing my hands, thinking about my hair. Then I saw my hands! But first things first. Let’s talk about the hair. I had started going gray in my 20s and soon started frosting it. Frosting. That term certainly dates me. We didn’t know about foils back in those days. Instead we pulled a tight cap over our head, which often would give us a headache. Then someone stood over you with an evil dirk called a “pick” and proceeded to pull and tug pieces of your hair through microscopic holes all over the cap until tears literally streamed down your face. 

One day I was fretting about the aging effect of gray hair when my sweetheart Monty pointed to the place where my heart would be and said that he loved who I was inside and not the color of my hair. That man is a keeper. So I allowed the last of the frosted color to grow out. I was blissfully, happily…gray haired…and content with that fact. That is, until a week before the reunion when the roar was deafening. That’s when I started contemplating buying a wig that would be the color of my hair when I was a teenager. Common sense did prevail, but I must admit that for a few minutes I was on the online wig store page that was touting the overnight shipping.

Back to my hands. To be specific, the back of my hands. I have been a little dirt digger for about 23 years. Every spring, you could find me huddled down in the flower beds, pulling weeds and digging around in the dirt planting new flowers and bulbs. No gloves because I loved the feel of the Earth against my fingers. When I finally got fitted with my first prescription glasses, I saw my hands in a surprising new light. Where did those poppin' purple veins come from?  And were those brown age spots? In my pre-specs days, I could have sworn they were but tiny freckles.

So I’m staring down at my mother’s hands. No. Wait. Not hers, but mine!  So now I’m thinking gloves for the reunion. Little white ones like I used to wear to church on Sundays when I was a wee little girl? Can you even buy those any more? All I have at home are winter gloves, which are briefly considered until I remember that the reunion is during the Dog Days of July.

On the night of the reunion, I finally picked out black jeans that I thought were stylish enough. They were dressy with slightly flared bottoms and not the one that my daughter referred to as the dreaded “Mom” jeans. Another plus was that they were high enough on my hips that the zipper was longer than ¼ inch.  If I sneezed, at least they wouldn’t slide off of me. I decided on a timeless white, cotton shirt that had long sleeves to cover my arms. And I won’t even go into that. Except to say that no amount of lifting weights has cured that bit of skin flapping under my upper arms!

Anita, my childhood friend, loaned me a necklace that didn’t exactly cover “Spaghetti Junction” entirely but perhaps would distract anyone from noticing just how many lines there are. Anita is my same age and will attend her class reunion the following week. She won’t have any of these same anxieties because she aged very well and looks 10 years younger.

I consider not wearing my glasses. As I am getting dressed without them, everything is such a blur that I am stumbling around. Do I really want to arrive looking like I’m already drunk? Then I’m desperately squinting to determine if that tube of mascara is brown or black. That’s when I realize that I won’t be able to read name tags without my glasses. Do I want to talk to people and pretend I know who they are when I really don’t?

I resolutely perch the specs back on my nose. The woman in the mirror comes into focus. I see her more clearly than I have in a long time. The furrows between her brows are medals of honor for surviving the tough times in her life. The hair color is a gift from her lovely mother, who also went gray at an early age. The brown spots and popping purple veins are scars from her war with the weeds while doing battle to bring forth blooming beauties year after year. The love handles bulging over the waistband of her jeans are evidence of some really great meals with her terrific husband.

I look long and hard at my neck. I stare at all the lines only barely hidden beneath Anita’s beautiful necklace. And all I can think is that I still hate my neck.

The teenager with the line-less face and the brown hair is only a vague memory. To remember her clearly, I would have to stop by my mother’s house, the one I grew up in, and stare at the senior portrait on her wall. And I don’t have time for that. So I look more closely at the woman staring back at me in the mirror. I see a happy, mature, gray-haired woman who loves and is loved by her husband and family.

I picked up Janiece at her home and then we were riding down some of the same streets that we cruised when we were teens. She is fretting about her clothes, her weight, her sandals. I reassure her that she looks very cute in her capri pants, blue top, and white sandals. More talk and I see clearly that her anxieties mirror my own.

Only after I arrived at the reunion did it finally become clear to me that I had been visualizing all of my classmates as I last saw them 39 years ago. I had unrealistically been comparing my 57-year-old face, hands, body, and neck to the classmates of my memory – all 18-year-olds. What a relief it was to find that every single one of my classmates at the reunion were the same age as me! They all looked good but thankfully not one of them still looked like a teenager. Each one seemed to be a better, wiser version of their youth.

As I chatted with everyone, I began to relax. The roar of my collective anxieties had become a purr. Jeanelle Phillips Beard is a classmate that I barely knew in high school but have now come to know through Facebook. I do love her sense of humor. She made the statement that we all looked pretty good for AARP members.