I was pleased when I finally realized, or was told, that “blog” was a shortened form of “web log,” which meant an online journal. A diary! I understood diary. Like many girls of my generation, I often received a small leather, or fake leather, book for Christmas. On the cover was written “My Diary.” It had a small band attached to the back cover that curved to the front. At the front end of the band, a gold clasp could be fastened to the front cover. Best of all, the clasp could be locked with a tiny gold key! I might even lose it! The dramatic possibilities were thrilling. Of course, since the band was only about an inch high, and the diary about 6 inches, it was very easy to read most of the writing on each page. But no matter, the key meant that it was WRONG for anyone else to read it. My entries usually consisted of January 1 and 2. January 1 likely read, “Today was a boring day. We took down the Christmas tree.” (January 2, I forget.)
They were always vaguely interesting to me, but now I often think about one in particular. It’s a beautiful place just outside Waco. My mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, great-great grandmother, and—yes—great-great-great grandmother are buried there. Several grandfathers, and some favorite aunts, uncles, and cousins are as well. I think of how my maternal grandmother watched as her 23 year old daughter was buried. And of my great-grandmother who stood at the graves of two of her daughters, both under the age of 25. When did I start thinking of it? Probably after seeing my mom’s gravestone and wondering how it could be possible. Somehow, standing in that place—sad, bewildered, and silent—has been profoundly moving to me. And then there have been the fun times! My cousins and aunt and I visit “our people” (as a 4 year old cousin called them) and tell stories as we clean, replace flowers, and wander around. My aunt said they used to have picnics there on designated clean-up days. She said we should bring sandwiches sometime. Maybe we will.
Root Beer Floats
Honestly, I have to give credit to my friends in the nursing home where I once worked. They requested them during the summer months and promised immediate refreshment to anyone who partook. I dipped and poured many floats. Slurping floats was such a joyful activity that I took the idea with me to the next place I worked, a home for retired Catholic nuns across the country from the first place. The Sisters already knew about root beer floats and happily agreed to drink what I fixed. So now the root beer float—not Coke, not Dr. Pepper—is a favorite drink, especially when it’s 100 degrees outside!
We used to put it on our noses and shoulders, sometimes, and the “suntan lotion” container didn’t have an SPF number. Most of the time we didn’t use it at all; we knew how much better we looked with a tan. About 20 or 30 years after I stopped obsessing about my tan, or lack thereof, one of my closest friends died of melanoma. And now I think about sunscreen.
In 1986 I stopped sleeping well. In fact, I stopped sleeping. For several years, no medication helped. I sleep much better these days, but never again as I did pre-1986.
I know there are places that make better coffee, but Starbucks is a favorite chain. I look for Starbucks when I’m on the road. I rejoice when I see the green letters. I sigh after taking a first sip. I don’t complain about the price. I’m not really embarrassed about the coffee stains on my shirts, though I pretend I am.
In the mid-90s I saw an old sock monkey in an antique shop. I wanted to buy it but the person with me laughed and asked, “Why?” Since I didn’t know, I didn’t buy. I began seeing more and more sock monkeys in the next few years and realized my childhood had lacked something. I had teddy bears and dolls, but no sock monkey. For a while I collected old ones, then began wistfully looking at “make your own sock monkey” instructions on the internet. Since I don’t sew, it seemed impossible. Now when someone talks about miracles, I nod and say I believe in them. Because I learned to make sock monkeys and even sold them on Ebay. Sock monkeys are comfort creatures, like comfort foods. Mashed potatoes, pound cake, banana pudding, sock monkeys=Comfortable Miracles.
Since very few subjects are as fascinating to me as Myself, it was probably inevitable that I would eventually discover my forbearers. My mother’s ancestors and my father’s ancestors chose to come to Texas after stops in Virginia, Tennessee, Mississippi, Alabama, and Louisiana, among other states. Farther back, some lived in Ireland, Scotland and England. There is a lot I do not know. But now I understand why I was born in Dallas, and that the reason is more complex than the fact that my father happened to work in Grand Prairie at the time.
When I lived in England, I was a member of a British Baptist church. It had “house groups” that met in various members’ homes once a week. We prayed, sang, and studied scripture. We talked about our problems and laughed at our messy lives. Now, twenty years later, I attend a church that encourages “life groups.” Usually there aren’t more than 8 of us. I love the quietness, the candlelight, and the silliness. I love the diversity. I often think about my friends during the week.
We’re dog people but had never had a border collie. We inherited her. She needs Prozac, I’m quite sure, and I think about that a lot. Especially when I look at the fifth chewed-up rug.