The Eve Before Christmas Eve

RIP Vera Jo

 Through all the "stuff" surrounding the recent demise of my mother, my brain has been working overtime.  I'd always believed that once she was dead and buried that I would finally be free of her; that I could move on and never again have to be plagued by that two-edged sword she used as a tongue.  Alas however, here I sit.  I must say that I'm surprised and a bit angry that she has occupied more of my brain space in the last three weeks than she did in the last 15 years.

A casual observer might say that the reason for the intrusion is that I must be harboring some unresolved regret.  I only have one regret and it pains me greatly.  I have always said that I would far rather regret something I did.  I guess my logic failed me because when the moment was at hand, I spaced!  And so, because I missed my chance to have my say at her funeral, I will use this medium to express my thoughts.

The woman who gave birth to me was a very complicated person who was also an extremely tragic figure.  She grew up without the benefit of a warm loving mother or any father at all.  At an early age, she experienced abject abandonment and a gripping fear of losing her only sibling.  It is no small wonder that she never learned how to love.  What makes that fact so heartbreaking is that she was never able to overcome her childhood scars and wounds and as such, could not even love her own children unconditionally.  

Vera Jo cared most about money and social status.  Being out in public with her was sheer torture.  The waitstaff at any restaurant, even a five star one, could never hope to measure up to her standards and she was always quite loud and obnoxious in expressing her displeasure to the management.  In any conversation, when her engineered opportunities to mention a famous name arose, her voice would raise several decibels to ensure those around us could hear it.  She told me on many occasions that when you marry for the second time it should be more of a business arrangement.  I would be lying if I said that none of the family ever thought she was marrying Allen Russell for his money.  After all, he was 20 years older than her. He and my grandmother were born on the exact same date and year. 

It took me 40+ years and lots of therapy to understand my mother and to appreciate the sacrifices she endured to provide for me and my brothers.  She always was true to her obligations.  She provided all four of us with the basics (food, clothing, and shelter) and when she was able, a few frills, though not that many.  The brick walls she built around herself were very clearly evident to me, even when I was a small child.  I learned at an early age how to lie quite convincingly.  Experience had taught me that I should avoid at any cost being the target of her wrath.  I'm happy to report that is one skill to which I have lost all prowess.

By example, Vera Jo taught me to be a survivor, to always land on my feet, and to not depend on anybody else if I wanted something.  She also taught me about having a work ethic.  Because she worked such long hours, I learned to be independent and not fearful of trying new things.  I guess the most valuable lesson I learned from her is that she taught me about the kind of mother I did NOT want to be.  She taught me by her negative example that family is the only thing of value I will ever have and to remember to try and NOT screw it up!

I was 15 years old before I ever heard the words, "I love you" from my mother.  All six of my children have heard those words repeatedly from the time each of them were born, and they continue to hear them today.  I deeply and sincerely treasure the relationships I have with all my kids.  We aren't perfect and we have had our fair share of squabbles but we love each other and always work to resolve any differences.  

I cannot say that I love my mother.  I will say, however, that I will always respect her.  Along with that, I will always feel sorry for her.  She missed out on so many of the things that truly matter in this world.  I just hope she has finally found some peace.  I have worked very hard to destroy the legacy of "those Russell women" that has been handed down from generation to generation.  There are a few others in my family who have also tried to break the cycle of the "raging bitch gene" that so many of our female ancestors carried.  I have great admiration for them as the struggle is all too familiar.

A Final Thought:

Every one of us comes into this world naked, crying, and owners of but one thing; a family.  When we leave this world, we leave it in the same way, owning that one thing only, that same family.  Seems to me we should all treat them a little better while we are here. 

I read with great disappointment about the canceling of church services this Sunday. I recognize there might be outside factors, beyond the control of a local pastor, that might have influenced such a decision. In any case, my first thought upon reading the Facebook post from my own church was, "Gee, that doesn't say much for your faith in God." For those folks who have chosen the Chicken Little response to COVID-19, staying home from church could have been their choice of action. Those with a more pragmatic approach could have attended worship as usual. Bottom line of course, is that ya gotta do what ya gotta do.

I was appalled when the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo shut down until I heard through the rodeo grapevine that Mayor Turner had rescinded all the food permits thereby effectively forcing the closure. I now have only 12 rolls of toilet paper and I find myself wondering, with church being cancelled, if maybe I should have been panic buying along with everyone else! I have thus far been watching with amusement at this Democrat-driven, media-born panic show, fully anticipating the moment when (insert satire font) the "truth" comes out that Donald Trump is responsible for the virus! Can the sky really be falling? I even had someone call me to say that if Tom Hanks and his wife can get this virus, we should all begin to take it more seriously. Is THAT the standard? Surely not!

 In any case, I will be in prayer on Sunday morning in the place of actual corporate worship, and I would encourage others to do so as well. At least, in absentia, we will have some form of corporate worship. In the meantime, I will continue to wash my hands often and practice "social distancing" as the media (insert chorale riff) suggests. This crisis, much like others, will pass. I just hope, since other things "pass" as well, that my toilet paper supply holds out.

I had an ugly cry today.  Not the slow to build, few tears down the face, one tissue kind of cry but a full on sudden onset flood, where you don't leave the tissue box far away, with the wailing and pleading, paralyzing, sobbing kind of cry that leaves one short of breath and completely exhausted. "What on earth?" you might ask? Well, I threw a paper bag in the trash. Yep, that's it. That is all it took.

It was the paper bag that held the lovely wooden box with the brass plate on the front and within the box, the remains of the best dog that ever graced this planet, my furbaby, my precious companion, my BFF, my Bonnie Boogaloo, my Boo, my Bonnie Blue.

On February 8th this year Bonnie passed away peacefully in my arms as I gently cradled that head, that beautiful head that was always by my side for more than 14 years. She was here, and suffering terribly one second, and then gone the next second, off to find her sister, Jasmine at the Rainbow Bridge.

Bonnie was one of those once-in-a-lifetime kind of pets. She is the standard by which all others will be judged and found lacking. It is, after all, impossible to improve upon perfection. From a five week old pup, to the Grande Dame she became in her dotage, she was my constant companion for more than 14 years. To simply say that I miss her is such an understatement as to appear an insult.

And so I cried an ugly cry today.  It wasn't the first and will surely not be the last. I should be happy that she is no longer suffering and for that I am truly grateful. I know it will take time .  .  .
Lots of time .  .  . 

I experienced something today that I cannot explain. It was quite profound and deeply moving. Today, the United States opened its embassy in Jerusalem, Israel. As one who is pervasively ignorant regarding world history, if anyone had asked me about the significance of that occasion, I might easily have dismissed it as “no big deal.” However, as I sat with my morning coffee to surf the latest Facebook offerings, I happened to scroll upon the live feed of this embassy dedication, and for reasons I cannot explain and do not understand, I was immediately mesmerized by what was taking place, and couldn’t have scrolled past it if my life hung in the balance. I became emotional and tears began to flow. Despite not truly having a firm handle on the significance of this event, I had a sense that whatever was about to take place was of monumental, historical, and spiritual significance. I felt I was witnessing something so huge, so important that my attention could not be diverted even for a split second. I remained riveted, intently listening to every word spoken by each person as dignitary after dignitary approached the dais for their chance to speak. I cried continuously throughout the pomp and circumstance. I am teary even now, as I recall this morning’s event. Never in my life have I witnessed history of such biblical significance. I believe only the hand of God could have touched my heart so profoundly for me to have experienced such deep emotion regarding the event. With my limited knowledge of the Bible, even I know that the Israelites have always been God’s chosen people. I am very grateful that the USA has aligned with Israel. If God is for us, none shall stand against us!

First fishing day of 2015

I decided to carpe diem today, so I grabbed my gear and headed out to one of my favorite spots to get some fishing in before the predicted downpour began. "What did I catch?" you ask . . . . . Well, I actually had several great catches today! I caught a cool wind at my back; I caught God's artistry in action as I watched the overcast grayness give way to beautiful blue skies dotted with cumulus cotton balls; I caught some rays of sunshine on my face; I caught myself paying more attention to the different shades of green in the foliage than the dipping bobber, courtesy of some pesky crabs. Despite the absence of any fish at the end of my line, I caught myself smiling and enjoying the simple tranquility of being near the water. For a techno geek like me . . . well . . . I always did think of myself as being multifaceted, somewhat of an enigma.

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away . . . . .

I met a kindred spirit awhile back and I wanted to write about the experience. Being the analytical type, I wanted to first search myself in order to better understand why a chance meeting evoked within me such great emotion that I was reduced to an incoherent, rambling, puddle, unable to finish even a word or two without a fresh supply of waterworks as punctuation. I think I have a grasp on it now so here goes . . . First, a short back-story for those who do not know me. (Though why some perfect stranger would be reading this blog is beyond me, short of some Google search that would pick up a keyword or two, but I digress) At the tender age of 22, I found myself a widow with two small daughters, ages 6 months and 4 years old. Their father, my husband, was a Fort Bend County deputy sheriff who had been killed in the line of duty when his patrol car was struck by a train on a rural railroad crossing in Stafford, Texas in 1977. I must say there’s just not that many 22-year old widows out there-not then, not now. Talk about feeling all alone in the world. But “Time is the great healer,” “Life must go on,” “You have to think about the children,” and (insert any number of other tired but well intended clichés) you get the picture, right? Except . . . late at night . . . when the kids are asleep . . . or when the house is especially quiet . . . or at the end of the day just before slipping off into slumber, there were times when I would have given anything to have someone to talk to. I wanted someone who could understand my emotions; someone who could relate to my little insanities, those things that I did or said that I couldn’t do or say in front of anyone else because they would think I had gone off my rocker, or was losing it, or was just plain insane. It was the hamper full of dirty laundry that NEVER got washed because it SMELLED like him, oh sweet JESUS, YES it did! And I wrapped that sweaty T-shirt around me and laid my face on those tighty-whities and sobbed into those socks that were pleasantly malodorous because I could close my eyes tight and pretend, and make it real, even if it was only for a brief Nano second that he was lying right there beside me and that awful, terrible reality I existed in was just a cruel nightmare. How I lived for those Nano seconds! At some point I gave in to the pleading, “It’s time to move on, honey,” from a well meaning family member or friend and my treasured laundry hamper was removed from my grasp. Once, I went to the drugstore and discreetly bought a tiny bottle of British Sterling after shave and ran from the store as if someone might see me and, again, think I was nuts! I tried sprinkling some on the sheet on “his” side of the bed. It just wasn’t the same. Nothing was ever the same. I tried hanging out with “the guys” at the sheriff’s office but that didn’t last. All those friends that “we” had, were still couples and I became a “threat” so I couldn’t be hanging around them anymore. It was like being a member of some exclusive club and even though I was still me, I had somehow lost my qualifier for membership and had been ousted. I never did want to take anyone else’s husband, but just wanted to be around the people that so reminded me of him and even though nothing ever went on with any of those officers, rumor and innuendo was powerful. So, I had to stop going there for coffee. But enough about ancient history . . . Funny how you think you’ve filed things away; and you think you have dealt with them; and they are just there, kind of a part of you, but not really included in the current working version . . . Fast forward to 2014 when I attended a Memorial Service (as I do every year) honoring those officers who have given their lives in service to law enforcement agencies throughout Fort Bend County. I happened to meet a young lady and it was like looking into a mirror of the past. This lady was also the widow of a deputy who had lost his life in service to Fort Bend County and we were immediately connected somehow. She said she felt it the same as I did. It was such a phenomenal bonding moment. At once, I found someone who understood perfectly about the unwashed laundry, the loneliness, the nights spent with an address book flipping through the pages in search of anyone who might be willing to spare some conversation for one so desperately in need of it. She was me; I was her. All we could do was hug and cry. Life really does go on and time really does numb the pain that will never completely go away. I will never forget those times when I so desperately wanted to talk to someone who would understand. I gave her my cell number. I hope she knows how deeply and sincerely I meant it when I said “Call me anytime!” I hope she knows how often I think about her and pray for God to comfort her. I can’t help wondering though, which of us needs the comforting more.