Somewhere In Between

There’s a jagged line between real happiness and deep sorrow.

I’m somewhere in between.

Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you she said when we moved back to town.  

Her love and needs pulled our hearts and souls.

She knows how to care for others but not so much herself.

She'd rather talk than sleep, or watch the squirrels play tag around the trees than eat.

I'm somewhere in between.

She makes music for happiness

and I tell stories.

She raised a loving caring son

and I married him.

We've shared our heartaches, fears, and sorrows.

It's something women carry from deep deep within.

We laugh at memories our children gave us,

and pray that we were good mothers.

I'm somewhere in between.

I'm losing my friend.  Her health is failing every day,

and I carry sorrow so near to my happiness that the jaggedness strikes a pain in my heart.

An afternoon escape to Sonic for a corndog and shake, or a drive around Lake Thunderbird gives her time to reflect and remember.

Papa and Mama built a home on the other side of that hill, she pointed to a wooded area.  Mama cried over the dirt floors.

She was somewhere in between.

We still talk about the time she ordered a chicken pot pie at Nona's Kitchen.  It arrived with a baked flour chicken on top of the pie.  She giggled and smiled so brightly that we nearly laid an egg laughing at her delight. She gingerly cut if off the top, placed it on a napkin and took it home.

My friend of thirty-three years is slowly leaving us for a better place.  Her pain radiates down her body, and yet she smiles when we walk into her room.  Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you she smiles. I'm so glad you're here.

I’m somewhere in between.

Donuts and a cup of coffee with heavy cream, or the touch from a loved one brings such joy to our faces.  We forget how much joy can be found in life's simple pleasures.

She reminds us.

Time is passing for each of us. Today is a new day.

The sun slowly spreads the light and the dark fades in the west behind me.

I'm somewhere in between.

Miami Memories: Bushy Haired Helen

This year I have made every sincere attempt to let my hair grow out, not to find out my true color, whatever that may be, but to create a new look. It was fine during the winter when I kept it at bay on windy days with hats and snow caps. The other day I put on my golf visor and headed out for a game of golf. I nearly had a conniption fit as my hair kept splashing me in the face, I could lick it off my lips, and tiny strands at a time caught my eyes. After the windy game I stepped into the locker room to wash up and quietly gasped at myself in the mirror. My hair stood on end in every direction, my face was a ruddy red from the wind, and at that moment I looked like my mother, Helen.

Now in all due respect, that's a compliment, because my mother was a beautiful natural blond woman. She had a healthy head of thick coarse hair which was frequently difficult to manage. Thank heavens for her they invented hair spray. When I was young I loved to play beauty shop with my mother's hair. Occasionally, I successfully built a nicely stacked bee-hive or later a lovely french twist. I liked her hairdo best when the french twist was made popular by Princess Grace Kelly.

I, too, had thick heavy hair as a youngster but it was not pretty. It was dreadfully hot in the summer and my ponytails never stayed in. One summer day when I was a teen or pre-teen I wanted to go to a Saturday afternoon movie with friends, but mother put her foot down and said, "Not with hair like that! You may stay home and let me fix it, go to the beauty shop and have Olean Simpson cut your hair, or you may stay home. Period!" That Saturday I trudged to Simpson's beauty shop on G. st and had my long heavy brunette hair cut off. I have no memory of what it looked like, but I think I remember it felt good. Of course, I didn't let my mother know I liked it.

Helen Stapp.

This winter I spent many weeks sorting every picture I inherited or had developed for our family. It was quite an ordeal that I honestly enjoyed immensely. It was on one of those days that I spotted mother's picture with wild bushy blond hair. Thanks to Lady Clairol it never grayed. There stood my mother smiling and waving as she stood by the driver's door to our turquoise and white 1959 Ford Fairlain parked in the driveway next to the old gas light. She was probably waving at me to get in the car, but I was busy taking pictures. As I studied the picture (nearly 50 years later) I thought momentarily it was a picture of me, but I never remembered dressing like that! I turned the faded colored picture over and read my mother's hand writing "Bushy Haired Helen!" I laughed and cried and missed my mother.

A few weeks later our book club was discussing "American Thighs" by Jill Conner Browne. I had asked everyone to bring a picture of their childhood, and to bring memories of growing up. I brought several old "Seventeen" magazines from the 1960's. We laughed and shared our stories and then passed around our photos. How was it that some of us looked so much alike? Hairdos, glasses, drab dresses, or was it the black and white effect? No matter, it was good laughter for the soul. When I passed my photos around I actually passed the picture of my mother. Everyone agreed it looked just like me until someone read on the back. I had to confess, "Yes, the bushy hair belongs to my mother, and to me."

Now it feels blessed to say I look like my mother. I haven't cut my hair yet. Instead I bought a handful of clippies that hopefully will hold my thin fly away curly hair back from eyes. This summer will once again be a test of endurance or of "hair" products. No matter what, the next time I see my mother in the mirror, I'll smile back and say, "Thanks Mom, I love you. What do you think of my hairdo?"