Playing Dress-Up

This will be my third weekend in a row dressing up for Locust Grove. Two weeks ago, the girls and I were in character for the grand re-opening of the house after its remodel. Last weekend, Emily and I were in character for the free Fourth of July festivities. This weekend is the Jane Austen Festival, and I'm in the style show.

All of this got me to wondering, "What does it say about me that I dress up in Regency Era clothes and pretend to be someone else? What must 'regular' people think of my weird hobby?" If I look at myself from an outsider's point of view, I think I seem pretty odd! To me, it's totally normal to do this. I love the theatrical part of it. I love pretending to be someone I'm not, living in a time that is totally foreign to today, thinking on my feet and pulling it off. It is a big rush for me. Whenever someone comes in to my room and engages me in conversation, I feel a surge of adrenaline and my neurons start firing, and I'm "on."

But then I look at the folks who attend the Jane Austen Festival, say, with a different lens. I think they are odd because they dress up for fun and fun alone. I find myself putting me on a higher, less-weird plane because I do it for a reason (or so I tell myself). I reenact to teach and inform and educate others about life in the olden days and about the Clarks and the Croghans and life in Louisville 200 years ago. These JA fans are just weird grown ladies parading around the grounds of Locust Grove as if they were living there.

They are not much different than the men who dress in Revolutionary War or Civil War clothes and pretend to do battle. But really they are not so different from folks who dress like pirates or gangsters at Halloween and play like they are someone else.

I guess all of us, if we'd admit it, have a secret desire to dress up and become another version of ourselves. To escape from the stresses of today and slip back into the days when things seemed easier, slower, more relaxed. It's the lucky one of us who actually puts on the costumes and caters to our inner child who cries out, "Let's play!"

Closing Day

So today we close on Dad's new house. I am going through the motions and trying not to let myself think about what this means. I know it is the right thing to do. It will be good for Dad to be so close to us. He knows it too. The house is a nice house. Great location. Wonderful neighborhood. Still. This is the beginning of a life-altering change, and I am responsible for it all.

So much work has to be done before he can move. So much work. I can't even get my head around it. I feel so very guilty for my kids' sake that their summer will be spent doing our basement and moving Dad. It makes me sad, but it has to be done. Who knew when we signed the contract for our basement remodel that Dad would make an offer on a house the next week? Well, it is what it is.

I think about him all alone in his family room on Northridge sitting in the dark, watching CNN. So often I wish I could pop in to watch a show or a ball game or drop off a plate of food. Right now, even, I have a plate from Monday, gone bad in my fridge that I just didn't get to him. Now I can. That will be good. On holidays, we'll be so close. He won't have to be alone on Christmas Eve day or for the Superbowl or Derby. He can go to the kids' games or come over for dinner. It WILL be good. I am excited about the possibilities of becoming so much more a part of my dad's life and having him involved more in ours.

I can't think about leaving Northridge, though. Not yet. The image I have in my mind is one of us in our slippery socks, running through the hallway and sliding across the living room floor. I think of Christmases in our corners, each of us checking out our stuff and of tables laden with food at parties and graduations. I remember summer evenings on the patio with Mom, coffee, and a piece of pie or Dad's garden loaded with tomatoes, beans, zucchini. I know these days are long gone, and no matter where Dad lives, those memories will always be with me.

One "memory" that gives me comfort is one that has never and will never happen. It is one that I wish I had, and one that I think Mom is sending me to let me know this move is right. It is so very, very real. It is a vision of her, sitting at the table in the Florida room of the new house. She is in her short blue robe wearing her white slippers, drinking a cup of coffee and eating a slice of cantaloupe and a piece of toast. One of the kids has come down. "Hi Grandma!" they say. "Well good morning!" Mom replies. "How are you today?" And they sit together and talk and share breakfast, and it is all good.

Guilt

Guilt is listing all of you father's stocks for sale (the ones he's spent his whole life acquiring) in order to get money for a down payment on a new house for him (one that he doesn't really even want to buy) because it is just a half a block away from you and will make it easier on you when it comes time to take care of him.

Stress =

Having a suspicious "thickening" under your arm and pain to go along with that...Waiting two weeks for an ultrasound and MRI to see what it is...Convincing your dad to move into a house three doors down and then having him cry when you tell him you've made an offer on his behalf...Having your bid rejected and wondering what to do next...Planning a basement remodel and trying to figure out just what the hell to do with all of the crap you've collected thus far in your life...Considering paying for that AND a St. X education...Thinking that if your dad moves, you are responsible for all of his crap too...Having your oldest getting ready to graduate from 8th grade and start high school...Where did the time go...Having your middle child begging for an email...Having your husband gone a lot of the time and doing life by yourself...Fourteen loads of laundry in the basement waiting to be sorted, washed, dried, carried upstairs, folded, carried up more stairs, put away...having to do that again every...single...week...Teenagers...Needing to work in the yard and being unable to do so...Eighth grade teachers...An ineffectual school administration...Rain, rain, and more rain...Tiring...

Primary Election 2010

Last night, Kirk and I were down at the Marriott for a military function. In the same hotel were Jack Conway and Greg Fisher, Democratic candidates for U.S.Senate and Metro mayor, awaiting the election results.

Being the political junkie that I am, I left the military party and slid quietly into the Conway gathering. I could feel the electric excitement as soon as I entered the room. The anticipation was tangible. I walked over to the television and saw that Conway had an 8 point lead at that point. I stood around, making small talk with strangers, watching the results crawl in. I watched people glad handing and chatting. I saw judges and former governors, state representatives and mayors. I saw young kids and old hats. There were black people and white people, people with disabilities, people with money and people without. It was a microcosm of society, and it was awesome.

At one point, I noticed a former Republican state senator, Lindy Casebier, being interviewed by one of the local stations. I made my way over to him and said, "What in the world are you doing in this room?" He turned, seemed to recognize me, and said, "I've seen the light, honey!" We spoke briefly, and after sharing political philosophies, I figured it was time to make my way back upstairs to the other party. As I turned to go, he said, "It was good to see you, Sharron." That was really cool for me that a former member of the Kentucky General Assembly knew me by name.

Kirk and I decided that the Conway party was much more fun than the military one, so we went back down and rejoined the festivities. By this time, the 8 point gap was closing. Six points, then three, then two. The tension rose. People crowded around the television. Rumors spread through the crowd. iPhones were checked. Someone was passing info from a laptop. Soon the word got out that the number of votes needed for Mongiardo to win was more than the number of votes left to count. Conway had won!

A roar erupted from the crowd. We watched the door for his arrival and acceptance speech. The campaign manager came on stage and said Jack would speak at 10:30. I called Kyle, who was watching the girls, and let him know Kirk and I were staying to hear Jack speak.

Around 10:30, Crit Luallen came out. She's amazing in her own right. What a dynamic lady! I totally admire her math and accounting skills!!! She spoke for a moment and then introduced Jack Conway. The crowd went wild when he came out. We were fairly close to the stage, and we had a great view. The electricity was popping in the room. I stood there and listened to him speak, and I literally had goose bumps up and down my arms. I thought to myself, "Remember this moment." Kirk asked, "Can't you see him running for President someday?" I really can, and as stood there, I felt like last night was the beginning of something really special.

Something in me woke up, and I was reminded once again why I just love politics. It's messy. It's brutal. It's hard. It's honest, and it's full of lies. It's people at their best and their worst. It is the people working together to govern themselves. To choose for themselves who they want to lead them. It is all these things, and it is totally amazing.

Faking Holy Thursday

I took the kids to Holy Thursday mass last night. I hadn't planned on going this year. Kirk had to work late in Frankfort, and I had made dinner for Anne's family. It was gorgeous outside, and the kids were playing, and I just didn't feel like getting ready.

I'm in a tough place right now with the Catholic Church. I have a lot of questions and disappointment in a lot of areas, the least of which is the sex abuse scandals. How can an institution that proclaims to defend the innocent allow grown men to abuse helpless children for decades? How can they then try and deflect responsibility onto someone else? Why isn't the pope standing up and saying, "This was wrong. We made some terrible choices. We are deeply sorry. We will make sure it never, ever happens again."??? But I digress...

So anyway, all day, I was finding reasons not to go to church. I had been asked to have my feet washed, and I had said no because I hadn't planned on going. I needed a shower. I had a messy kitchen. The kids were dirty. My clothes were wrinkly. I could have given you 100 reasons why it would have been perfectly acceptable for me to stay home, but for some reason, after I dropped off Anne's dinner, I came home, fed the kids and said, "Get ready. We're going to church."

Not a single one protested. They put on something clean, I didn't care what, washed their faces off and combed their hair. I wore what I had had on all day, jeans and a t-shirt, and touched up my make-up. We left with 15 minutes to get to church. I'm sure we looked like misfits to everyone, but I thought, "God doesn't care what I'm wearing. He knows that I wrestled with coming and is glad I decided to do so."

Normally, I am moved by the services during Holy Week. I grew up in an era of incense and candles and silence at school on Good Friday. I can vividly remember the priests singing, "This is the wood of the cross..." as they walked down the aisle at OLC, and waiting in line to kiss Jesus on the crucifix, debating until the last minute whether to kiss his poor hands or his pitiful feet or the awful crown of thorns in his head. I loved the smell of incense and bowing as our side got blessed. I loved the red candles in the gold holders that the servers carried up.

We would go to services four times over Holy Thursday and Good Friday, once at school each day and once with our parents in the evening. One year, my mom got her feet washed by the priest. She was one of the first women in our church to do so. I remember she went to get a pedicure beforehand and worried over what color polish to put on her toes. She didn't want it to be too red, you know.

The Holy Thursday service was always a mystery to me with the big, sunburst monstrance paraded around the church, and Fr. Fred or Fr. Arnold in a gold and silver cape. We'd sing the Latin song, Tantum Ergo, and I would marvel that Mom knew the words by heart when I couldn't even pronounce a single one. After the blessed sacrament was placed on the altar, we would kneel for a bit and leave in silence. It was always a time of seriousness and majesty in my mind. I loved the rituals and found so much comfort in them.

That followed me throughout my life. Kirk didn't grow up in a Catholic school, and his mom is a convert, so he doesn't have this ingrained, deeply rooted sense of tradition that I do. I want the kids to have that because it has helped me get through so much stuff. Sometimes when I've been so messed up I couldn't even think, I could at least follow along and take comfort in the routine. Pretend, if you will, that I was with it.

And that's what I did last night. I pretended. I faked it. I went to mass, not really wanting to be there, doubting many things about my faith, but needing that consistency, that sameness, that unity that the Catholic Church offers, and I felt better after I left.

I cried at Tantum Ergo. I was 8 years old again, kneeling next to Mom in the middle section on the left side of OLC, looking up at her singing, "Salus, honor, virtus quoque..." (it's the "quoque" that I remember most), marveling that she knew all those words. I closed my eyes, and I was there, and so was she.

Today, I will take my kids to Good Friday services, maybe still faking it a little, still struggling, but doing it anyway. I have a holy card of Mother Theresa on my visor, and see her face every time I flip it down. If she can do it, so can I.

My Mimi

Mimi was already old when I was born. Seventy-five. In 1967, that was really old. My memories of Mimi are fuzzy, mostly, like a pleasant dream of a familiar place. Some memories are sharp, though, and I can reach out and touch them as if they were yesterday...

As a little girl, I had two grandmas. My mom’s mom was a “regular” grandmother who cooked green beans on the stove all day and made fried chicken and potato soup. My other grandma, my dad’s mother, was exotic. She was from France and had an accent and always wore her hair in a bun. This grandma made delicious lemon pound cake with powdered sugar sprinkled on the top (how I wish I had the recipe) and had Jordan almonds in a drawer. She could knit and sew and speak several languages. In my memories, she wears a pale cotton dress and a soft grey sweater and sensible shoes.

Mimi’s house didn’t have many toys. I remember a few marbles, some dominoes, and crayons in the secretary, but not much else. That was never a problem, though, because she had a piano with a wonderful bench carved like an elephant. She never seemed to mind if we “played” it while we were there. I imagine she had a great love of music and didn’t mind if her granddaughters tried their fingers at the keyboard.

Mimi’s kitchen was a wonder to me. It was so different from our kitchen at home. The sink was all porcelain, and there were two really big sinks and a really cool built in drain on the side. I thought the breakfast room was really neat, especially because the refrigerator was in there and not in the main kitchen. But the thing I remember most about Mimi’s kitchen was sitting in that breakfast room at the little table eating graham crackers and milk. They were a staple at her house. Mimi always had graham crackers.

Once, when I was about eight years old, she came to stay with us, but I don’t remember why. I sat next to her on the couch one afternoon and helped her organize my mom’s sewing box. My own mother didn’t sew anything except buttons and the occasional hem, and her box of threads and pins was a rat’s nest of colors tangled together. Mimi and I untangled those threads and carefully wound them around playing cards that had been cut into small strips. The pins we collected into a small, round candy tin. The needles we placed into a square of felt we found in the bottom of the box. When we were finished, all the spools of thread were neatly organized by color in rows and the pins and needles were safely secured in their place in one of the trays. I was so proud of that sewing box! I can remember reorganizing the box several times after Mimi left, but it was never as nice as when we did it together.

Mimi gave me a book, Je Lis, Tu Lis, when she was staying with us. She would sit with me and teach me the correct pronunciation of colors and numbers. I can hear her voice saying, “Bleu, gris, marron…” I would try to produce those same sounds, but with my Kentucky accent, I doubt if I even came close!


Mimi was the reason I decided to study French in high school. Unfortunately, by the time I was a teenager, she was no longer well enough to converse with me. The winter of my freshman year, I learned a French Christmas carol. We went as a family to visit Mimi in the nursing home one December Sunday, and I sang it to her. I swear she smiled and tried to sing along as I sang, “Il est nee, le divine enfant…”

I always felt like I was cheated when it came to Mimi because by the time I was old enough to ask her questions about her life in France and have her teach me what she knew, she was too sick. I wish now she could have taught me how to knit or crochet or how to make lemon pound cake. I would have asked her what it was like to leave her home and journey to America. I would have loved to have conversed with her in French and heard stories of her childhood in Reims.

In my mind, I see her, standing in the doorway of 1909 Dorothy Avenue in her soft grey sweater, her hair in a bun, waving and smiling as we drive away. How I wish I had more…