A relatively short, unembellished story about my mother--
(an excerpt from my East Texas Chronicles - 2008)

So I put on the coffee this morning and call my Mom up. It is 8:57 a.m. She answers the phone in a very uncharacteristically groggy voice. Has she overslept? My mother?

“I just sat down, Honey, on the couch to watch “Matt Lowery” and I fell back asleep.”

Really? I’m thinking.

We start our conversation with a rundown of the annual Wildflower Trails Festival event held this past weekend in our town, starting with who won the coveted window prize for best-decorated Main Street business . She did! 1st place!

Mom filled me in on who found the Chamber of Commerce-sponsored Hidden Treasure Egg. I was also brought up to speed with all of the ex-residents that came back to town for a visit, and the locals that came “in to town” for a visit. Also got an update on The Big Wildflower Street Dance, held that past Saturday night.

It is peculiar that Mom knows so much about the coming’s and going’s of the festival this year. I later learned that my mom had spent the entire Saturday working in her beauty shop -- cutting and curling hair, manicuring nails, retailing her treasures -- which is sad. Mom dearly loves the festival.

“Mom, why didn’t you put up the “closed” sign and walk to the park, get a corn dog and listen to the entertainment? (This is when all of the church choir bands within a 50-mile radius really get to show off.) This is also an opportunity to observe how all of the vaguely familiar little generations from our core families here in Hughes Springs have grown up and reproduced their own. It’s like watching a really sophisticated version of an ant farm: Our town during The Wildflower.

“Well, I was thinking about it, but then Ms. Inie popped by the beauty shop for a visit. You would never she was 98, except she’s in that wheelchair now. They had to take her leg off. She just can’t drive herself anymore. Granddaughter dropped her off. We ended up visiting a few hours. I just decided to give her a permanent wave and wax her eyebrows!”

Mom makes this pronouncement with the tone of a woman who has just decided to stay a bit longer at a grand party.

Does a 90-yr-old even have eyebrows? I’m wondering.

“It’s been at least six years since her last perm; she really needed it. It made her feel special.”

Shortly thereafter Ms. Inie’s ride shows back up. A young woman with a herd of clattering young’uns, all under the age of six, walks in.

“Darlene!”

“Oh, hey darlin’!”

“Missy’s getting married t‘morrow. I’m one of her bridesmaids.”

“How wonderful!”

“Got time to do me a set of nails?”

“Happy to do your nails! You’ll be the most beautiful bridesmaid there.”

This leaves me wondering what the clattering herd of young’uns was doing during a very hands-on, uninterruptible service.

An hour or so later Mom is hurrying to get the “closed” sign up. She is hoping that she will be able to catch that fabulous Mt. Zion bunch before they pack away their tambourines. Suddenly, a whole new group appears at the front door of You-Niquely Yours Beauty Shop.

“You Darlene!?”

“Why yeh-us! How can I help you ladies?!!”

“The vendors down at the park aren’t selling anything but junk. We ran into some ladies under the gazebo that said we needed to go down to see Darlene. So happy you’re open!”

The ladies proceed to browse, the bands downtown are packing up. A grand total of $180 was spent, not a bad sale for a rural salon boutique, but that didn’t include the free candles Mom put all of their sacks -- a “thanks for stopping by!” gift.

“Mom, you’re tired?” My heart was broken that she had missed her beloved Wildflower Trails.

“Well, not really. I need to run down to the credit union, but first I’ve got to run to see these little boys -- I mean, these young men. They are on hard times.”

“What young men?”

“Well, they lost their jobs down at the Long Branch Saloon and need a little help.”

Digressing just a bit, the Long Branch Saloon was a risky restaurant/alcohol serving venture that an enterprising young man decided to open in the middle of town about two years ago. Personally, I think it was the “Saloon” part in the title that was the probable kiss of death for them.

Our town is a dry town, where if people drink they feel kinda’ bad about it. They may slip a $20 to someone who is a “known drinker” in order to acquire a bottle of wine or six-pack for the weekend or some special event. The liquor store is located “down by the lake.” It is about eight miles out of town and in a “dangerous” part of the county. Or at least that’s what I was told growing up.

Sadly, and not surprisingly, the Long Branch Saloon closed this year, right after Wildflower Trails Festival. Too bad. I really loved that name.

“Mom, who are you talking about?”

It all comes rushing out in a disjointed kind of way: “Well, there are these two young brothers. They’re half. Or step. I think. I don’t remember.”

“It’s okay, Mom.”

“One’s been here a while and the other brother has been up in Alaska, living with his stepfather. The one that wound up in Alaska got a job at a really nice restaurant in Colorado but he couldn’t make it because of the cost of living there. You know, you’ve been skiing there.

“Yes, mom.” This I definitely understood.

“So this young man takes on this certain job -- just because it’s steady and pays dependable.” Then Mom pauses, because I can see that she is trying to show this young man some dignity, but then continues… “Well, it was with the carnival for several years. You know, just because he could depend on it and they were good to him. Like family.”

Mom is wily. I was starting to have feelings for this young man.

“He was road-weary and just sick of the carnival life. He was just ready to put that all behind him, when his carnival came through town a few years ago.”

“Let me guess – during the Wildflower Trails Festival?”

“You can‘t blame him for it. Nice little town.”

Okay, mom had won me over, but enough of that.

Mom continues: “I gave him your brother’s bed and box springs.”

“What!?” Mom has now turned to practical matters.

“You know, it was just sitting up there in storage, bound to rot. It’s not going to be any good to your brother when he gets out of jail, so I thought that I may as well give it to someone who can make good use of it. I’ll just buy your brother another bed set when he gets out.”

I sigh. “When does he get out, Mom?”

“May of 2009.” She starts crying. This is her reaction to “feeling judged.”

She continues in a strong voice, “So anyway, I’m fixing to run up to the grocery store --”

(Mother “runs up and down” everywhere.)

“-- to pick these boys up some groceries. You know, just to get them through the week.”

WAIT A MINUTE! My focus has now turned to Mom’s very hard-earned cash. Mom is very intuitive. She knows that I’m about to start asking probing questions. Instead of submitting herself to probing questions, Mom puts on her defensive hat and out comes her gritty, cold-hard-facts voice…

“He’s only got $300 in his pocket, Kim…his rent is due right now…. and it is $300!”

How my mom knows this information is beyond me. Mom just knows critical things about needy people. .

She senses that I’m still very worried, so she says the only thing left to say --

“Your dad just loves these boys too.”

OH Bull!! is what I almost blurt out, but I have put those days behind me now. I’m a big-city professional lady.

“Mom, I just covered a news story a few months ago… about this woman, about your age, who meets up with this nice young man at her church -- whom everybody loved. This nice young man was down on his luck, so this woman opens up her home and her heart to him. Everyone seems to think that the nice young man is getting on the right track -- until the woman turns up murdered. Her car and a few inexpensive items go missing from her home. Mom, please.”

Mom’s new reaction to act all wounded and hurt -- even more wounded and hurt than if I had just gone ahead and called it all “bull.”

Mom opens the wound further by telling me more bizarre facts pertaining to these young men. I set my mouth to autopilot mode “sure “, “okay”, “I understand” and let my mind take me back through the years…

When I was in elementary school, we lived on a very dangerous stretch of I-59, just outside of Texarkana. The karma angels made sure that at least three really good fatality wrecks occurred right there on that piece of highway in front my mother’s home.

I remember, on many occasions, hearing these huge crashes in the middle of the night. Shortly thereafter, I hear my mother’s bare feet slapping the linoleum in the hallway towards the front windows and hearing her exclaim “Oh, my heavenly father!!

Within 30 seconds, Mom would be in a robe, shiny Avon elf slippers, flashlight in hand. Brother and I knew this routine. We instantly were up and out of bed, jumping around like spider monkeys, eager to chase her into the deadly highway, just so that we could stare at the wreckage and aftermath.

“You two had better not step foot outside this house unless you’re going out to get Momma a peach limb!” She meant it, we believed it. And there goes our Mom, running out into the highway to do whatever she could to help.

We always knew when the victims had perished. Mom would mourn, look sickly and not eat well for weeks afterward, as if it had been her own brother or sister out there on the highway.

Perhaps the most memorable event back in those days was the arrival of the young hippie couple at our front door. To me, they looked exactly like Sony and Cher -- making them Instantly Important to me. Except that they were strangers. Hippie strangers, no less. And there had been a recent alleged-hippie murder of a couple in their homes in Dixie Inn, Louisiana recently… just up the road from us.

Charles Manson-ites be damned, I would have followed these two anywhere. I was born in 1969. I’m about seven years old at this time. These two show up at our front door, and I start thanking Jesus.

They are wearing matching tan shirts with a chocolate-colored Jesus on the front. They look a bit analogous, as they both have long, young, hairless faces -- a perfect complement to their long, honey-colored hippy hair.

“Ma’am, we’re really sorry to bother you, but we’re traveling to (?) and were wondering if you could spare us maybe a baloney sandwich and some Kool-aid, or water -- you know, just whatever you’ve got spare.

That question was the prelude to two of the coolest weeks in my young life. The two young hippies moved into our home for a couple of weeks. They were truly very sweet young people. (seven-year-old comprehension )

They helped out with yard work, helped in the garden. They played really awesome guitar and even went to church with us one Sunday! My mother considered these two young people her Sweet Christian Victory -- which embarrassed me really, really bad. I didn’t exactly want my cool new friends to know that we attended church.

Back in those days of horrifying Southern Baptist ritual, the pastor would always make the poor visitors “stand up and be recognized!!” in front of the whole congregation. You know, just so we could all get a good look at them and judge harshly. So after the pastor does this, I cringe and start slinking down into the pew, hoping my new best friends would just play it cool.

Oh, no! They pop up together, holding hands, in their tan-and-chocolate Jesus t-shirts, and start talking about what a blessing our family had been to them, how much they loved us and were starving to death physically and spiritually before my mother took them in -- all of this, of course, caused my mother to start crying openly in church.

And I just wanted to slap them all. (I was the older sibling, therefore gifted in the dark art of slapping) So mortified was I that I started to cry. This is odd… I’ve never been a crying sort of gal, even as a child. We were all crying. Praise God! Then some more people in the congregation started in with the crying.

What was wrong with my stupid mother! My gosh-dangit-crap mother! (7-yr-old Southern Baptist expletive) She was the most embarrassing mother in the world!

(flashing back to the story at hand)

… “Don’t worry about me, sweetheart! I’m not even going to get out of the car, just hand the boys their groceries though the car window. Please don’t worry about Momma. They need our prayer and support.”

To sum things up… I always acquiesce to whatever it is my mother is doing.

And then I had a peculiar new enlightenment: I am the product of my mother’s compassion! Years ago my mother took in another of those strange, needy people. My father. My wonderful, strange father.

“Oh, don’t tell your dad yet, but after I run back from the credit union, I’m going to run up to Jolene’s farm and pick up four new baby peacocks. They’ve just run out of room and the poor little things need a good home!”

I got a call from someone yesterday that started off our interchange by clearing his throat (in a foreshadowing manner). It was the principal at Chandler’s HIGH SCHOOL. The conversation went something like this:

- Mrs. Short, I regret to inform you that your son, Chandler, is sitting in my office.
- Oh really? Why?
- Chandler has been involved in an altercation this morning in the gym with another male.
- (???) What happened?
- Chandler bounced a dodgeball off the back of this young man’s head.
- Really? That doesn’t sound like something Chandler would do.
- Well, actually, the ball ricocheted off of the wall and onto the boy’s head. The boy is not hurt, other than his feelings…

At which point I started laughing. I mean, I didn’t mean to laugh but I did. The Principal clears his throat again loudly. “Which leads me to the crux of why your son is in my office, Ms. Short.”

“Why is that?”
“Because he laughed about the situation.”

Shane, seriously, I avoid showing up for Chandler’s parent-teacher-principal conferences for fear of someone trying to pop me in the mouth with a cake of Irish Spring, you know. It’s a third-baby thing… You just seem to not obsess over the little things anymore. Most people seem to be with this program, except for these Career Public School types.

Today I will be cooking at home. You know, bracing for the long-term effects of “doing more with less.” I am making Chicken-Fried steak, smashed potatoes, brown gravy and green beans – all cooked in bacon fat and butter -- exactly as God intended it. I am sorry that you are not here to enjoy. There is no better food on the planet than the aforementioned combination prepared in such haphazard manner -- and you can write that down, brother. Amen.

Kevin is doing exceptional, except early this morning, while he was preparing for a business meeting, I had hopefully the last conversation of its type with Kevin… ever… “Listen to me. Listen to me, Kevin. Stop wearing vests.”

Kevin rocks. Kevin balances my universe. Amen.

As for me?? …at the end of the day, all I want is an official Red Ryder, carbine-action, two-hundred shot range model air rifle with a compass in the stock and a thing which tells time! This will never happen, Shane, yet perhaps you see my point?

Hurry up.

I’m sure that the Big Bend trip will unfold in such profuse layers of hilarity and awesomeness that I simply need to just send pictures and let you interpret for yourself.

And now I’m ready for a warm vacation. I’ve been poking about online, on the lookout for some ridiculously cheap tickets to Mexico…you know ( to go visit the tequila…) except someone has recently removed most of the awesomeness from Mexico and put it somewhere else for a while (think drug lords -- hapless tourists caught in the middle-- gang wars) There are international warnings to travelers considering Mexico now. Especially with Spring Break coming on. Which sucks about as much as anything could suck, I suppose. I must remember to warn Kris to stay the hell out of Mexico.

Life is good back home, though. I’m sipping on my favorite morning beverage: A piping-hot coffee, dark-black roast. This is all that I require at the moment. I’m smiling. I feel like Oprah today, minus the millions of course. (Golf claps all around.)

I am at the peaceful point in my life that my kids have outgrown the need to have me go places and watch them do sh*t – and I absolutely love it. I am now (seriously) pondering things such as 26-yr-old men, mammograms and bone density tests. Nain’t funny either.

Dakota, my precious little one, is staring at me through double-paned glass. She has been left outside this morning, which means she’s not been in her rightful place MY LAP during my morning ritual of dark-black roast and bone density ponderings. Her frantic barks at my back door translate into… OMGWTF?OMGWTF?OMGWTF?OMGWTF?OMGWTF?OMGWTF???!

Dakota is obviously stressed/spoiled. Her little eyes are crusted over. She’s had a sleepless night. EVERY SINGLE night she wedges her little body up under MY ASS in my king-sized bed. If I need to move, stretch or shake out body parts that have fallen asleep, she growls at me fiercely and lunges blindly at me with her little teeth for waking her up.

Don’t hate-on Dakota. Obviously she has it way better than all you poor doods in jail. There are now psychologists, hotels, spas, play and focus groups, bakeries, bookstores and couture boutiques dedicated to DOGS! They’re everywhere, I tell you. The world has moved on, Shane. I swear, if the Apocalypse happens tomorrow, and renders this planet into a barren, windswept Thunderdome, the dogs will be eating us. You can write that down.

Mere’ is getting crazier by the nanosecond. She is indecisive and moody. I want desperately to kick her out of my home. She has already started accumulating baggage. Jesus, if only there were a delete button for problematic, real-life packages, huh? She doesn’t have the common sense yet to attempt to act normal for at least the 90-day trial period it takes to acquire and indoctrinate a new boyfriend. Which is a mixed blessing, ya know?

She is moving to Denton. She has been promised a job by a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend’s cousin’s nephew. My only prayer for her is that speed and hygiene be optional requirements of this new job.

Yesterday I asked her to not be so selfish and to consider other people’s feelings... And tonight I will be swinging a dead cat by the light of the waning moon, an act entirely more gratifying than having any expectations of Mere’.

Yesterday I caved in to shoe-lust and bought a pair of expensive, pink superheroish boots at Dillard’s, which go with absolutely nothing that I own – as simply reward for being Mere’’s mother.

I have problematic teeth, which is why it should not surprise me in the least that Chandler has problematic teeth as well.

“Ms. Short (ahem) Chandler has very thick saliva. Thick saliva is indicative of lack of oxygen, leading to proliferation of bacteria. We understand that he really shouldn’t be chewing gum, given the very expensive orthodontic appliance and all, but please allow him to chew sugar-free gum… 24-hours a day… as it aerates the mouth and flushes out the crevasses.”

I made a great show of berating my son publicly in the lobby of the dentist office (think Piggly-Wiggly mom minus the slapping) – EVEN THOUGH every time I walk into the dentist’s office, they look at me like I’ve been sleeping with hard candy in my mouth.

I can sum up our dental hygienist in one phrase: She is the scary den mother of our life. We are afraid of her. Bad teeth is a curse that we just can’t seem to get away from in this family. Our mother doesn’t have any, and our father’s poor mouth is spangled with decorative, colorful nubs. Very bad juju indeed, handed down from both sides. I assume that you suffer from the same curse? I just found out that the dentist is recommending that Chandler’s braces be REMOVED in order to address the cavity situation and the REINSTALLED. Is that legal? I’m sure Blue Cross will take issue with the exercise. I was also apprised of the approximate cost of this endeavor, which is why I hope to drink heavily this weekend.

Hello, Brother. Forgive me for my lack of correspondence. I’ve been traveling through a Russian winter… naked… carrying a basket of kittens. And that’s all you need to know.

I hope all is okay-ish there at The Big House. It finally started raining here in parched H-town (Houston,) which means we gon’ find some roof and wait for the FEMA copters to come save us…

As you probably know, the world is bracing for the long-term effects of “doing more with less.” I am seeing the fallout all around us and am just battening down the hatches. Kevin is one of those doods who simply has a spreadsheet mind and is way too intelligent and in-control-of-himself to be let go. Now please excuse me while I go find a piece of wood to knock on. The threat of a hefty fine from the FCC meted out public broadcasters is a nice insurance policy that keeps me working. But who knows. I am so thrilled that Kristopher is in the Navy. He appreciates this phase of his life, as well. I am encouraging him to please, please, please get his college behind him while Rich Uncle Sam is paying the tuition. Please pray. He just spent a few days with me and is now in San Diego.

Seriously, this week I get a bounty of text messages on my phone from all of my ex-husbands, plus Jerry and Randy -- wishing me a Happy Valentines! Nina (our mother) one-upped me this year by getting a new puppy, a new website and a new president!

I've been filling in all of my free time lately with cleaning my own grout. That's right. Grout. The reason I am doing this myself? Because I know that even the professionals will not crouch atop the slate, wielding a toothbrush and a mixture of vinegar and baking soda. (Wait a minute... that must mean that I will be doing the crouching and toothbrush-wielding, ahem) Also, I will be saving myself a considerable amount money in the exercise.

I may become a cripple over the project, but damn my grout will look nice. I plan on sealing it myself as well. Not sure about the technical level required to handle floor sealant either.

I'm a do-it-myselfer. Every damn time I tackle a project, about a third of the way into the project, the delayed wisdom of rethinking a professional occurs to me. Alas, too late. I still cannot stop myself from, say, walking outside, gazing up at my 4,500 square-foot home and saying, I really need to paint my house. I just need to go to Sherwin-Williams, pick out some pretty paint and rent a sprayer...

Not sure that my way of thinking makes much sense, but perhaps you see my point?

Well... the mosquitos and love bugs are starting to make an appearance. My hibiscus and bouganvilla are starting to bud -- and I am atremble at the glory of it all.

I am tricked every... single... damn.... year into prematurely planting bulbs, pulling out the pool furniture, trading my heavy-bodied red malbecs and cabernets for lighter, fruitier (poolside) ingulgences and apertifs. I've even started wearing yellows and vague pale pastel ensembles. (sigh)

You can't blame me. Bluebonnets and Indian Paintbrushes are starting to poke up out of the weeds alongside the roadside. My gardeners have started showing up every Friday, and I am in a state of freshly-mown heaven. Really.

Every year I get tricked into spring cleaning, organizing my pantry and clothes closet. I throw away all of the cans of pumking puree' and evaporated milk that I did not use up over the holiday cooking blitz. I start planting rosemary, basil and fiddle-head ferns in the "garden". I feel deep in my heart that this will be the year that I will be able to keep the fuschia New Guinea impatiens alive through summer. (sigh)

I stash away all of my heavy Houston winter gear (long-sleeved t-shirts, blue jeans, footwear not in the flipflop category) and start contemplating renewing my subscription to Martha Stewart's Living magazine.
Martha's great empire has made it such that creative types like me never need again to conjure up an original idea... and I see the value in that. I'm a Very Busy Woman.

We will have a final, wicked freeze within a week or two, nipping away all of the buds and glory, screwing up my seasonal urges. I gawdamguarantee it. Such is life in Houston, Texas.


One of the major differences between my daughter and myself: I am a woman who solves my own problems; my daughter is a woman whose problems always seem to resolve themselves. As I am her mother, I am learning to accept this and just be grateful.

After her latest crisis, she is back to her footloose and fancy-free days of absentmindedness, slovenly living and feline debauchery. At this very moment the smooth stylings of Tom Wait are vibrating the rafters over her bedroom.

I have much (secret) admiration for my daughter. Lately, though, much of the admiration has been cancelled out by all of her shenanigans. However, I figure I am paying my Karmic rent, ya know? It is my prayer that she wake up and adjust to what is required in order to get by in this life, and I'd do just as well swinging a dead cat by the light of the waning moon as wasting my breath on any of that. There I go again, being an old-fashioned parent.

I am no longer in the captain's seat when it comes to my daughter, and that feels strange. I am rearranging my prayers for Mere', assuming that whatever is required for her to get by in this life will simply come to her.

Maybe I should take my feelings to a therapist, or a chat room full of well-meaning non-experts. (sigh)