Petals and Pricks

After 58 years of some really convoluted relationships, I have determined that the ones between mothers and their children are the hairiest. Oh, yes, mother-child arrangements are the most schizophrenic of all - soft, moist, vibrantly colored petals, some even scented, juxtaposed with the equally colorful pods with thorns so long and thin as to be almost invisible. There's the prize, with all of its elements. Take it or leave it. Here, for every mother's child, whether you grew just beneath her heart, or in it, is my Mother's Day offering ~



Yes, I did plant my body right in that mighty stand of cholla with my camera. Yes, I got jabbed. No, it didn't hurt nearly as much as some of the metaphorical pricks. Nor were the petals as lovely as some of the intangible ones that I have enjoyed.

In Sugarhouse ~ Inspired by Feelings that Kass's Blog Stirred Up: Chapter I

I have written Kass an official fan letter and she has written that she has a girl crush on me. We're enjoying each other tremendously. She and her blog post about complex family love make me want to say all kinds of things. When I saw her Sugarhouse blog, I was transported back to Salt Lake City in the late 1950s when I was in the earliest years of elementary school. My Sugarhouse story will be the first to unveil some of the family of origin (except Granny-O, who has already been introduced). Just like everyone else, I was formed and misinformed by parents and close relatives. We've all got stories, but I'd nominate my extended family as the group who put the funk in dysfunctional.

Writing about families is risky business. Readers can misunderstand the writer's intentions and meaning. So here is my preface. I am a tremendously flawed, maladapted person. There are all manner of good reasons for that: intrinsic traits, conditioning and more. I recognize this about myself and try to address some of the more objectionable behaviors that are mine. Some others, I'll live with and bear the shame. I don't think anything that has happened to me in my life gives me a free ticket to act badly.

I want to state emphatically that I think my two parents did the best they could for me with what they brought to the table. Unfortunately, we were like people from three different planets. "Table" to one was "car" to another and "dress" to the third. We never have (and do not today) understand one another, we three. The irony is that we looked so good. Piano lessons and Catholic school. Upwardly mobile father (before that phrase was coined) who provided very nice homes and belongings. Lovely, charming young mother most people seemed to like. But when the drapes were drawn or we saw guests out and closed the door, it was like we took off our human disguises and reverted to whatever forms of alien life each of us actually was. I am truly uncertain that any one of us has ever given any one of the others something they actually needed or wanted. Lots of giving has occurred, but terribly misguided. Woven in with all the sad, miserable threads, one could sometimes find the shiniest, short-lived little glimmering strand of stuff. Do not expect only tragedy or only comedy.

It should be noted that we frequently changed roles in our little opera of three characters. Most times I stuck like glue to my father, but I could break out of that and become the champion of my mother. Each of them alternated between being almost too clinging with me to almost abusive neglect. Sometimes two were unhappy with one and sometimes one was unhappy with two.

My last prefacing statement: I truly don't have to endure tremendous suffering and angst any longer about my family. Believe me, I've suffered, but not any more. Lots of expensive therapy and aging will take care of that. Most of the vitriol is gone. I do, however, have an intense, lingering curiosity about things that happened, the way people behaved, and what it all means. It is this odd upbringing that makes me so avid about connecting with others and truly understanding the fascinating creatures around us who are - supposedly - just like us. I am a true student of people.

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My parents are probably the argument for children not having children. They were teenagers when I was born. Both came from large families and my father, who was 17 years older than his baby sister, at least had some working knowledge about babies and children. Although my mother was sandwiched in the middle of 11 siblings, it seemed she had never seen or heard of a baby or child. Nieces and nephews appeared frequently before she and my father married, but I guess she didn't see them. Somehow in the 1940s, she managed to never once have a babysitting job - perhaps evidence that the angels do watch out for little children.

My father was in the Air Force - read this, away from home a lot. They lived in central, coastal California when I was born at Camp Roberts Army Hospital. Granny-O lived hundreds of miles away in Los Angeles, so my mother was a new, teenaged mother with no knowledge and no support system. I grew up hearing her struggles presented in a humorous way, but I've always felt the relatives laughed at her rather than shared a giggle with her. I think she felt highly criticized by mother, mother-in-law, sisters and sisters-in-law. However, if family legend is to believed, she pinned diapers to my abdomen with regularity and dropped me fairly often. She is extremely intelligent and she is not callous. No one ever suggested she enjoyed dropping me or pinning me. No one thought she couldn't learn how to handle a baby with safety. But these things continued to happen. She became very anxious and I imagine she felt a tremendous amount of pressure when she contemplated feeding me or dressing me or taking care of me in any way. And there were the voices of all the women in the large extended family . . . . in those days it would have occurred through letters sent by U. S. Mail. Imagine receiving hurtful comments over and over again.

True story: my father was getting out of the Air Force and we were to take a trip to Los Angeles to arrange for an apartment to live in, find him a job, start a new phase of life. I was 11 months old. My mother prepared Granny-O by telling a story up front - Limes had taken a little spill out of the 1950s stroller and had a pretty nasty, very large bump on her head. She only fell from a height of 6-8 inches, but obviously whacked her pumpkin pretty hard. Granny-O generously replied that all children fall from time to time and that she wouldn't let anyone light into my mother for that. We rode for hours on the two lane highways through almost half of California, the young parents commenting on how the usually cranky baby - funny, I fussed a lot - was an awfully good traveling companion this time. [Yes, my ancient stroller did look like that. No, I did not resemble those well-used dolls.]

We arrived in L.A. where hugs were exchanged and my Granny reached into the car to pick me up. She was a little startled. A little concerned. That bump on my head was the size of a plum and I was pretty dazed. This mother of 12 and grandmother of about 15-20 by then, began to ask questions. Going inside, she called for Dr. Greenberg who eventually would know probably 75 of us and deliver 20 or more of our family members. A little trip was made to an emergency room. Fractured skull. That plum on my head was full of cerebral-spinal fluid. My mother kept a pretty low profile for the week we stayed.

{And now a word from our sponsor}

Favored reader, I am no where near Utah, Salt Lake City or Sugarhouse yet. Oh, you may rely upon my getting there, but I intend to take this just a little slower than I might have. We shall have Sugarhouse in chapters! I am finding this piece a bit like baklava ~ a thin layer of anger, a thin layer of forgiveness, a chopped nut of humor, a cup of empathy for a very young couple who struggled very hard to be "right", drenched in the honey of reminiscence. This has been much slower writing than some of my posts. I find it cathartic, but this path is very rocky and I must pick my way carefully. I've set the stage for a view of my earliest life and I will say it never got any more orderly, not smoother, no closer to "just like everyone else's". But it's been a full life of high highs and deep lows and I am glad to have lived it. I'm not finished with it yet.

In my ears right now: Bob Dylan ~ Modern Times. No further details required.

Something that charmed me: I suffered a little over whether to unveil the family. I feel strongly compelled to tell the parts of my story that are family life, but we're definitely not for everyone. I decided to write the prefacing statements and jump into the water. I feel OK. I'm doing OK. "Sugarhouse" won't look the way I originally planned it, but that's OK. I'll get there.

Same Old Tune: Communic8ing

People who know one another very well communicate in many more ways than verbally. Body language speaks volumes. A sudden change in the way a person usually operates can tell a story. But for me, there is nothing more compelling than all the different levels of information that can be exchanged through "the look".

My mother has virtually no sense of humor. She doesn't care for comedy and she doesn't get jokes. I don't think I've ever seen her toss her head back and just howl. Conversely, Cousin and I can be just plainly irritating as we roar and carry on. Mostly when others look at us oddly while we're amusing ourselves, we kick it up a notch. But I recall a dinner out at a restaurant when I was the advanced age of 48. Cousin and I were particularly hilarious with our bellies filled and we'd gone on for some time. My mother made eye contact with me, and I withered.Communication through "the look". Cousin didn't wither. Her aunt's facial expression didn't mean anything to her. It rolled off her back. I, on the other hand, was calling myself all the words and names I knew my mother would use if she'd verbally lit into me. "Limes, stop it, you ________. You're attracting attention."

A different view of communicating through "the look": Amber began competing in martial arts tournaments at about the age of 8. She sparred with adult men. Martial arts was Ex's thing, certainly not mine, but I supported it. He insisted that she be able to physically defend herself against attack from a young age. Martial arts did many good things for my daughter, beyond simply making her a pretty tough chiquita. This was one proud mother, and after her performances, I was prone to hugging, kissing, tearing up and babbling. It came to pass that she didn't want me to do that any more. It embarrassed her. I developed a "look" that spared her the hugs, tears, kisses and words, but still got my message across. I know this because when I threw her that look, she still blushed bright red! Oh, yes, she knew what I would have said and done if I hadn't used the "look".

Mother Badger was a third grade school teacher for many years. She still could call upon "the look" today! Folks, I'm not an 8 year-old boy, yet I know she could make me evaporate in my P.F. Flyers if she turned it on me.

So, I'd carried a little gift in my purse to Arizona and I wasn't exactly sure when to spring it on the Badger. The night before the race when he wasn't too preoccupied? The morning of the race when he would be preoccupied, but I'd feel snitty because he wouldn't be as gushingly grateful as I wanted him to be? After the race, when First Place was his (because I had no doubt)? Unlike myself, I did not pre-plan the gift-giving to death. I decided to just wait and see when the moment presented itself.

We were out on the highway. I'd just hoofed 5 hard up-and-down miles in considerable heat. The Badger had done a strenuous 29 in the saddle and on the pedals, preparing for the next day's race. He'd faced down buzzards. I'd found animal bones and garnered concern from passersby on the road. He pulled up to the car. "How'd you do, Badger? Good ride? Ready for tomorrow?" "It was really good! I'm ready."

And then we went to some other place to communicate. His arms moved first. He extended them. He was going to put them around my waist and hug me. But a fraction of a second after moving his arms, he got the "look". I am bilingual, so I read both arms and face. He felt strong and hopeful. His confidence was running high. He was happy to be right there, right then, on his bike, in his jersey with me for his support team. He intended to take that first place the next morning and he'd learned that sharp descent didn't scare him any more. The sun felt good on his skin and there are just some people you can hug even when you're sweaty. Hence the arm action.

The light came on for me! This was the time for the gift! I jumped out of his reach, dug into my purse like a badger, and came up with that box and its offering wrapped in purple tissue paper. I said, "Here's a little tribute, Badger." He opened it. He liked it. He said home dudes were right to give it their approval. He wears it every day. Even when he's indoors in a meeting, he can glance down and see his bicycle chain around his wrist. I wish I'd presented the gift and taken the proffered hug. Sometimes I get a little impulsive and miss out on an opportunity.


In my ears right now: Dead Flowers, Rolling Stones version. I missed another opportunity! I could have taken dead flowers and presented the Badger with a wreath at the finish line. Dang.

Something that charmed me: He fiddled with that bracelet a little, establishing the right look. "Too much on the same arm with my watch, Limes?" "Yes, probably too much, Badger." "Maybe I could intertwine it with my 'Live Your Dream' bracelet I wear in races." "That would be cool, Badger."

Of New Friends, Old Travels and Foreign Languages

On my desk before me, tucked between the two huge monitors I use at my state-of-the-art mission control unit stands a greeting card I received from a new friend. The way I met this new friend is at least surreal, odd, unusual and a tribute to the good nature and good taste of two good women. It may also be unusual in ways that are more negative than positive, but whatever it is, right now it just is. Likely this new friendship will be covered in a future post, but the friendship will have to last more than a few short weeks before the writing occurs. Some of the feelings are still developing. The note my friend wrote inside the card is penned with a fountain pen. Fountain pens are pleasing both to my friend and to me.

The monitors so techno and the card with such a simple, serene image seem oddly juxtaposed. The card shows a crude chair and a table set with simple, homely linen. Past an aloe vera plant, through a window set off by vivid blue shutters, one looks out upon lush greenery clinging to a wall in sunshine. The note on the back of the card says the scene is set in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico.

I've spent a minute or two in Puerto Vallarta, and that is what I shall write about today. Of course, most people of a certain age identify Puerto Vallarto as the place where The Night of the Iguana was filmed. But there is much, much more to that lovely, harborside place . . .

During the years that we bounced around on Stepfather's fine fishing vessels, we often took very long trips, flying to some major airport and then taking further transport to whichever harbor where the Linda Mia II was anchored. Often the various modes of transportation included climbing down a rickety ladder into a water taxi which delivered us to the boat. Linda Mia II was too large to pull up to the dock in some of the shallow harbors. We'd scramble up the swim step, tossing luggage, souvenirs, books, CDs and gifts for Captain Sean and Frances (Sean's girlfriend), a gourmet chef and the woman who maintained the boat like a fine, luxury spa. After we boarded, Sean would start the engines and we'd set out for up to 3 weeks at a time.

I remember Amber pressing her nose to the window as the plane descended, huge black eyes taking in everything. "There's Linda Mia, Baby, see her?" "Grandma, how do you know that's her?" "Sean said we're the biggest boat in the harbor and that one's the biggest." "OK, Grandma!" At 6, Amber had such a crush on Frances that this mother felt just a few twinges of jealousy. On the flight home from a trip I remember, the little girl sobbed as the plane took off. "What's wrong, Babe?" "I guess I'm just Frances-sick."

The turquoise Mexican waters offer the richest show of marine animals imaginable. Anyone who has never seen a sunfish on the hoof has missed one of the world's most beautiful sights. They're as big as a garage door and other-worldly looking. We once pulled a sea turtle on board because we could see it had miles of fishing line wrapped around one flipper which was grotesquely swollen. It took 10 adults working slavishly to bring that animal on board, but we did it. It took many grueling hours to remove the line, and that turtle did not appreciate one minute of it. When it was finally freed, Sean cleaned the wound, injected an antibiotic and the 10 of us put the ingrate back into the sea. The anglers in our group would sing you a hymn about the good fishing in those waters. I'm not an angler and I don't eat seafood. I go because I like to see what there is to see.

OK, so there are a million boat trips to be described and maybe someday I will, but this was meant to be about Puerto Vallarta. After 3 weeks at sea, we needed some time on land to see if we could still walk. We showered and dressed as Sean pulled us into a rental slip in the harbor. Eschewing any mode of transportation other than our feet, we walked from the dock into the plazas and shops in the streets. It was warm and picturesque, and the earth beneath our feet seemed wonderful.

Gathered around a gazebo covered with bougainvillea were some 20 teenaged boys and young men, just lounging around. One had an iguana draped across himself. "Hi, I'm your friend. Little girl want picture with iguana?" Amber was 6 and quiet, very shy. Ex, Grandma and I each asked her quietly, "What do you think, Sweet?" She studied that gigantic lizard and eventually nodded her head, "yes". My heart swelled with admiration because looking at that iguana was making me weak in the knees. Her bobbing head must have turned on a switch somewhere, because with her nod, each of those young men whipped out an iguana from beneath his shirt, up his trouser leg, or who knows where else? They began to descend upon us, each hoping we'd buy the picture with the little girl and his iguana. Amber's eyes were enormously round. Ex's fists came up. I guess he thought he was going to take them all on simultaneously. My mother blew the whistle she carries on her keyring. I, however, probably the most distressed in our group, was the one who backed them down. I zoomed back in time to Spanish class, autumn of 1967 when I went to school with Brother Badger. "Solamente uno!" I bellowed at the top of my lungs. It worked. They backed off. Although I may only look like somebody's old mom from the 'burbs, I can stand up a pack of lizard-wielding hooligans by yelling "Only one!" in their native tongue. The picture of Amber and the (one) iguana is one we treasure.

In my ears right now: Crocodile Rock ~ yes, I know it's a stretch, but I can't think of an iguana song, offhand.

Something that charmed me: Matt called me his homegirl this morning.

Independence Day

Ex and I moved to Las Vegas on the Bicentennial Day - July 4, 1976. My mother had beckoned, saying if we wanted to be homeowners at a relatively young age, we might forego SoCal for a few years and start building our financial foundation in a place that was booming (but it does always bust eventually). Stepfather was a general contractor building homes faster than I can type it. Mom was the real estate broker who sold the homes. A post was found for me as an escrow officer - I escrowed the homes. Ex learned landscape and sprinkler systems - he put in the yards. It was a nice little dynasty we had.

We left LA that morning in our yellow VW Beetle with four kittens aged 8 weeks, a tiny traveling litter box, and everything we owned. Our home was to be one of the model homes in Stepfather's latest development. It was beautifully upgraded and we were excited . . . until we arrived in Las Vegas in 113 degrees to hear that decorating on the new model homes hadn't been completed and we'd need an apartment for a couple of months. OK ~ we quickly got one.

The 2 months rolled by and we did move into that first home. It was where I morphed from a teenager to a young woman. I learned to entertain and manage a "large estate" (ha!), keep a yard in an impossible climate, prevent my pack of cats from terrorizing the neighborhood. I belonged there. We (finally) married while living in this home. We spoke of beginning a family there. We hosted my Granny, my Dad and every known relative there. When you live in Las Vegas, you get lots of house guests. Funny how that works!

It should be noted, however, that while Ex loved everything about Las Vegas, I did not. I just liked where my life was during the time we happened to be in Las Vegas. He trenched by hand for sprinkler systems at high noon in August, no shirt on, braids to his waist . . and loved it. If I got a little dewy from heat, I hated life. When it snowed and my car spun off the road, I was ready to pack it in. He trenched for sprinkler systems in the snow and loved it.

When the economy busted, we headed for San Diego for the next 21 years (well, 21 years for me). Amber was born. We lived in one place for the longest time I've ever lived anywhere. When we divorced, circumstances were such that Ex got San Diego and I got - oh, NO, I've already served my sentence there - Las Vegas. Viva. ;(

Shortly after I returned here in 2003, and while the divorce conflagration was still roaring, I took a ride in my car to a well-known neighborhood. I parked and got out onto the sidewalk. An older man and his dog were in the yard, which was beautifully maintained, as was the paint, the wrought iron trimmings, the concrete driveway. I started to cry and he asked if he could be of assistance. "I'm sorry, Sir, I used to live here." "Then you must be Limes." Huh?

Ex and I had left Las Vegas before the house sold. We'd never met the eventual buyers. This couple had now lived in my former home for more than 20 years, and one might call them houseproud because they clearly spent a lot of time taking care of their home. For many years they had received catalogs in the mail addressed to Limes Now and had seen my name in the concrete patio with the date 6-18-78. The wife made me a cup of tea and gave me an inspirational book and then these lovely people did the most amazing thing - remember, he'd just picked me up sobbing on the sidewalk and I hadn't presented ID.

They went out into the yard with their dog. I remained in "my" home to walk through the rooms alone. The block hearth and mantelpiece I'd painted every year because the soot and ashes made it messy. The carefully concealed bullet hole from Ex's gun going off unexpectedly. My name and Ex's on the patio. Numerous rose bushes in the yard that I'd planted with my own hands. In the master bedroom, ex once hung some wallpaper I'd fallen in love with. He'd done a credible job of it for a man who'd never hung wallpaper. There it was in 2003 . . and, yep - the ferns on that wallpaper were still upside down.

I've never gone back there. I don't need to. Ex divorced me. And I divorced him right back during my stroll through our past home.

It happens that I will have the rare 2 days off in a row this weekend. I need a major walk to continue training. I've plotted my route. From my present home past the house that Stepfather built to the apartment shared with Ex and the kittens (which is now a pretty rough area). One of those kittens was in my life 17 years and waited in the bassinette when I brought newborn Amber home from the hospital. Turn around and retrace my steps. I figure it to be 16.75 miles round trip. On the 4th of July through Las Vegas. From my present through my past and back again. Very fitting!

In my ears right now: The Star Spangled Banner, what else? And James Taylor's truly beautiful tune, "The Fourth of July".

Something that charmed me: Choosing my words very carefully, so as not to ruin young men for life, I was telling some of the home dudes about different challenges of extremely long walks in heat. One is perspiring everywhere so that shirt, shorts, socks and shoes are soaked by the time one gets home. I also mentioned that my skin is irritated from moisture. "Men's clear antiperspirant, Limes. Even in the weird spots." Well, yeah! Duh. I shall try it immediately.

Something else that charmed me: Writing the blog post and scheduling it to post while I am out on my 16+ mile walk. I'll return home and maybe have comments before I've even checked out the post. We live in wondrous times!

If You Commit the Sin of Sloth on Sunday is it an Even Deadlier Sin?

Dylan, the Villain, in his adolescence

Photo credit:
J. D. Morehouse


On Sundays, I am a slug. I allow myself this. I am a woman who runs at 90 mph at almost all times. I over-commit and usually do not fail to deliver, no matter what it takes out of me. By Sunday I am tired. I don't get up to the alarm, even if it means I have to go walking later in the day or even into the evening. I do the weights and bands, but sometimes I do fewer reps than on the other 6 days. My home typically looks like hell by Sunday, so there is some necessary rehab work to be done. Usually there are no groceries left anywhere, so that must be accomplished, too. I like to make dinner for a friend on Sundays, and that requires just a little bit of tidying up, selecting music, menu decisions and hair primping. Uh-oh. On Sundays I am not a slug. I just sleep in a little bit and run fast in a different way than on the other 6 days. Sometimes I am very, very tired. I don't do "take it easy" very well. I behave like my mother. And that is a sobering thought.

In keeping with my fascination of human beings connecting with one another, yesterday the oddest series of clicks happened. A man in Honolulu landed on one of our company's websites that I'm inordinately proud of because I created virtually all of it. He called me to inquire about services and was pulled to both my voice and what I had to say. He wouldn't hang up. I'd told him everything there was to tell and he wasn't ready to schedule services, but he wouldn't go away. Finally I said, "Well, let us know if we can be of service." He called back immediately to tell this long, winding story about his properties throughout Hawaii and the San Francisco Bay area where his girlfriend lives, and how they have one property here in Las Vegas but both the tenant and the property management company have disappeared and the girlfriend and her mother are here this weekend cleaning the house up, painting, etc. because they need to rent it and, and, and . . . "Well, that's funny, sir. I worked a number of years as a property manager." Silence. Three hours and too many interstate phone calls later and my resume e-mailed, my company was providing service at the home, one of our staffers had been engaged (off-hours, in his own time) as a handyman, another staffer had been asked if he'd like to rent the home, and - I think - I'm the property manager. Bank accounts to be opened, locks to be changed, ads to be posted. And I had thought it was just another Saturday in the salt mine!

In my ears right now: The Byrds, "He Was a Friend of Mine". Why I like it: it's about JFK. And while there's no question that Jim/Roger McGuinn is singing lead, David Crosby's harmonizing is so pronounced that it's more like he's got the lead. I like that I can pick David Crosby's voice out. No matter which group he's with at any given time.

Something that charmed me today: My little black cat, Virginia Woolf, is a needy thing, and I'm not home much. She is known to head-butt for petting and to leap into the laps of my visitors and me for immediate attention. This morning, as I ground the coffee beans, she tiptoed figure-eights around my ankles. As I've been sipping my brew and typing at the keyboard, she's made herself into a vibrating (purring) backrest behind me in my chair. It is good to be kept by cats.