HoHoHo

December 18, 2017

When Mom died, Swad (my pastor and dear friend) and Dad delivered the news to my brother and me together. I could be remembering it all wrong. I was just within a month of my fifth birthday, but since I've thought about that day about every day since then, I think I might be spot on. 

There are many layers to what happened when Mom died. I think the most interesting nuggets, though, are what happened in the wake of her death. 

Some things I won't say here. Some people don't appreciate my sharing. I get it.

She died on January 20. I have no memory of a Christmas or a birthday with her. 

But I do know that my stepmother, Nyds, took one for the team and did a family Christmas with her husband's dead wife's family every year. She did it. For us. 

The holidays. Wear. Me. Out. But when I think about what Nydia selflessly did for years, I know that I can find somewhere the strength to power through.

Swad navigated my tortured family through it all. And his beautiful wife, Betts, did the same. They have suffered loss as horrific as mine. But guess what? We all still laugh. We all still find a way.

Merry Christmas, folks. Every day I realize we are stronger than we knew. But as difficult and awkward as it may have been, I'd give my left non-existent nut for another Christmas with Nanny and Nydia. 😂😂😂

HoHoHo, sweet friends. All my love.

Sushi!

December 16, 2017

It was my last year coaching debate, and one of my last invitational tournaments. In this picture, my dear friend (and then senior) Chase, is begging me to skip quarterfinals of debate and go eat sushi.

It wasn't the most professional thing I've ever done, but I caved. He and Doug forfeited quarters and a sizable group of us went for sushi. If memory serves, we got back for the awards ceremony and won the tournament.

In that last year of coaching, I felt some of my standards slip. I had been so "balls to the wall" for so long, and, while I always wanted my students to do their best, I no longer could garner the motivation to crack the whip as I had. Instead, I had the absolute best time. I nurtured relationships with students who have become the truest friends. I made some memories. I skipped out on a debate round and had a lovely dinner.

Interestingly enough, that year we qualified more students to nationals than we had in years. Maybe the balls don't need to be to the wall. Maybe, sometimes, it's okay to eat a California roll and laugh and trust that what we've all learned together will be enough. 

Chase, thanks for the plea. It worked like a charm.

Eyes Wide Open

December 14, 2017

I have horrid insomnia. Since Drew was born, I can think of a handful of nights through which I slept. It's usually the 3-5am hours that find me wide-eyed. But there are variations on the theme.

And so it is that I find myself tonight. Or this morning, I suppose.

I've made a pledge of late that I won't allow the puppies (who aren't puppies) upstairs anymore. I had the carpets cleaned a week ago and I stuck to my weak promise for a while. But when I woke up at two, I decided the pledge lacked the allure of two sweet canines who stick to me like glue, given the opportunity. So now I'm flanked with doggies and watching Netflix. There are worse things.

I'm currently embroiled in "The Crown." It's a fictitious (maybe?) glimpse into the monarchy of England. It is engaging and beautifully acted. But as I watch now with the eyes of a crazed insomniac, it only confirms my staunch theory that marriage is something I cannot fathom ever again willingly choosing to choose. I do understand that there are people who are happily married--or so they claim. 

I am happy for those who find someone with whom it's not a noose around one's neck; or a prison sentence. I do believe it's possible. For me--and apparently for Queen Elizabeth in fictional 1959--it seems unkind. I wish to throttle Prince Philip, and I don't even know him.

Life, insomnia, dog ownership, are such mountains to climb. But freedom...my freedom...it just doesn't get any better. Even wide-eyed at 3am.

For my happily married friends, I salute you. For all the rest, this life on the other side is magical. Even if you're tired.

The Race

October 28, 2017

In July I was running a 10K. Hold up. This isn't a Nance/fitness moment. The point is, I made it through the 5K and seriously reevaluated my choice to 10K-it. At one point I thought, hey, I could run straight to my car and go home and no one would ever know.

But I would know.

I've thought about that gut-check moment a lot lately. Do you keep running or do you sneak off to the car? The question of toughness has arisen in the wake of my sweet aunt's recent stroke. This lady is the classiest of classy and the toughest of tough. She is the rock of our family. Seeing her vulnerable and weakened and suffering has shaken us all.

It has shaken her. And that's a first.

Among other maladies, the stroke made her cry involuntarily. In my 43 years, I'd seen her cry maybe five times. Those first days in the hospital she couldn't stop for a bit. She was as disarmed as we were. I slugged off to teach after I first saw her and, in the midst of all this, burst into tears in front of an unsuspecting composition class that was subsequently silent and seemingly terrified. In all those years of teaching public school, I'd not cried like this in front of a class. This, however, was more than I could apparently contain. I gathered my wits, though. I thought of what healthy Aunt Di would do, and I taught. Without tears.

Aunt Di would never sneak off to the car. As I've watched her work to rehabilitate and stay positive and retrain herself to do things that were once easy, I've watched her keep running. I know she will keep on. That's who she is. 

I struggle with the struggles of my family as age and bodies betray us all. It's hard. I'm not ready for the finish line for any of these folks. But their strength as they race on gives me strength. 

This, I know.

Weighing In

October 22, 2017

My Nanny, my mother's mother and my favorite person on planet earth until she left us now 22 years ago, told me my mama was teased and bullied for being heavy. Kids in Fort Scott threw rocks at her, she told me. Mom and I never had a chance to talk about that, but I know she struggled with her weight. I know--by virtue of a friend of hers--that when she died, she had a too-small pattern for a pantsuit laid out. She was a gifted seamstress. But she couldn't fit into the size she wanted. 

I have struggled all my life with my stupid weight. As a child, I ate everything I could get my hands on, anytime I could get my hands (or mouth) on it. I loved food. I lived to eat. Eating was comfort and I needed me some comfort. 

So I was a bigger girl with a bad haircut. People who knew me then might object, but I know what I know and how I felt in my big ol' corduroy walking shorts and brass barrette. I was tall enough I could kind of pull it off, but I wasn't the dainty blondes that surrounded me at my somewhat uppity elementary, junior, and high schools. For some reason, though, it didn't bother me much. Everything tasted too damned good.

But I went to college and suddenly I got the bug to be thin. For a long while I ate one meal a day. The pounds just dripped off. For the first time in my life I wasn't a big girl. I was hooked.

It's been 25 years since I caught the skinny bug. My weight has fluctuated a bit since then, but it nevertheless governs much of my life. I'm not as skinny as I want to be, but middle age also has its challenges. I don't eat like a normal person. I exercise habitually. Sometimes maniacally. Guilt over what I eat is a nasty weapon against which I have little ammo.

Why am I writing this? Eh, I don't know. Maybe I'm hungry. Maybe I recognize how ridiculous and trite are these concerns in the face of real trauma, heartache, poverty, disease, struggle.

Maybe I'm tired of fighting it. Maybe I'm angry Mama died feeling fat. Maybe I wish I had my dad's epic metabolism and I could eat and be teeny. (That would be amazing!)

I have two kiddos with completely different body types. Probably to a fault, I won't say a word about their weight. I desperately want them to be happy with what they see in the mirror. And healthy. That I want more than anything. 

But I know this: if I make it to heaven (and my fingers are crossed), it will be all you can eat. 24/7.

Praise the Lord.

Truth and Fiction

October 7, 2017

I am obsessed of late with a show on Amazon Prime called "One Mississippi." It is the creation of comedian Tig Notaro, who might be one of the smartest, funniest people on the planet. The show is a snapshot of her life after a double mastectomy, C-Diff, and the loss of her mother. Sounds like a riot, huh?

The thing is, it is.

What gets me even more than the dry wit that is characteristic of Tig is the deliberateness of her persona. The show is a blend of truth and fiction. But her persona is truth. Her life is unrushed. She speaks thoughtfully at every turn.

My point is this: I don't always speak deliberately. I don't always speak thoughtfully. My life is often rushed. Necessity at times breeds rushed, thoughtless dialogue. But it's my choice to make that my default setting. I think it's time for a reset.

Today I had a delightful lunch with my one of my college roommates. As we talked, I was struck by how thoughtful she was then and how so she has remained. She is deliberate and so kind. It was a gift to live with her for a couple years. Today's reunion was a gift as well. 

I always love it when my Amazon Prime life and real life come together ;). I'm deeply grateful for truth and fiction.

The Bliss

October 6, 2017

My bedroom hosts three windows that I keep open almost year round. See, I know money doesn't grow on trees and utilities cost money and I'm not raking in the dough, but fresh air is my jam. Even with the air conditioning or the heat on. And since I'm a single gal without a dictator/supervisor to govern her atmosphere/thermostat, I do as I wish. It's wonderful.

It's so wonderful.

My home is surrounded by tall, beautiful trees. Tonight, there is a wind that swells and retreats. I love hearing it come and go. Almost as much as I love hearing little Oscar sigh and moan in his charming doggie way at my feet. 

Domestic bliss comes in many forms. Tonight, it's a beautiful wind. And canines crowding me out of bed. And my babies in the next rooms. And tomorrow is Saturday. That helps, too :).

On the Ground

September 27, 2017


I spent part of the past couple of days at the funeral events of the father of one of my dearest friends. This man was a legend in his community and in every area of his life. He was truly a giant among men. 

His daughter is a wonder to me. She is the truest of friends and the kindest of people.  She is one of a kind. Just like her dad.

If you are a real friend, the pain of your suffering pal is yours. I would rather take on the hurt of someone I love than watch them suffer. Such is the case in these recent days.

I grew up in the mire of grief and funeral dinners. That's not martyrdom, that's just a fact. None of the difficulty of loss nor the ceremony of it are new to me. But I never cease to be amazed at how the raw evidence of this particular pain takes me aback. People matter. When they leave, there is a void that sometimes seems impossible to fill. 

The Bible tells the story of Job, who was the godliest of men, and from whom everything but his soul is taken. He had three friends who sought to help, but they were out of their depth. Job 2:12-13 says "When they saw him from a distance, they could hardly recognize him; they began to weep aloud, and they tore their robes and sprinkled dust on their heads. Then they sat on the ground with him for seven days and seven nights. No one said a word to him, because they saw how great was his suffering."

That has long been among my favorite Biblical nuggets. Sometimes you just show up. (Granted, friends also urged him to curse God and die, but that is not the good part of the story, folks.)

I think of all the people who have been there for me in my many moments of need. And I selfishly think about being the kind of person who warrants that kind of care. But I also think about being the kind of person who gives it. 

Loss ironically requires so much from those left behind. I am grateful for friends who I know would wait silently for me and have.  

I want to be the person on the ground. We all need support like that. From the ground up.

Home

September 10, 2017

I grew up in the Baptist church. And I mean that. Grew up there. If the doors were open, we were there.  It was my safe haven. I felt loved unconditionally. It was my home. Ironically, it’s called South Haven. I’ve loved it my whole life with my whole heart.

I credit the good people of South Haven with raising me in part, with saving my life (eternally and otherwise), with the best parts of me.  I was 6 when I declared publicly my belief in and love for Jesus. At that same altar I’ve witnessed the funerals of my mother, grandfather, grandmother, and too many fellow, beloved Baptists. I was married there, and so were my parents. My children came to know Christ there. I have laughed, wept, performed, lived there.

And I’ve been forgiven there.  That’s no small feat.  Nance has her flaws.  They are many.  And when I faced that sanctuary again in the wake of many mistakes and at the end of said marriage, I wasn’t sure if the love of South Haven would be as unconditional as I’d always believed.  But it was. It is.

Today I returned after a couple months away.  Between traveling baseball and other distractions, I had been absent from the church house for the longest time in my entire life.  All I felt back inside the walls of this home was love. My people are still my people.  They were happy to see me, and I them. Happy is an understatement. There is really nothing like how it felt to be home.

Christians get a bad rap these days, and sometimes rightfully so.  I struggle with some of the doctrine, some of the cognitive dissonance between love and, well, a seeming lack thereof.  I’m a Baptist Democrat, for heaven’s sake. We aren’t a dime a dozen! But what I felt today back in that pew and in the halls I’ve walked for four decades was the purest, kindest love. No degree of political disagreements, sinful interference (mine!), lack of understanding can take that away. It is real, and it is the foundation of the choice I made these many years ago to believe in a Jesus I’ve never seen. But I felt Him then and I feel Him now.

On this Sunday, when a hurricane rages and so many differences and difficulties challenge us one and all, I want to thank the dear lifelong friends who made me feel like the belle of the ball when I came home today. I’m reminded of my favorite verse in all the Bible. It is from the Book of Ruth, chapter 1, verse 16:  “And Ruth said, Intreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.”

Thank you, my people.

Home for a Day

September 2, 2017

I found myself today with a day unscripted:  no agenda, no place to be, no to-do list.  It is a rare day. 

There is something to be said for the unpainted canvas, the uncharted territory, the day yet unspent. As my day meandered from a lazy morning in bed with two slightly clingy pups to a spirited walk with a dear friend to a run on the trail to a book in the sun to music in the kitchen and some laundry and cleaning in between, I found myself so happy that at one moment tears sprang to my eyes. Being happy like this is a gift I never thought possible.

A few weeks ago I ended up in the hospital with a kidney infection that had turned septic.  In the words of the urgent care doctor who was explaining why I would be admitted, “you are sicker than you feel.” Well, I felt awful, but I just wanted to go home.  As I begged to do just that, the doc explained that it would just get worse and possibly become lethal. That’s when I shut the hell up and got in the ambulance. Hours later with drugs and fluids, I was a new woman. And grateful. Deeply, deeply grateful. But I was still desperate for home.

I returned home the next day to a rainy, fallish early August day.  I opened every window and reveled in my health and my freedom.  I savored the feeling of home. 

There is not a day that passes here in Freedom House when I don’t pinch myself at my great fortune. As I’ve watched the horror unfold in Texas this week, my gratitude for dry land, for my home and my babies who aren’t babies, for the absence of strife, for life, has overwhelmed me.  And as I’ve met new students the past two weeks in my various teaching locales, I’ve been Lifetime-Original-movie-aha-moment-overwhelmed at how lucky I am I get to meet them.

I am well aware that the other shoe can drop at any moment.  Everything can go up in flames or under water or to hell with one phone call, one bad decision, one blink.  But not today. Not while I’m watching the sun set from the porch swing.  Not on this unscripted day at home. This rare, lovely, unseptic, sunburned day. Amen.

Halpert can read. She is very advanced.

The Cry

August 20, 2017

The movie "Jackie" chronicles said First Lady in the worst moments of her life. I saw this movie months ago when it first was released. Gracie and I watched it together. She thought it was slow. I agreed, but I was moved by it in ways I couldn't describe at the time.

I've been in a bit of a mood of late, and have rewatched the movie via the miracle of Amazon. It is this scene that took me off my feet upon first viewing. And it has done the same this time around.

No one knows how this wife and mother really reacted after her husband was assassinated next to her. But Natalie Portman certainly does a masterful job of conveying what I believe to have been that reality.

When I was I child, I cried too much in private. I'm certain it wasn't healthy or at all okay. But in my world, if I didn't share my trouble, somehow, it was all mine. I was in charge of it. And it was thus easier to bear. At least that's how I make sense of it decades later.

I don't pretend to be an artist or a arbiter thereof, but when I saw this scene, something guttural struck within me. I'm not Natalie Portman. I'm not the slain president's grieving widow. But hurt is universal. Strangely enough, there is comfort there. At least there is for me.

Thumbtack Proof

July 30, 2017

Sometimes a euphoric feeling washes over me and it takes my breath away. It just did. On my porch swing on this beautiful Sunday. Thus this little ditty.

It's happiness.

I'm so happy that I am scared something will come along and wreck it all. Because it has. It will. That's the nature of the beast. For now, I hold tightly to this chapter of life that doesn't hurt. Bits and pieces will always hurt, but it doesn't hurt through and through. It's wonderful, through and through. I can't believe it's real.

When I was a child I would use a thumbtack to make holes in the wall next to my bed at night. I don't know why I did it. But it was satisfying in some weird way. It gave me control, I think, when I felt I had none. I shared a room with my brother until our mother died. I was four. The wallpaper was colorful. I dug crevices into it as I listened to the "Dallas" theme song from the television in the living room.

When we moved in with her parents, there was no wall just next to the bed. Instead, Nanny left the closet light on and I would memorize the different brands of shoes in boxes in that closet. She had quite a lot of Selby pumps, as I recall. And each night Nanny would climb into bed beside me and kiss me good night with Mentholatum smeared above her upper lip. I would often take a hefty dose. I didn't care. Getting to room with my Nanny was worth every mouthful of Mentholatum I unwittingly consumed.

But after Nanny and I were no longer roomies, my twin bed again rested against a wall. Again, I would carve away into that wall. It helped me, somehow. You see, when my hands weren't busy, my mind would race. And I wondered what happiness felt like. I would hold my breath and pray that I would go to sleep and wake up in a different life. One where I was happy.

It wasn't anyone's fault. I was a mess. And disclaimer: I'm well aware that I had it pretty great. Even with a dead mother and a bad haircut, life could be considered pretty wonderfully rosy by all sorts of first, second and third world standards. I'm very aware. But I digress...

It's decades later. I don't have a heartbroken grandmother who bathes me in her own brand of affection each day, snoring loudly to my left. I haven't a wall carved by my confused childhood pain. Rather, I've somehow carved out a life that doesn't make me hold my breath until I gasp desperately and pray to wake up in another one.

It's become clear to me of late that a key component of my own happiness is that I am in its charge. The bane of my existence as a child was feeling controlled and lacking any sort of choice over the course of my day, my life. As I look back now with the razor sharp vision of hindsight, I see that every deep hurdle I have fought as an adult has borne that weight: being trapped. Feeling trapped. I cannot bear it. It is my Achilles heel.

As a parent, I have tried to follow the wisdom of a dear friend of mine, who advised to say yes to your children as much as possible. I see now, as I hold on so tightly to this happiness for which I've always longed, that I have tried as best I can and could to give my children control. Choices. I hope they feel it. Power is every bit as influential as powerlessness. I wish my babes to have the former.

I don't hold my breath anymore, praying for happiness. Instead, it is happiness that takes away my breath.

I hold on tight. I am so grateful that I have the chance to see life through this lovely, powerful lens, with deep breaths. Every day. Sometimes a euphoric feeling washes over me and it takes my breath away. It just did.

Of Pickles, Patios and Housewives

June 21, 2017

I like pickles. Jars of them. At a time.

My aunt's homemade pickles are the stuff of my dreams. I hoard them like a miser, then eat a jar at once, standing blissfully over the sink.

I will take a jar of dill pickles, add an obscene amount of Splenda, marinate them, and then devour them. A bowl of olives is an extravagance that I will pound like tater chips. I love to sear my mouth with pepperoncinis or roast it completely with jalapeños.

Even pickled okra makes an occasional appearance on my weird buffet of condiments. Banana peppers, bread and butter pickles, sweet gherkins...my mania knows no bounds.

I'm also freakishly addicted to the outdoors. I'm not too handy with a tent, a campfire, or a steep hill, but I will mow, weed, dig, run, walk, toil as nauseum in 100% humidity and 100 degree temps. I really just want to live outside. Except when I want my hair to look legit. Then I would appreciate some electricity and a dehumidifier, thank you very much.

I also am strangely addicted to Bravo. That's the cable channel that showcases the Real Housewives of _________.  I can't help it. I cannot avert my eyes. It's the train wreck of reality tv and it begs my attention. (I want on record that I still READ, too. All brain cells are not lost. Just a few. But I still have me some literacy!)

Tonight I find myself with a rare moment of solitude. Three of my favorite vices have joined up in perfect concert: I'm watching Bravo, from the patio, eating pickled items with abandon. I know, I know. You're jealous. It's almost too much to bear, my friends.

It's the little things.

But the crazy thing is that this isn't little. I can watch ridiculous reality tv from outside my house, eat pickles by the pound, and apologize to no one. All I felt compelled to do was put it in writing. That's a big deal to a girl for whom such freedom once seemed truly ridiculous.

It all seems so silly now.

Some things, I discover, are worthy of note. Especially pickled, real, and from the porch.

Tiff

April 1, 2017

I was fifteen when I met her. In the choir room at Glendale High School our sophomore year, I quickly discovered that Tiff was a gorgeous, kind, long and lean force of bubbly energy and talent. Our friendship was instantaneous. She taught me to PRESS, which is a word and action in response to anything icky, uncomfortable, stressful. For example, her death makes me press. She would completely understand.

It was a Monday morning when I opened the front door to my Nydia, who told me Tiffany was dead. In the midst of the horror of this, her sweet husband didn't want me to find out another way.

I nearly collapsed under the weight of Tiffany's death. But I owed her more than that. I owe her more than that. She had buoyed me up so many times, I couldn't allow her death to sink me. That would have disappointed her.

Our dads were friends, and both named Bill. I called her parents "Father Bill" and "Mother Kay." She called my Pops "Father Rowe." I marveled at the joy in her home and her family life. Her folks were remarkable and she was the happiest person I knew who was real.

When she left for Baylor, I wept and she stood on her front steps giggling and waving excitedly. Were it any other, I might have been offended that she wasn't a tad sad to leave me and home. But it was Tiff.

We married two weeks apart and were in each other's weddings. She was the first friend to come into the delivery room after Gracie was born. I can still see her smile then. And I can still hear the love in her voice when Reagan was born, and when Will miraculously arrived. She loved them with all her bits and pieces and her whole heart.

I don't understand why chronic pain had to land on my exuberant friend. But it did. And as the years passed, layers of the onion peeled away and I realized how immensely talented this sweet girl was at hiding struggle. When she finally let me really see her, I loved her even more.

Her life became more and more confined as she fought neuropathy and back pain that I can't imagine. But when we talked, her focus was always outward. She was an incredible listener and an insightful respondent. She cared genuinely. And her laugh...

Tiffany was exceptional. She fought, she won  and lost, she cared, she hurt, she soldiered on. I will miss her greeting me with "My Nance!" I will miss her unconditional friendship. I will miss her. Forever.

But I will try to live a life that would make her laugh. That wouldn't disappoint. That wouldn't make her press.

I owe her that.

The Eyes Have It

February 9, 2017

I’ve been told I have complicated eyes. Lately I have given that observation particular thought.

My dad’s mama, our “Mimi,” lost her sight when I was eight or nine. She lived nearly 15 more years in the dark. She had survived two world wars, the Great Depression, birthing 10+ pound babies on the farm, working tirelessly on said farm, catching on fire while working tirelessly in the kitchen of said farm…the list goes on and on. As if all that wasn’t enough, glaucoma claimed her eyes. But she lived without complaint. She was a God-fearing woman who played the piano at her country church even when she couldn’t see the keys.  

As I get older, I think more and more of Mimi. I wouldn’t describe her as simple, but she did seem uncomplicated. She knew who she was and in what she believed and who she loved. She may have had an interior life fraught with turmoil, but nothing in her words, her demeanor, or her damaged eyes ever indicated as much. She was from a different generation, of course: private was private. Suffering was godly, as was blessing. Happiness wasn't the goal. Being good, however, was. On this, her sight was clear.

My thoughts turn to Mimi when I feel ripe with complication: the logistics of life, its emotional wear and tear, the delicate balance between giving and taking, the political and spiritual wars raging. Nothing I see is even a glimpse of what Mimi faced. But what I would give for an ounce of her goodness, her ability to weather a storm. 

What I would give for her sight.

Mimi is behind me, just before her vision was completely lost. I'm afraid her last memory of me is with that horrible haircut.