Author: Nancy Malcolm

I am a photographer, writer, mother, grandmother, wife, retired educator, friend, aunt, sister, and believer. I am a motherless daughter.
Posted in #Confessions, Aging

On Becoming Seventy or How I Thought I Would Be Grown-up By Now

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

            I cried the year I turned twenty-nine.  I boohooed and made such a big deal out of the last year of my twenties.  “I’ll have to be grown up now and learn about mortgages.  I’ll have to stop wearing short shorts and start acting more mature.  Should I cut my hair?”  These are the thoughts that swam through my mind as a young mother of two and looking back now, I wonder why I wasted the last year of my twenties on such foolishness.  Turning thirty did not end my short shorts days.

Daughter Lee in middle, little Amy K. daughter of a sweet friend, and me in short shorts…Rockport, Texas

            Ten years later, remembering my silly response, I stated that thirty-nine would definitely, absolutely be the year I became a real adult. I had one year to prepare myself for the forties, which everyone knows is the hallmark of maturity, the pinnacle of wisdom and sophistication.  My forties were filled with my children growing up, me finishing graduate school, and having a mortgage.  I felt mature beyond my years, but my shorts were getting a little longer, and I started buying readers at Walgreens.

            Thankfully, there was no angst the year I turned forty-nine: only a peaceful resignation that time marches on if you’re lucky.  Silently I marched into my fiftieth birthday with wonder and awe, and in true Boo fashion, my husband surprised me with a special gift. 

We celebrated quietly at home with a home-cooked meal and a delicious strawberry cake made lovingly by Boo. We were sitting at the table having just finished cake when a phone started to ring.  It wasn’t my landline phone, the ring was coming from one of my yet-to-be-opened birthday gifts. 
“Where is that coming from?  Why is my gift ringing?” I questioned.  “Boo!  What did you do?”

            And with that, I ripped the paper off of my gift, which was a beautiful UT Texas orange, flip phone.  My first, very own cell phone. “Hello?”  I said.

            “Surprise!” my daughter yelled. “You got a cell phone!  Happy Fiftieth!”

            Not only did turning fifty bring me a cell phone and other wonderful gifts, but it also brought me a huge red zit on the side of my cheek.  The location made it unable for me to disguise, plus it hurt like heck.

Welcome to your fifties, it said!  You thought you were over teenage acne, but alas, you’re not grown up yet!

Not long after my birthday zit, I had to have a hysterectomy and began hormone replacement therapy.  What is happening?  I’m not old enough to be over zits but too old to have children.  Fifty-one brought me a nice reprieve.

            Turning fifty-five or The Double Nickel, as Boo calls it, was like getting a bonus.  At fifty-five you are considered a Senior, at least AARP says you are.  IHOP, Chili’s, and McDonald’s want to give you freebies or discounted menus and even car rentals want to give you 10% off.  There’s quite a list of establishments that want to help you save money.  So, I ended my fifties on a high note by retiring and starting what some might refer to as living my best life. (in capris, not short shorts)

            When I heard that sixty was the new forty, I held onto that as I slid perilously into the big six zero.  But sixty-five brought with it all kinds of stuff that was hard to ignore.  For one thing, those dang Medicare phone calls started, and the commercials.  “Call this number NOW!”  All of a sudden my mailbox was flooded with advertisements for walk-in bathtubs, electric stair chairs, and even more discounts for seniors.  Was I now a true senior?  A senior-senior?  As the fliers for Medical Alert Systems and adult diapers kept flooding in, I realized that I’d made it.  I was NOW a mature adult.  Grown-up to the max.  The day I signed up for Medicare I felt as if I were in a barrel about to go over Niagara Falls.  No turning back.

                        And so it is as I approach my seventieth year of life.

            My mother was only thirty-three when she died.  I am immensely aware of my good fortune and blessings to have lived such a life as I have.  Her early death is not lost on me as I reflect on all she missed and the fact that she did not have the opportunity to grow old. It is a privilege denied to many.

            I know the true meaning of when you’ve got your health, you’ve got everything.  I used to lament about my hands, saying, “I’ve got my grandma’s hands!  Arthritic, wrinkled, and veiny.”  But, these hands have held my children and grandchildren and they’ve reached for Boo to steady me in life.  They’ve made meals, graded papers, planted flowers, and held the hands of loved ones who have passed from this earth.  I’m proud of them and all the ways they’ve shown up for me.  My hands tell the story of a life well lived.

My grandma was crowned Valentine Queen of her nursing home. (1980’s)

            So, on May 1, 2023, I will quietly arrive at my seventieth year of life, Lord willing and the creek don’t rise.   Gladly, I have not squandered this year worrying or plotting.  I’m neither afraid nor embarrassed. I am simply humbled and very grateful. 

And as for the short shorts, well I had a good run.  It doesn’t seem to matter so much anymore, and if seventy doesn’t say “mature” I don’t know what will because eighty is the new sixty and twice as fun as forty.

Posted in #Confessions, #Teaching

Rock Paper Scissors

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

          “Repite, por favor.”

            “Senorita?”

            “Senorita?”

            I heard my professor tap into the headset asking me to repeat the phrase that was just spoken on the tape we were listening to.

            “Senorita, verme despues de clase.”

            See me after class.

            For some unknown reason, I advanced placed out of two Spanish classes from high school and landed in a second year Novella class in which I did not belong. Because I had sailed through high school with little studying, I was ill-prepared to keep up with this high-level Spanish class at Baylor University.

            I slithered into the Professor’s office after class, and he wasted no time:

            “Senorita?  I will let you withdraw passing if you will just get out of my class.  You simply cannot continue.”

            His chair-side manner would never win a compassion award.  He offered no remediation or helpful guidance, as I was evidently slowing him down.

            “But my major. What about my major?  I wanted to be a Spanish interpreter and travel the world.”

            “Oh, Dios mio!  No Miss.  You must not continue.”

            “Ok.”  I said, “But, what do I need to do now?”

            “Just go.  I’ll take care of the withdrawal.”

And so, I went back to my dorm room to pour over the curriculum courses trying to find a new major.  Becoming a Spanish interpreter and traveling the world was no longer an option.  How do you say, ‘end of the line,’ in Spanish?

            Because I had learned to sew with my grandma growing up, I thought I could be a fashion designer, which sounded as exotic as a Spanish interpreter.  I did love fashion and as far as I knew I would not have to take any foreign language, so it seemed the perfect fit.  I called my daddy that next weekend to tell him my news and shockingly it did not go the way I predicted.  I explained the Spanish class situation and that I withdrew with a passing and not a failure.  Then I told him my grand plan to become a fashion designer and see the world.

            “No, you will absolutely not become a fashion designer,”  he said.

            “But Daddy…” I interrupted.

            “No buts.  The only acceptable majors are teaching, or nursing.  That way, if your husband dies later in life, you will have a career to fall back on.”

            “But, Daddy, a fashion designer is a career.”

“Nancy Lynn, you need to become a teacher or a nurse, marry a nice, educated man when you graduate, be a stay-at-home mom and live happily ever after.  That’s what you need to do unless you want to start paying your own tuition and then you can waste your own money on fashion designing.  Comprende’?”

            “Yes, Daddy.”

            “O.K. honey, get this taken care of as soon as possible.  Love you.”

            “Love you, too, Daddy.”

            My exciting idea about fashion designing morphed into a Bachelor of Science degree in Home Economics.  My certificate would allow me to teach grades 8-12 Home Economics and Science: and also, Kindergarten.  And although I had never ever, even once thought about being a teacher, it seemed that was my best option. 

            In my junior year at Baylor I met and fell in love with a law school student who was also a widower, ten years my senior and had a six-year-old daughter. We fell for each other in lightning speed and got married six months after our first date. “We got married in a fever, hotter than a pepper sprout!” as Johnny Cash would have said.

            His mother had been a teacher, so he was as happy about my teaching certificate as Daddy was.  We got married before my senior year, and Daddy even agreed to finish paying my tuition as long as I graduated at the end of the year, and that is exactly what I did.

             After my graduation, my ‘then’ husband still had two more semesters of law school, so we decided that our daughter, Lee, and I would move back to his hometown of Killeen, Texas and I would apply for teaching jobs.  My interview with the Killeen Independent School District happened to be the same day we drove from Waco pulling a U-Haul trailer.  Sixty-one miles of pulling a trailer and entertaining a six-year-old left me a little less than fresh as I pulled up to the Human Resources building,(trailer and all) and after a short introduction, I was told to head straight over to the junior high school.

            “Go on over to the junior high and I’ll call the Principal to expect you.  This could be your lucky day,” the Human Resource Director said.

            When we arrived at the junior high, Lee and I went into the front office, and I introduced myself to the secretary.

            “Mr. Lawson is expecting you.  Your daughter can wait out here with me if you like,” she said.

            The school was old and definitely across the railroad tracks.  I just didn’t know if it was on the right or wrong side of those tracks.  And since Killeen, Texas was near Fort Hood army base, I knew there would be a large population of military children attending the school.

            Before I knew it, Mr. Lawson came out and introduced himself to me and Lee. 

            “Be good, sweetie, and I will be back soon,” I said to Lee and sat her in a chair by the counter in the front office.

            Mr. Lawson and I had polite chit chat and he asked questions about my teaching philosophy.  I had no philosophy about teaching or anything else, really.  I was barely twenty-two years old and well, quite frankly, I thought this teaching gig would be a breeze.

Five minutes into our interview we heard ‘click click, likity tickity, click, click.’  We continued talking but when the clicking sound kept on he said, “Maybe we better check on your little one.”  Opening his office door we saw Lee, singing softly to herself and tap dancing on the freshly waxed office floor.  The secretary clapped and cheered, “Bravo!” and Mr. Lawson turned to me saying, “Well, I have to offer you the job now after a performance like that!  School starts in two weeks, what do you say?”

            “Yes,” I said hugging Lee.  And just like that I moved to a new city, with a new family and a new career.

            I became a teacher, something I never aspired to be or dreamed of being.  It was by default from a Spanish Professor who wanted me out of his class as much as I wanted to be out.  It was a life decision I fell into by sheer chance and because my daddy had a vision of what a woman should and should not do. Was it luck?  Would you call it fate?  Both sound too romantic for what it really was, happenstance.

            I became a teacher, averaging way more than the “forty hours a week and summers off,” that a few foolish people believe is true.  My heart was captivated by the sometimes hopeful, sometimes hopeless faces I would meet each year.   Come August, I planned to do better than the year before and create an atmosphere of learning and respect, and each May I looked forward to time away from the constant responsibility and work, which is teaching.  It was a rhythm I would repeat for thirty-six years.

            In 1990-91 I taught Kindergarten at Clear Creek Elementary School on Fort Hood army base in Killeen, Texas.  The Gulf War had just started when we began school that year and what I remember most are the children and mothers crying each morning as they separated for the day.  In my classroom, our main windows faced the highway, and right next to the highway were the railroad tracks.  The trains ran all day and all-night loading and unloading equipment, tanks, and personnel and often my twenty-five little charges would be gathered three deep looking out the window hoping to see their mothers or daddies.

            “Come away from the window now,” I would say.  “Let’s read a book.”

            “But I think I see my daddy,” one child would say, and the rest would press close, hoping for a glimpse.

            Our school was on high alert and the MP’s (Military Police) were positioned by the doors while nearly every day a young mother would come to check out her children in hopes of moving back home where they could be near family.  It was a chaotic year, yet one I felt most honored to be a part of.  I felt my calling to not only teach these children but also to love and nurture them, providing a safe, calm oasis during their otherwise stressful days.

            As time went on, I became the kind of teacher I could be proud of.  I became a teacher with a heart.  A heart for students from all walks of life, backgrounds, and nationalities.  A heart for loving the hard to love and a heart to bring discipline to a troubled spirit.  I enjoyed each grade level, each school, and each role I played from Kindergarten teacher to Assistant Principal of a large high school.  The job requirements might change but the essence of a teacher stays the same.  Connection.

This connection changed my life in a million different ways, all better than I could have ever imagined.  My heart learned when to be tough and when to be tender.  My patience grew by leaps and bounds as eventually, I became exactly what I was always meant to be.

 A teacher.

Posted in #Confessions, Aging

Smooth Sailing

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

Recently, because I’m of a certain age, it was time for that dreaded medical test, the colonoscopy.  Everyone fifty and older has a reaction when the word is even spoken, and everyone has their own story surrounding the event and process.  It’s a rite of passage.

“It’s the prep that’s the worst part!”

“Hope you have smooth sailing and that everything comes out ok!”

Oh, the jokes can go on and on and while potty humor does help during this most humbling time, we all know the importance of making sure we are up to date on our tests.  We know it is necessary.

Importance notwithstanding, it is one of the most dreaded, talked about, and joked about medical procedures we older folks have.

Ten years ago, I had the joy of prepping for an upcoming colonoscopy.  I had Boo arrange to get off work so he could take me and bring me home.  I drank all the liquid concoctions, took the pills, and showed up at 7:30 a.m. clean as a whistle, and ready to go. (pardon my pun)

“Good morning!” the cheery desk clerk sang.

“Nancy Malcolm.  I’m here for my colonoscopy.”

“Hi, Ms. Malcolm.  Let me get you checked in.”

Pages began to shuffle and ruffle.  She glanced back up at me, “Did you say, Malcolm?”

“Yes,”  M  A  L  C  O  L  M

The calendar came out.  More shuffling of papers.

Then she grabbed the calendar and said, “I’ll be right back.”  And she was.

“Uh, Ms. Malcolm?  Your appointment is tomorrow.  We have you down tomorrow, the 7th with a 6:30 a.m. check-in.”

I’m pretty sure my heart stopped as I asked, “Are you certain? Oh, my goodness, are you sure?  I had it down for the 6th at 7:30 a.m.”

“No, I’m sure. See?”  And she turned the calendar to show me. “You’re the doctor’s first patient tomorrow.  The 7th with a 6:30 a.m. check-in.”

I felt a flip and gurgle in my stomach, and I thought I would either pass out or take off running to the bathroom, instead, tears welled up and my face got hot.  My lip began to quiver and as it did, a salty tear ran down from the corner of my eye.

“I don’t think I can do this again or go without eating for another day.”  I turned to look at Boo who was all comfy in his chair with a fresh coffee and reading the news on his phone.

“Why don’t you take a seat, and I’ll talk with the nurse.”

“Ok,” I slobbered and dejectedly turned toward the row of chairs near Boo.

I sat down and before he even glanced up from his news, he said, “Ready for action?”

“It’s tomorrow,”  I whispered through my tears.  “I’m on the wrong day.”

His face didn’t move, but his eyes peered up at me in shock, “Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m sure!!” I said a little too loud and as I looked around, I saw people staring at me sideways with pity and horror.  My saga had played out as their worst nightmare, and they were checking their own paperwork and sighing with relief. 

Silently, I sat while Boo debated on whether to question me further or just sit quietly in solidarity.  He patted my knee.

“I’m waiting for the nurse to tell me what to do,” I offered, and he patted me again.

“I’m so hungry,” I said to no one in particular.  “And water.  I need a drink of water.”

I went to the restroom.  Walked around the waiting room.  Tried to read the news over Boo’s shoulder and then just sat and stared into space. Finally, I walked up to the window again.

“Did you find the nurse?” I asked the desk clerk.

“Yes, she’s in the OR.  She’ll come out when she can. We have to wait.”

“Ok,”  I whispered.

 Twenty minutes later, a nurse came out and called me over to the side of the room. As I walked over to the door where she stood, I felt all eyes on me.  The collective waiting room leaned one ear toward us, trying to be nonchalant.

“Ms. Malcolm?”

“Yes.”

“The doctor said he will fit you in this morning, but you’ll have to wait an hour and a half.”

“Yes, yes, Ok.  Thank you.  Thank you.  Thank you.” I said.

She wasn’t smiling, although I wanted to hug her anyway.  “Don’t go anywhere,” she said. “And don’t eat or drink anything.  Not even water.”

“Of course.  I won’t.”  And she turned to leave.

Sure enough, an hour later, she came back to get me.  Most of the gawkers from the waiting room had already been called to their appointments, so I kissed Boo’s cheek and said, “See you soon.” 

“Good luck, Babe,” he said, and I began my walk of shame to the room where I put on my gown and waited for my IV.

“Did they tell you what happened?” I asked the nurse as she finished sticking me with the needle.

“I heard,” she said.  “You got lucky this time.”

“I know,” I said, and they wheeled me off to the OR.

“When do I get the happy juice?” I kept asking, and finally, the doctor said, “We might be able to find you a little bit, even though you’re here on the wrong day,” and then he laughed.  That’s all I remember till later that day.

I was still groggy on the drive home, but that evening as I was more awake, I went to the pantry for a snack.

“Cheetos!  Boo!  How did these Cheetos get here?”

He came into the kitchen and just stared at me.  “Are you serious right now?”

“You know I can’t control myself with Cheetos and now I’m going to have to eat some.  But I’m throwing them out after that.  You shouldn’t tempt me.  You know I forbid Cheetos in the house,”  I said.

“Boo,” he said.  “You threw a fit driving home after your procedure and made me stop at 7-11 for a big bag of Cheetos.  I tried to suggest something else, but you said you deserved them after all you’ve been through today.  You insisted.”

“Really?”

“Super really.”

“Sorry, babe,” I said as I crammed a handful of Cheetos into my mouth.

That was definitely one colonoscopy for the books.  So, this past week when I was scheduled again, ten years later, for my colonoscopy, I had already checked and rechecked my dates and times.

When I met with the doctor three weeks ago, he said, “If all goes well, and you do the prep perfectly so that I get a clear picture, and everything looks good, this could be your last colonoscopy.  You’re almost seventy, so in ten years you’d be eighty.  If this doesn’t kill you it will most likely be something else.  Consider it a perk of getting older.”

And then he went on; “Make sure you follow the prep instructions perfectly.  This morning I had to tell a lady she has to come back next week.  I saw corn.”

“Corn?”

“Corn.  She said she didn’t eat anything and followed the instructions, but I didn’t get a clear look.  I know corn when I see it.  No food and no corn.”

“No corn,”  I promised.  “You can count on me.”

Friends, getting older is not for the faint-hearted.  Literally.  I followed the prep instructions, starved myself for two days, and showed up on the right day at the right time and sure enough, everything went according to plan.  There was absolutely no way I was going to have to come back next week.  No corn for me.   It was all smooth sailing.

Posted in Friendship

2023:  The Year of the Un-resolution

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

            I’m getting too old to make New Year’s resolutions.  I can’t take the shame anymore when I don’t do what I announced to the world was so important and life-changing.

            Drop ten pounds; Dry January; Clean house and organize the clutter; Exercise more; Call family every week; and start a yoga practice.  I might as well add inspire world peace and write a New York Times bestseller.

            Lately, I’ve been mesmerized by the people on Tik Tok videos.  My children are chagrined that I have watched these and think they are cute and funny. (mostly ridiculous) 

            There are actually people who have pre-made a delicious no-carb salad and are eating it on the fly while they carpool or run errands.  One lady bragged that if you didn’t have a fork, just take a bite out of the whole cucumber you packed and make a scoop to eat with.  Who packs a pre-made salad for running errands?  We’re all in the Chick Fil A line fighting for nuggets and talking ourselves out of French fries.

            I’ve made resolutions to organize my house and even asked one of my daughters to help.  Not that I was embarrassed, but I did feel ‘some kind of way’ the third time she held up a plastic bag and asked, “Why is this in here?”  or gift bags and totes… “Mother, why are you saving these?  Do you need all of these tote bags?  You should just pick three you like and donate the rest.” 

Really?  Have I taught her nothing??  You never know when you will need the perfect size, shape, and appropriate holiday gift bag or need to schlep something from here to there.  In my book, you can never have too many. 

            Is that reason for a resolution or an intervention?  It’s a close call either way.

            “This year I’m only going to eat whole foods.”  I can’t even say that without laughing.  I’ve professed that one too many years to even count.   Are Sugar-free Hazelnut creamer and Nature Valley Protein bars whole foods?  Of course not!  Therefore, I rarely make it past breakfast the next day.

            “This year I’m going to do sit-ups/crunches every day for 365 days.”  Except when I don’t feel like it or I ate too much the night before or I’m too busy watching Tik Tok videos.  I have to admit, this one gets me every year and every year I start out strong, hoping to make it past that dreaded two-week mark.  Something always gets in my way, like procrastination or apathy. 

            “This year I’m going to write one heart-felt letter to each person I love and appreciate.” Just one letter a week for fifty-two weeks.  My dear friend Ginger inspired me, but as I rounded week five I stopped remembering what I loved and appreciated about certain people and came to a stall.  I was having to force myself to find enough redeeming qualities to complete the letter, and wasn’t that like missing the point?

            Years ago, when Boo and I first got our Fitbits, we made a resolution to walk twenty-one miles a week.  Then Boo got carried away and vowed to walk four miles a day, twenty-eight miles a week or the equivalent of walking to Baltimore, Maryland (1560 miles) in one year.   Because I didn’t want to be outdone, I agreed to his revised resolution, too.  Every day we trekked along, at first happy and positive, until I finally had a meltdown.  I started to feel angry at Boo and dreaded our daily outings, cursing under my breath. 

            “You never talk. You won’t hold my hand and you’re just not sweet when we walk,” I announced.  “I thought this was our thing!”

            Clearly, what we had was a failure to communicate.  I envisioned our walks as time to connect emotionally.  Our special time together getting to know each other on a deeper level.

            Boo envisioned our walks as time to log four miles a day, twenty-eight miles a week. 

            “I’m trying to strengthen our marriage and make connections on a deeper level,” I cried.

            “I’m trying to walk fifteen hundred miles in a year.  That’s as deep as I can get.”

            I finally let go of my walking to connect dream and eventually I went to the gym, and he kept walking.  Yet another of my resolutions that bit the dust.

            One year I vowed to become a weightlifter.  I began a woman’s weightlifting class at the YMCA and went diligently for six months.  I loved it and felt so strong.  I would come home and flex my muscles and bought sleeveless tops to accentuate my biceps.  The problem was my age.  I was the oldest woman in the group.  I tried to keep up as best I could.  I never moaned or complained unless I had to, and I tried to stay positive even though some days it hurt to breathe. I was among young mothers who had recently given birth, and forty-something divorcees trying to get their mojo back.  The comments started to get to me.

            “I wish my mother would exercise like you do.”

            “I hope I look as good as you when I’m your age.”

            “Wow, you’re really doing good for being a grandma.”

            As the class got more difficult, I started to slow down.  Arthritic hands and knees can only do so much.  Eventually, even Jack LaLanne had to tone it down, or did he just up and die?  Either way, I did complete this resolution and although it was not always pretty, I still refer to it as my glory days.

            So, here it is, two weeks into 2023 and I really don’t have a resolution for the new year.   Whatever I do, I know I want to be creative, like maybe making a TikTok video.  If Lisa Rinna can just dance around her house in sweatpants and have billions of followers, surely I can find a geriatric niche that draws in the same size of viewers.  My 2023 resolution could be to post something we older folks would like to see on TikTok or Instagram.  A video about incorporating pre and probiotics into your healthy diet, brewing the perfect cup of Matcha tea, or dancing to the oldies remix.

Even though it’s not January 1, I think there’s still time to make my resolution proclamation.

 I will ‘dance like no one is watching,’ and make my TikTok video.   And I will remember the quintessential words of wisdom and inspiration: ‘today is the first day of the rest of my life.’  I think that’s a good start!

Happy 2023!

Posted in Friendship

Grandmothering  

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm
Grandma and me

When I was young, my Grandma was already old.  She was sixty-something when I was born, and I thought she was the oldest grandma I ever knew.  She had gray hair, walked with a cane, and had veiny, arthritic hands that had worked hard all of her life.

Our youngest grandchild was born in 2017 when I was sixty-four years old.  The irony of thinking about my ‘old’ grandma is not lost on me because I obviously color my hair, and during my knee replacements, I used Grandma’s cane to get around.  I often look down at my hands and wonder who they belong to, but I recognize these faithful ten.  They are my grandma’s hands.

Sundays after church at the First United Methodist Church in downtown Amarillo, my dad, brother, and I would go to Grandma’s for lunch.  She would cook a pork roast or fried chicken, mashed potatoes, two vegetables, and have a plate with white and wheat bread on it, with a mound of margarine, not butter.  For dessert,  there was always a pie.  Apple, peach, pecan, coconut cream, or lemon meringue, she could make them all, and each one was delicious.  Grandma would perk a fresh pot of coffee for her and my dad to enjoy with their meal and pie.  The coffee was perked on the stove and would last her a good two days or more.

“Pass the cream and sugar, please,” she’d say once we sat down at the table, and then she would pour a little splash of Pet Evaporated Milk, and a heaping spoonful of sugar into the dark, rich coffee to lighten it up.

 After our meal, we would each pass our plates to Grandma, who would scrape our scraps into a pile to be thrown into the compost.  Then my dad would take a nap and we would entertain ourselves until he woke up.  Woe to the one who caused him to wake up before he was ready.

While Daddy was napping after our Sunday lunch, Grandma would make us play Canasta.  Grandma was serious about her Canasta and used little round, plastic cardholders that eased her arthritic hands while she held her cards so no one could see.  She could play for hours, while my brother and I often lost interest after the first round or two.  But, at Grandma’s, we did what Grandma said.  We could sit out on the front porch and watch the cars drive by and see the coming and going of neighbors, or we could water her zinnia’s out back or pick up pecans from under the tree. And that was the long list of activities at Grandma’s.

Martha, my grandma, was also a wonderful seamstress.  She taught me to sew, and we spent hours in her bedroom with the black, push-pedal Singer sewing machine making dresses for me and my dolls.   Her quilts were all made by hand, so we sat by the window and with needle in hand, took small, tight, methodical stitches which one by one created a beautiful scene. Grandma only allowed me to stitch on my own small squares of fabric, while she tended to the quilt. My favorite quilt that Grandma made was out of scraps of corduroy.  The corduroy had been used to make me winter pants, and a house coat for herself, and one for my doll.

“You have to take your time, darling,” she would say to me when I got in a hurry.  “Let’s rip it out and do it again.” And because it was Grandma, I did.

When my girls were young and I was teaching school,  I made them special dresses and even corduroy pants with my new and improved electric sewing machine.  I sewed my wardrobe each summer for the teaching year ahead, but I’ve never made a quilt.  I don’t have the patience Grandma did for quilting and other things like her perfect pies.

Anyone who really knows me, knows I’m not a dessert person.  I can bake the perfect Grandma pie for Thanksgiving and Christmas, but as Boo always likes to say, “You’re a good cook, but you just don’t cook with love.” 

And that is true.

My grandkids have grown up with my slice-and-bake chocolate chip cookies, while my brother and I had homemade oatmeal raisin and sugar cookies with half of a pecan baked on top.   My grandchildren have Sister Schubert cinnamon rolls for breakfast, while Jimmy and I had Grandma’s famous homemade cinnamon rolls, the size of a salad plate, slathered with homemade icing.

When our grandkids come for a visit we say things like, “What would you like to do?  We’ll do whatever you want.”  I guarantee that sentence never came out of Grandma’s mouth.

We know what movies are on at the theaters.  We have cards for Dave and Buster’s, and we have fish sticks, tater tots, pizza, and chicken nuggets in the freezer.

            “I’ll take care of the desserts,” Boo will volunteer because he knows I’m not good at sweets and also I’m likely to suggest fruit.

We have car seats, booster seats and toys galore.  We record all the movies and shows they like so they don’t have to watch commercials.  We take them on trips and support their scout cookie sales, and we plan our holiday decorations around what we think they would like.

My grandma had neither the means nor inclination to do any of those things, but she did what she could and quite possibly, that was more than enough.  Grandma gave herself, her time, and her experience.  She wasn’t gushy or overly lovey dovey, but she was dependable and kind.  She was affectionate and Godly.  She was simple in her ways but extravagant in her love. And I hope my grandchildren feel the kind of steady love from me as I felt from my grandma because that means more than any toy or trip.

Two weeks ago, our little granddaughter was spending the night and as I lay in bed with her, having read a unicorn storybook, she asked, “Will you scratch my back?”

            “Of course,” I said, “But just until you fall asleep.”

She turned her little back to me and snuggled her soft blanket to her face, and my heart melted a little bit more.  I felt her relax, and I realized the trust she has in me.  I immediately thought of Grandma and how I would snuggle on her lap and ask that very same thing. “Will you scratch my back?”   She always said yes, which means she has another star in her crown, for the selfless time and comfort she gave to my brother and me.

As grandmothers go, I’d like to think of myself as a good one.  Nannie, they call me, and when they do, it’s like a blessing to my heart.  Someday they might reflect on how ‘old’ Nannie was and the way her knees creaked when she got down on the floor, but hopefully, they’ll remember the back scratches and hours of crafting or nature walks and the abundance of love.

Posted in #Confessions

I’m Not Afraid To Be A Scaredy Cat

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

            Recently I called my brother to ask, “Did we go trick-or-treating when we were little?”

            “Surely we did.  Didn’t we?”

            “The only thing I remember is one time Daddy drove us to the ‘rich’ neighborhood so we could get good candy.”

            “Oh yeah, but our paper sacks were a dead giveaway that we weren’t from their hood.”

            I’ve never been one for spooky stories or movies.  I don’t like spiders, ghosts, or demons.  I don’t listen to scary sounds or scary music, and I like the lights on.  No pitch black for me. 

I’m not afraid to be a scaredy cat.

            Right before the sixth grade, we moved across town, in Amarillo, to a newer neighborhood and a new school.  That year I was eleven years old, and sixth grade was a conundrum of emotions and hormones.  I was already 5’6” and filling out, shall we say, so there was no hiding the fact that I was the ‘new girl.’  I was the tallest kid in my class and had just gotten braces on my teeth.

            In spite of my newness, I was invited to a Halloween party at Tim Parker’s house, one of the cutest boys in 6th grade.  I may not have known everyone invited, but I knew they were the IN crowd and that I should be happy I was included.  The invitation was a little loose on details:  Meet at Tim’s house at 7:00 p.m. to play games and go Trick or Treating!   Conveniently, Tim Parker lived right down the street, so I planned to walk over at 7:00 p.m. and join the fun.  There was just one catch.  I knew my daddy, J.C. Claughton, Jr., would not let me go to a boy/girl party IF he knew about it.  So, I told him I was going trick or treating with my best friend and her brothers.  He would never understand that this party was a matter of life and death as far as my popularity was concerned. 

            For some unknown reason, my daddy didn’t check out my story, and at 7:00 p.m. that Halloween night, I walked over to Tim’s house ready to bob for apples, eat candy and laugh with my new friends.  I pushed down the guilt over not telling the truth and promised myself that next time I would do better. 

            I rang the doorbell and could already hear laughter coming from inside Tim Parker’s house, then everything got quiet.  The front door opened slowly but no one was there, and after waiting a couple of minutes, I took two steps inside calling, “Hello?  Hello?  Tim?”

            “BOO!” screamed voices from inside, and I jumped three feet off the floor.

            Everyone was laughing and after I gathered myself, I pretended to laugh, too.

            “Come on, we’re all in the basement,” Tim said.

            In Amarillo, as other West Texas towns, a lot of homes have basements in case of tornadoes or excessive hail.  Most basements are finished out with carpet, ping pong tables, and other activities for the kids, as well as blankets, flashlights, and safety equipment.  As I followed the others back down the stairs to the basement, I was already starting to feel that I might have made a poor decision.  The room was dark, except for a candle lit in the middle of a circle of kids, and the stereo was playing House of the Rising Sun, by the Animals.

            Two couples were slow dancing in the corner and everyone else was sitting in a circle with a candle and an empty bottle of Coke.

            I walked over to the circle and Lisa Claythorn patted the floor, “Sit by me,” she said, and just as I did, the music switched to The Beatles, She Loves You. Yeah, Yeah, Yeah!

            “Let’s start the game,” I heard one boy say.  “Spin it!”

            As unworldly and immature as I was, I still knew what Spin the Bottle meant.  A bottle is placed on the floor in the center of the circle.  A player spins the bottle and must kiss the person to whom the bottle points when it stops spinning. The problem was I had never kissed anyone before.

            A girl with long, red hair took the bottle and twirled it so hard, the bottle literally slid across the floor.  It landed pointing at a boy named Steve, who was in my class.  They both laughed and the circle of kids howled.  “Oooooo! Kiss!  Kiss!  Kiss!”  This red-headed girl, whose name I did not know, shook her head, flicking her red, glistening hair away from her face, and rose up on her knees.  She leaned forward and as she did, Steve leaned in for the kiss.  Oh, my goodness, how I wished I was dressed in a silly costume yelling “trick or treat!”

After the first spin, I was relieved yet nervous that I might be next.  I started to sweat and tried to calculate the odds of not having to spin versus who I would have to kiss. 

            “If you don’t kiss, you have to go through the spider webs in the closet and stick your hand in a bowl full of brains,” Tim said.

            As I sat calm on the outside, heart pounding on the inside, I thought about the whole kissing thing.  Lick my lips or stay dry?  Did the red-headed girl lick her lips?  Mouth open or closed?  Quick or slow?  Eyes closed or open?  What about my braces?

            “Where’s the restroom?”  I whispered to Lisa.

            “Upstairs,” she said, and I jumped up saying, “I’ll be right back.”

            I lingered as long as I could without seeming strange and made my way back to the circle.  In a haze of slow motion and fearful dread, I sat down in the first empty place.  Pat Fite, the absolutely cutest boy in the world, spun the bottle looking right at me.  As soon as my eyes locked with his, I diverted my gaze to the bottle which was beginning to slow down. What am I going to do if it lands on me?  Why did I even come here?  My throat is dry and probably my lips.  What if the bottle doesn’t land on me?

            My mind was racing, my heart was pounding, and my stomach felt as if it was ready to regurgitate everything I had ever eaten. The bottle was creeping to a standstill. I could see it pointing directly at the girl next to me, yet it continued to move in half-inch increments. It stopped right in front of me and when it did, the lights started to flicker, and we heard loud steps bounding down the stairway.

Tim’s big brother and two of his friends landed in the basement yelling, “Come on you guys!  It’s time to do some tricks!”  Everyone jumped up and our kiss was quickly forgotten.

            “Let’s go, come on!”  Tim’s brother said.  “Everyone has to steal a pumpkin and smash it!”

            Still sweating, but trying to play it cool, I said I had to be home by 8:15, and started moving toward the door.  Pat Fite touched my hand and said, “Maybe next time,” and the turntable played Don’t Let The Sun Catch You Crying by Gerry and The Pacemakers.

Once outside, the group went one way, and I went the other. Pat Fite called, “See you in Homeroom!” And I waved goodbye.  Waiting until the group was at the corner,  I ran the rest of the way home and as I breathlessly closed the front door, I heard Daddy call, “Did you get any good candy?”

Posted in Boo, Contemplations

Boo #27

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

            We were standing in the kitchen, deciding which chips to have with lunch, when I noticed Boo was looking in his pill organizer.  You know, the Monday through Sunday plastic medicine container that has A.M. and P.M.?

            “Dang, I took my day pills at night again,” he said.

            “You’re kidding, right?”

            “No, I’ve done it before.”

            “I don’t know how it could get any clearer, Boo.  Monday A.M.”

            “I wondered why I couldn’t get to sleep last night, and besides, I’m worried about the car battery. I think it’s on the blitz.”

            Sometimes when it rains, it pours.  Sometimes the car battery lasts four-and-one-half years and other times, twelve months.  Sometimes the air conditioner unit goes out, and sometimes the day pills get taken at night.  No matter what happens in life, there is always something out there to steal your peace.

            Exactly two months ago I was recuperating from knee surgery, going to physical therapy, and trying to stay positive.  Day after day, by mid-afternoon, our house would be a balmy 78- 85 degrees and then it would partially cool off at night.  Until it didn’t. 

            “Babe, I think something is wrong with the air-conditioner.” ( spoken in a stage whisper, because to say it aloud would make it true.)

            “Can’t be.  It’s not that old,” he said.

            “Let’s just call anyway.  Maybe it’s something easy.”

At first, it had taken Boo a few days of constant cussing and fuming, sweating, and pacing until he gave in and accepted the fact that we had to get a new AC unit. But, one week and ten thousand dollars later we were shocked at how quietly the air-conditioner purred, as the positively artic air filled the house.   We also got a new thermostat to replace the old one Boo had just recently learned to adjust.  Sometimes I wonder how Boo was able to graduate college and receive a master’s degree, but maybe that’s the way it is with the highly intelligent.

            A few days ago, I woke up and the house was 85 degrees again.  I went in to start the coffee and there was a note from Boo: “This house is sooo hot.  Something is wrong with new AC;  I pushed a bunch of buttons, but nothing helped.”

            I padded into the hallway and moved the thermostat to 74 degrees.  Then pushed the hold button.  ‘Permanent hold’ not ‘temporary hold.’  The house was all cooled down by the time he got up.

            “Why do you insist on pushing buttons willy-nilly and then complain something doesn’t work?”  I said.

            “There’s a 50% chance it might help.”

            “Speaking of 50%, what makes you think your car battery is going out?”

            As we all know, car batteries have a life expectancy.  The likelihood of having to replace the car battery is extremely high during the time you’re in possession of a car.

            The battery issue will sometimes begin subtly with a slow, gurgly engine start.  Or perhaps the little battery sign lights up with the sputtery start, but generally, there is a small window of warning before your battery just conks out. 

             “It took a while to start, but the battery light didn’t come on.  It’s been happening for a few days now,  but the battery light should come on,” said Boo.

            “Battery light or not, I think you should take it in any way and ask someone about it.”

            “Maybe tomorrow.”

            Tomorrow came.  The car would not start, and Boo had to jump off his car using the cables on our old truck.  Boo made it to an auto parts store that advertised free installation and was home by 1:00 with his lunch, Jersey Mike’s #2, Mike’s Way.

            “How did it go?”  I asked.

            “Ok, I guess.”

            “I’m glad.  How much was the battery?”

            “I got the best battery they had, that’s what Darryl said.  It was $212, not like the old days when you could get a new battery for $50.  The world is really changing.  That’s what Darryl always says.”

            “Who’s Darryl?”

            “Darryl works at the auto parts store.  He worked for twenty-five years at the local newspaper and then when he retired he went to the auto parts store.  He’s worked there for three years now. He lives close to us in a four-bedroom house off Brodie Lane, but I think he’s divorced.  He never mentioned a wife.  Darryl loves to cook and grills out three nights a week.  He’s quite a guy.”

            If I know Boo, and I do, he loves to ask people about their lives.  He can ask twenty-one questions in ten minutes flat, and people love to tell him their stories.  Boo should have stopped asking questions much sooner than he did because he proceeded to tell me more about Darryl.

            “Get this.. Darryl is Mexican American, but he said he might not stay at the auto store because they’re hiring too many Mexicans.  And they even hired two lesbians.  Darryl said he was just a regular guy and that he’d never met a lesbian before.”

            “Babe, what did you say?” 

            “I didn’t know what to say.  I mean part of me wanted to say, ‘I like lesbians, Darryl.’

But I wasn’t sure how that would sound either.  What could I say?  I couldn’t leave until he finished the battery.”

            “So?” I asked.

            “So, I just mumbled uh huh, and hmmmm.”

            “Oh my.”

            “Why do people tell me these things?”

            “Maybe you ask too many questions?”

“Maybe, but you have to admit, Darryl is a complex individual.”

“Darryl is some kind of guy, that’s for sure.”

In life, and especially with Boo, there are always people, places, and things that disrupt the steady, peaceful flow of living.  We try to stay Zen, yet there is a car battery, air-conditioner, or pill box just waiting to take us out.  There are many people in this world who have differing opinions and values and as long as Boo is on the planet, he’ll continue to ask questions and love hearing the answers.

Zen
Posted in #Confessions, Fears and Worries

Vulnerable

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

           

Story and Photography by Nancy Malcolm

Walking to the car, I was afraid I would not make it safely locked inside before the tears came.  The car was stifling, and as the engine came alive, I sat with my face in my hands crying big, hot tears of shame, and then something else. 

            I had just come from one of my last sessions of physical therapy.  Last November I had my first total knee replacement and this July I had the second knee done.  It has been an arduous year of pain, healing, and regaining strength and balance.  And after all of that, here I am reduced to tears in the parking lot of my physical therapist, right next to a Bed Bath and Beyond and a Party Pig. 

            If I am to tell the truth, which, by the way is a very vulnerable place to be, this is my first bout of tears since I started this transformational journey.  I have not cried since I made my resolve to complete the surgeries.  I could not waiver,  I had to stay the course and commit to the nineteen-month-long process.  There would be no turning back.

            In my mid-thirties I began to feel pain in my knees that was unexplained.  I was told to do strengthening exercises, and possibly have arthroscopic knee surgery to remove cartilage fragments.  But, as my thirties gave way to my fifties and sixties the x-rays showed osteoarthritis in the kneecap.  One doctor said, “You have the knees of a thirty-year-old and the kneecaps of an eighty-year-old.  Someday you’ll have to get your knees totally replaced.”  I have taken Rooster Comb (Hyaluronic acid) shots in my knees, cortisone shots, Celebrex and Aleve in large doses, and I’ve rubbed on every kind of ointment, even purchasing ‘Blue Emu’ cream, heralded as a miracle cure by my little Auntie Sue. 

            But, finally what made me ready for surgery was the excruciating pain and the even more excruciating embarrassment of not being able to walk down a flight of stairs, or go on hikes, or play on the floor with my grandkids. I felt like an imposter as I waited in line for the elevator with those who obviously needed it more than me.  I was ashamed of my disability.

            I want to be able to climb the bleachers of my grandson’s ballgames and dance with Boo at our 50th wedding anniversary.  I want to play chase with my grandkids and ride bikes until our heart’s content.  I want to enjoy what’s left of my time here on earth and if possible, if I am granted the blessings I may not deserve,  to do all of that without pain.  So, when my orthopedic doctor said, “I think you’re ready.”  I mentally prepared myself for the road ahead.

            Arthritis is a cruel disease that affects your joints causing inflammation or degeneration of your joints, creating great pain.  Sometimes, Osteoarthritis of the fingers, knees, or hips follows an injury.  I badly injured my knee while in college, by falling down a flight of stairs, but who can know for sure if that was the beginning culprit, only that it happened. 

            All of these things were not in my thoughts as I sat in my car after physical therapy.  Only minutes before I had been standing on a 3-inch-high wooden block, shaking like a leaf.  It had been two and a half months since my surgery, but it was time to tackle the stairs.  “I’m scared to bend my knee, I’m afraid it won’t hold me,”  I said.

            The fresh-faced, twenty-something-year-old physical therapist stood in front of me saying, “I’m right here, I won’t let you fall.”  And as silly as this might sound to you, I knew I had a choice.  I could try and keep trying or I could cower away in fear and settle for less. After all, I am a grown woman and if I say I’m not ready, I’m not ready.  If I don’t want to put myself through the pain and soreness, I don’t have to.

            My choice, though, was not to waste my pain.  I’d come this far and the thing I wanted most was right in front of me.  But, I was afraid, and I was ashamed that this young girl was having to help me when I should have been able to do it myself. I felt like a whiney baby, a scaredy-cat afraid of a 3-inch step when there are so many people who would be happy to be in my place.  My journey of pain and rehabilitation was finally coming towards a pivotal point, and I knew I had to find a way to push through.

            Sitting in my car, I was feeling months of hard work, pain, and the shame I have carried for a long time.  The shame surrounding what I should be able to do, shame at something that was not even my fault.  I am not a crier by nature, but I am tenderhearted, and sometimes that can serve me well. At that exact moment, I needed a little compassion.  I wanted to say, “It’s ok to be afraid, you can do it.  Give yourself some time.”  But all I heard in my head was negative. “You’ll never be able to do this.  Just give up.”

            The walk to the car was like a walk of shame until I sat down, and the tears fell. My tears cleansed a part of my heart that had been overgrown with fear and anxiety.  My tears were a release of the gratitude I feel towards my God and my surgeon, my family, and my friends.  My heart overflows with thankfulness that I am healing well, getting stronger, and relearning to climb stairs.  I am grateful to have less pain.  I am grateful for insurance and Medicare.  I am grateful for all of the kind, compassionate people who have been put in my path during this medical odyssey.

            It is not easy to let yourself be vulnerable.  You must first accept your truth, without judgment, and without comparing yourself to how you think others would behave.  Brene’ Brown, a famous professor, lecturer, and author actually wrote a book about vulnerability, Daring Greatly.  In that book, she says that “Vulnerability sounds like truth but feels like courage.”  And that is exactly how I felt.

            After the tears slowed, I drove home debating whether to tell Boo about my ‘meltdown.’  I was already trying to make light of my feelings by using that derogatory term.  But, right before bed, I told him everything and to my surprise, I cried all over again.  He listened, almost like he has never done before, and held me tight like a little child.  It seems Brene’ Brown was absolutely right.  My vulnerability to share my truth felt so courageous and Boo could feel the truth and openness as it went from my heart to his.  My willingness to be open transformed everything. The gratitude I feel for health and healing allows me to be afraid and do it anyway. The willingness to be vulnerable gave way to gratitude and that has made all of the difference.

“What makes you vulnerable makes you beautiful.”  Brene’ Brown

Posted in Friendship, Reality, Sittin Ugly

Sittin’ Ugly

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

 

     In the early morning hours, before anyone else is up, while the cat is still stretching languidly in her chair, I begin my day.  In this quiet early hour, I can hear the thud of the newspaper being thrown on the sidewalks, the coffeemaker finishing the last few drops and I hear the solid, steady tick of our clock on the mantle. This is my selfish hour.  This is my cherished solitude. I must have it!!  This is my time to drink coffee and absolutely, unequivocally “sit ugly.”

     Sittin’ Ugly is a family tradition passed on by my 88-year-old Auntie Sue.  Her mother did it, she does it and now I do it.  I’m sure lots of other people on earth are doing it, but to do it correctly is an art.  The skill of sittin’ ugly is learned and perfected through years of practice. There are rules of course, and above all, one must respect another’s right to sit ugly.  There should be no judgment, the fact is, one just simply does…..sit ugly.

     Everyone has their own way to sit ugly. But there are guidelines that I find very comforting and helpful to follow. Anyone that is new to the art will surely want to comply. The rules are as follows:

1. There must be coffee. Preferably freshly brewed with everything extra that you need, (cream, sugar, etc.) and of course the favorite mug.  I’ve never known a tea drinker to sit ugly, but I suppose it could be done.

2. No talking!! No one speaks to you-you speak to no one. Sometimes it may be necessary to point or grunt especially if you have small children and they absolutely must encroach on your time. But, the only talking truly allowed is to yourself.

3. You must sit. My favorite spot is an oversized chair by the window. Above all else, you must pick a comfortable, familiar place to sit. It is always good to be able to put up your feet and have a little table nearby. Your sittin’ area should be away from anyone else who might be awake.

4. You may be asking yourself, now what?  I have the coffee.  I’m sitting quietly. Now what? The “what” to do part is really up to you.  Sometimes I just sit and stare while sipping my coffee. Staring is perfectly allowable and even encouraged.  I also read my daily devotionals and have long conversations with God.  I contemplate my day and my life.  I think.  I don’t think and then I may stare some more, all the while continuing to drink my coffee.  This part may go on for as long as necessary.  One hour is perfect for me.

5. Lastly, about this “ugly” part.  Sittin ugly simply means that you come as you are, straight from bed.  No primping allowed!  One must be ones’ self.  Tattered nighty? That’s ok!  Acne medicine dotted on your face?  Beautiful!  Scruffy old favorite robe and slippers?  The older the better!  Sittin’ ugly is actually a super-natural phenomenon that makes you more good-looking.  The longer you have time to sit, the better you will look and feel. Try it and see!

     Sittin’ ugly is my personal time.  It is my favorite time of the day.  Sometimes I can hardly wait to get up in the morning just to sit ugly.  I am always at my best while sittin’ ugly, mainly because no one is speaking to me or me to them.  What a joyous, peaceful time!  What a perfect way to start your day, in fact for me, it is a necessity.

     Some mornings my little Auntie will call me and ask, “Honey, are you sittin’ ugly or can you talk?”  It is always good manners to ask first, in case one is not ready for conversation.  Attempting dialogue before ready may result in hurt feelings, premature agreements, or regret, so approach your morning chitchats with caution.

     My friend, here’s to “Sittin’ Ugly”, to having this special time each and every day and to the millions of us who find it necessary for the sustainment of sanity.  And, here’s to my precious Auntie Sue and all the beautiful ones who “sit ugly”.

My little Auntie Sue passed away after her 90th birthday.  She always had a kind word to say about everyone; she always looked for humor in every situation; she was always grateful and she always sat ugly…every morning and claimed it was the reason for her good health and good fortune.  I miss her every day.  RIP Auntie Sue!

Posted in Reality, Truth

It’s Not Always the Way It Looks

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

            She sat slumped over on the red-flowered couch in my office.  Her hair, a dingy blonde with dark roots, was greasy and her face was stained with old make-up and fresh tears. 

            The police officer stood between us, his rough hands resting on his thick belt which held handcuffs, a radio, and the ever-present tazer.

            “I found her behind the school, near the apartments.  She had an illegal knife on her,” he said and laid it on my desk.  “We can press charges.”

            “I wasn’t doing anything wrong.  I missed the bus,” she said.

            As an Assistant Principal in a large high school, I could tell by looking that the knife was over the five- and one-half inch legal limit.  The knife was an older-looking switchblade with dirt and a little rust on the handle.  It had obviously been used before and needed a good sharpening.

            “What’s your name?” I asked and turned my chair to face her.

            “Pepper.”

            “Pepper, is that your real name?”

            “No. My friends call me Pepper; everyone else calls me Charlene Davis,” she said and sucked in a jagged breath before tears started to fall.  “Please.  Please.  I had it in my purse.  I wasn’t going to hurt anyone unless they tried to hurt me.”

            “Thanks, Officer,” I said.  “Let Charlene and I talk for a few minutes.”

            “I’ll be right outside your door if you need me,”  he said.

            I brought up her student information on my computer and turned toward her,  “So, Charlene, tell me your story.  I see you don’t live at home.”

            Charlene took another deep breath and straightened her tank top, which didn’t quite cover her voluptuous body.  I asked her if she had a coat since it was cold outside.  She shook her head no. Handing her the sweater draped behind my chair I said, “Start from the beginning.”

            Forty minutes later I knew a lot about Charlene and a little about the knife.  I have spent thirty-six years of my life in education, and I’ve heard stories from students that made me cry.  Stories that haunted me and shook me to my core.  But Charlene’s story broke my heart.

 Charlene did not know her daddy, but her mother had known a lot of men who wanted to be called that.  It seems her mom had run off three years ago and left her and her three siblings alone.  CPS stepped in and separated the four sending the younger ones to one foster home, the brother to another, and Charlene to another.  Charlene had run away from four foster homes since then and was now living in a state-owned, group home for teenage girls in Austin, several hours away from her brother and sisters.  Not ideal by any means.

 “It’s ok,” she said.  “I’m leaving as soon as I graduate, and I’ll get my brother and sisters back.  I’ll take care of them myself.”

“No more running away though, or the next stop will be juvie.”

“I know. This is my last chance,” she said.

            “Graduation will be your ticket for a better life, Charlene.  I’m proud of you for staying on track with your grades in spite of everything that has happened,” I said.

            “I’ll be the first one in my family to graduate, Miss.  I’m really smart, and I have a job at Mcdonald’s on the weekends.  That’s where I met my boyfriend.”

            “Do you mind if I call you Pepper?”  I asked.  And she smiled for the first time.

            “Tell me about this boyfriend, Pepper.”

            “His name is Ryder and I love him.  He lives in those apartments by the McDonalds,  and after work, I go over to see him.  He gave me the knife.”

            “No flowers or candy?  But he gave you a knife?  And what do you do when you go over to see him so late at night?”

            “We do stuff.  You know, we love each other.”

            Before I could stop myself, I said, “Charlene, you know what causes babies, don’t you?  I hope you’re using some form of protection.”

            “Yea, mostly.  We try, Miss.  Anyway, usually, the bus is not running when I see him after work, so I have to walk home. He gave me the knife so I would be safe walking home from his apartment.  He’s sweet that way.  That’s why I need the knife back.  He gave it to me.”

            “Pepper, let me get this straight.  You work the night shift at McDonalds, then you walk over to his apartment.  You stay there for a few hours and then you walk yourself back to the home?  Why doesn’t he take you home or walk with you?”

            “He doesn’t have a car, Miss.  That’s why he gave me the knife, so I can be safe walking home.  He’ll be mad if I don’t have it.”

            “Oh Pepper, you are worthy of being safe and being walked home by your boyfriend.  This knife may cause you more trouble than you’re ready for.  Like today.  You know I have to take the knife.”

            “I know, Miss.  But I need it and I promise to hide it better when I come to school. It’s only four more months till graduation.  Please?  It’s scary walking home late at night.”

            We talked a few more minutes and then I sent her to class, while I kept the knife.

            Charlene flew way under the radar for the remainder of the semester.  I would see her walking through the halls occasionally, and she would give me a half-smile or a shy wave, not wanting anyone to know we knew each other.  But I wanted to hug her.  Feed her a healthy meal.  Keep her safe.  Ask about that damn boyfriend.

            Instead, one week before graduation, I called her into my office.  I knew she only had one more final exam to take, and I would never see her again.

            “Hi Miss,” she said as she knocked softly on my door.

            “Pepper, you look gorgeous today!” I said as I noticed her fresh hair and new outfit.  She was wearing a short, blue, flouncy skirt made out of layers of thin material.  Her top was buttoned up the front and covered the waistband of the skirt, with room to spare. Then I saw what I thought was a slight bump beneath her blouse.

            “The house mother gave me some money to buy a few new things before I graduate and have to move.  I’m having a baby, Miss.  See?”  And she cupped her small round belly to show me.

“Ryder wants a boy.”

“Wow,”  I said.

 “I have something for you.”  And I handed her a pink gift bag with ribbons and a small ‘Congratulations’ balloon.  She smiled the biggest smile I’d ever seen and asked, “Can I open it?”

            “You sure can!!”  I said.

            She sat on my red-flowered couch and put the bag on her knees.  She took the fluffed tissue paper out of the bag one by one and pressed them flat.

“I’m going to save this paper.  It’s just like new.”  She said.

I had individually wrapped each gift: a set of lip glosses, JLO body wash and spray, a new hairbrush, and a precious stuffed teddy bear with I Love You embroidered on the stomach. And at the very bottom of the bag was one last gift.  “Don’t open that one until you get home, ok?  I think you’ll remember it.”  I said.

“Thank you, Miss.  This is my only graduation gift.  I love all of it and the baby will love the teddy bear!”  She hugged me and I hugged her right back, neither one of us wanting to let go.

“I’m so proud of you, Charlene Davis.  I knew you could do it.”  I said, as she blushed and smiled a soft, beautiful smile.  Wide-eyed, and a little teary she responded quietly, “That means a lot, Miss.”

We had a quick hug the night of graduation and I have not heard anything from her since. 

As with Charlene and the knife, it’s not always the way it looks.  Everyone has a story to tell if we will only take time to listen.  It is an honor to hear someone’s truth and hold space for their thoughts and feelings, whether we agree or not.  Our stories matter, we matter.  And for Charlene, I wanted her to know she matters in this world. 

Charlene ‘Pepper’ Davis matters.