My Mother, The Diner: Part 1

 My Mother, The Diner: Part 1

My mother and me

It always seems best to me to start at the beginning. 

When I was born in 1962 my parents were 40 years old and my mother was dying of emphysema. My older sister was 18 and embarking on a relationship with the guy she would eventually marry. My older brother was 9 and involved in his own imagination. My father was totally focused on his career as well as a few other women. 

I only have one real memory of my mother before she died three years later. I remember her sitting in a dining room chair gasping for air. 

I have one other memory from my first 3 years and that is of having to keep my red tricycle out of the way of the truck that pulled into our driveway and hearing the metallic clanging of the oxygen tanks as they were delivered to our house. 

I've heard from family and friends that the first 3 years of my life were filled with chaos. My mother was having psychotic episodes that were caused by the lack of oxygen to her brain, the family said, though they resembled episodes of a paranoid schizophrenic. The police were in and out of the house because my mother thought she was being watched through the television. She saw lights and tried to read messages in the rubbings she made from the scratches on the back of my father's credit cards. She wrote messages on the kitchen cabinets with white shoe polish and when the family came home after leaving us alone, Mother had covered us both in glitter. 

My sister said it was a horrible time for the family and it seems as though the family pulled away from school, church, and the community. Our family became one of those mid-century families withdrawing from the community trying to hide a mental health secret.  

We had a black maid named Gracie and she cooked and cleaned, and took care of my mother and of me. My sister was involved in my care, too. She dropped out of high school to help the family. Her classmates and church people actually thought I was the illegitimate child of her and her boyfriend. 

It is said that I called my sister, "Mama" and called my mother, "That Lady." 

So, as an infant in this situation, who knows how well I was taken care of. It's probably just as well that I don't remember. As long as I can remember, I used to say, "I don't miss what I never had." I don't know where that bit of wisdom came from. I just knew it to be true of my life. 

When I went into any situation or was introduced to people their initial reaction was pity. Everyone felt sorry for me, but chaos is normal life when you don't know any different. 

My own family's reaction to me was: guilt. Everyone always felt they had failed me in some way. I don't know what they didn't do, but "I never missed what I never had." 

After Mother died, we had the funeral and they said hundreds of people came to see the beautiful young woman who died and left her sad husband and 3 children. I stood on the front pew with my family and a whole community of people felt sorry for me. 

In the whole story of my first 5 years of life, there was never a story about meals or food. No mention of food at all. I don't remember what I ate or who fed me. Food was not involved in our family story. 

In the coming years, however, food began to make an appearance and she was not pleasant.  

My Mother, The Diner: Introduction

 My Mother, The Diner: Introduction

Introduction

My relationship with food is difficult to describe. I've been to counselors to talk about it. When I talk about what I think and how I feel about food, people are confused. 

I love food, but I don't like it. 

I read cookbooks, and I am fascinated by the history of food and recipes, but I don't like to cook. 

If I think about cooking as a craft project, then it's more interesting, but I generally don't want to eat what I cook because when I'm finished making it, the interest is gone and I generally don't like to eat. 

The idea that food brings people together and bonds people is a beautiful idea, I want to be a part of that experience, but I have a visceral negative reaction to sitting at a table and eating a meal with people. I hate it. I panic and I run. 

So, I thought if I went back to the beginning of my relationship with food, and walked through it, I might understand it better. I thought maybe I could figure out where we went wrong and try to repair our relationship. 

Maybe you'd like to go with me? 

A Road Trip to Brownwood, TX

 My last post though published today, was actually written back in August when it was still summer. I just wanted to mention that. 

Today, it's actually quite nice, high in the 70s, and rainy. Fall has arrived, I think. 

I wanted to share about a spontaneous little trip Steave and I made to Brownwood, Texas. 

Steave having been out of work for 6 months now and having put off any travel to save money, we were experiencing cabin fever. So, I did a quick search on the internet, saw a photo of a book tunnel in a bookstore, and said, "Let's go there." 

2 1/2 hours later we were in Brownwood, Texas. 

First, we stopped at Underwood's Cafeteria for lunch. 

We slipped back to the 1950s when we walked through the door. The Musak elevator music set the tone. The decor, the food, everything was retro, not in an "on purpose" way but rather in a "just hadn't been changed" way. 

We got a meat and two sides. I got cherry cobbler and sweet tea. Classic! 

After lunch, we found the Intermission Bookshop not too far away. The owner saw me getting a photo outside and met us at the door with "Is this your first visit?" And then proceeded to tell us the history of the shop from when it used to be a movie theatre to the present day. I loved the lesson! 

The coolest thing to me was when she pointed to the spots on the wall above the stairs. She told us that when the space had been a theatre during WW2 and being located near a military base, soldiers would come in and sleep during the films. The pomade in their hair left spots on the wall where they slept. Their ghostly images can still be seen. 

I bought a few books and we rode around the area. It was a nice, little town. We'll probably go back! 

The Old Jail 

Lake Brownwood

I Hate Texas In The Summer When It Sizzles

As I sit here comfortably in my air-conditioned house in a small town that is carved out of northern Fort Worth, it is a blazing 110 degrees outside. It will not get below 95 degrees overnight. It doesn't cool off this time of year. I've lived in DFW for a little over 3 years now and I can tell you that this temperature is not strange, it is normal for August. 

In the first 2 years that I lived in DFW, I thought I had died and gone to hell. Texans justify it by saying, "But it's a dry heat." I lived in Atlanta and Houston and it's so humid that when it gets hot it feels like you're wearing a wet fur coat so I can distinguish between dry heat and humid heat. In my opinion, when it gets up toward 100 degrees, it's hot, and hot is hot! 

This time of year we run from one air conditioning location to another. From the house to the car to the store to the car and back home again. If parents want to have a children's birthday party outside they plan it for early in the morning and prayerfully there is a pool or some sort of water activity involved. 

Those big ole Stanley cups that people are now starting to make fun of, yeah, it's not a joke here, it's a necessity. Staying hydrated is treated like a second job. 

When we started gardening in Texas, we heard that at the end of the season, tomatoes would literally boil on the vine. My granddaughter picked a handful of cherry tomatoes last night and it's true, they were cooked on the vine. 

The black grackles that loiter in every parking lot around here start to look raggedy and worn out this time of year. They spend their time hopping from one speck of shade to another hoping to get a sip of water from a puddle of condensation from a car's air-conditioner before it evaporates. They pant and squawk and generally look like they're on their last leg. 

Yes, I am complaining. Not as much as I have over the last 2 years, so that's something. I think I am coming to terms with where I am. 

Right now, my desk chair is literally sitting on the Great Plains of the United States. If I close my eyes to the never-ending sea of brown roofs of the surrounding subdivisions, I can almost imagine seeing the wind cut a path across an endless panorama of prairie grasses dotted with sun-bleached bison skulls.  

I have fought and I have lost and I have sadly given up on pointlessly trying to turn my stamp-sized backyard into the Eastern Temperate Forest of Georgia and just let it go back to the prairie. I will never have the tropical beauty of where we lived in South Florida or even the hint of rainforest that we had in Houston. The Texas Plains are stronger than me. 

However, I will occasionally come across a fossilized sea shell or ammonite and feel a shiver of awe at touching something so old and I find myself honored to be in this spot on the floor of an ancient ocean. 

I always remind myself that Texas is younger than the eastern states. It was founded by people escaping the over-industrialized, crowded cities of the Atlantic Seaboard (or possibly their own sin, law-breaking, and bad choices). Even though Texas is now dotted with the same overcrowded industrialized cities, the space between large cities still retains the skeletons of small towns. Shop facades tipping the hat to the Alamo are in every little town. Feed and seed stores are still in operation. Every old town sprouted by the railroad track and most often the trains still run there even though the town is boarded up, wind-blown, and dusty. Then you'll come across a subdivision that is trying too hard. Trying to create an oasis from the desert. It, too, seems to be teetering on the edge of survival. Just outside their carefully manicured lawns, on the other side of the privacy fence copperheads, and prickly pears are just waiting to take over. 

It is not in my heart to say that I find Texas beautiful. To be honest, I haven't seen all of it yet. I haven't been down to the Hill Country or far west but everything I've seen so far seems to not come from fertile beauty but from desperate survival. Everything is grasping for its own space, water, and shade. Even man-made beauty such as buildings, gardens, and employment seems to be teetering on a fine line between just barely making it and dying. Sometimes I feel like Temple Grandin from the movie based on her life when she steps out of the plane and so affected by the heat, shouts, "Do people live here?" 

I suppose, however, that's the point. People leaving the East and coming West wanted to be left alone. So, what I witness in natural Texas is what people have left alone. And left to its own devices, Texas is a harsh, desperate, hardscrabble kind of place. Texas leaves it up to you to decide if it's beautiful or not. It doesn't flaunt its beauty in your face but gives you flirtatious flashes of a smile in its wildflowers or canyons. 

So, while I can't say Texas is beautiful, I can tip my hat to its strength, persistence, and endurance. 

Texas and I respectfully nod to one another, but we aren't looking for a relationship. 

 

I'm Back, Again.

                                                                                                     "Texas Sunset" by Jill Libramento

My last post on this Blogger site was November 25, 2015. Today is August 22, 2024. Wow! Over 8 years since I've blogged on this site! 

I honestly didn't know it was still up and running because I had tried to erase my online self during the contentious years of CoVid and Trump. So, when I found this dusty blog still up and running, I was very happy that some of my writing was preserved. 

It's not that I haven't been writing for the past 8 years. I actually had a couple of blogs on other sites that I ran and I've written a couple of books since 2015. I've written for celebrations and events at church, I have my personal journal that is ongoing, and I wrote a book for my grandkids. 

Both of my kids have gotten married and have kids of their own now. So, I have 6 grandkids who call me Stella, and why that is can be a post for another time. 

All my kids and grandkids started a church and now live in Texas, over the past 5 years, my husband and I have made our way from Atlanta to Houston and finally to Ft. Worth and live near them and go to the church they started. 

At this point in time, in my life, I've discovered that I want to get back to writing professionally so I needed a site that publishers could visit to get a taste of my style. So, here I am back again. 

I'm dusting the site off and will be writing here, hopefully every day or so. 

I hope you will follow this blog and comment if you're so inclined. I'd appreciate it. 

Peace and joy to you, 

Jill 

Make a Vow

There's a Paul McCartney song that speaks to me:

"Too Much Rain"

Laugh, when your eyes are burning
Smile, when your heart is filled with pain

Sigh, as you brush away your sorrow
Make a vow, that's it's not going to happen again

It's not right, in one life
Too much rain

You, know the wheels keep turning
Why, do the tears run down your face

We, use to hide away our feelings
But for now, tell yourself it won't happen again

It's not right, in one life
Too much rain

It's too much for anyone, Too hard for anyone
Who wants a happy and peaceful life
You've gotta learn to laugh

 Smile, when your spinning round and round
Sigh, as you think about tomorrow
Make a vow, that your gonna be happy again

It's all right, in your life
No more rain

It's too much for anyone, Too hard for anyone
Who wants a happy and peaceful life

 

 

The reason this song speaks to me is because even when I was very small I made vows. Vows to heaven and earth. As I was treading water in an ocean of sadness, hurt, pain, rejection I vowed that I would not always live in it.

 

I vowed that one day, when I was an adult,  I would open the windows and let the air and light in.

 

I vowed that one day when I was able to escape that I would make joy and laughter the order of the day instead of sadness and criticism.

 

I knew from a small girl that I was made for sunny days, for happy days.

 

I was made to have a great story as Jack Nicholson's character in "Something's Got to Give" says:

 

"Some of us have great stories, pretty stories that take place at lakes with boats and friends and noodle salad. Just no one in this car. But, a lot of people, that's their story. Good times, noodle salad."

 

I was made for a great story, good times and noodle salad.

 

I'm living what I vowed and I'm not going to apologize for it or be embarrassed by it.



Love & Truth Quote

Throw Back Thursday: On Christian Pirates

 

 

I was reading back through some old Xanga posts from 2005 last night. I didn't realize that I had been blogging off and on for over 10 years!

 

One of the posts made me laugh out loud. It was from when my son Joel was in high school. In honor of "Throw Back Thursday" here it is:  

Have you ever heard something so funny that if you laughed hard enough to express how funny it is you'd break something? You just have to stop and say, "That is really funny" and then bust out laughing at inappropriate times throughout the day when you think about it. And when people say, "What's so funny?" you just have to wave them off and say, "nothing."

This probably won't be as funny to you as it was to me. But I've been able to laugh about it for a day or so and that's good. Thanks Clint and Joel for the laughter.

Clint said that he and Joel were talking about how they wish there were "Christian Pirates." Just that thought cracks me up. What would they do? They'd have to do just the opposite of real pirates because from what I've heard real pirates are definitely not sanctified and I really doubt they're saved at all because of all the pillaging and stealing and general wrecking of small seaside villages.

Would they commandeer ships and then witness to the crew as they bring food, water and other provisions on board instead of stealing it? Would they pass out Christian literature? Perhaps they'd bring aboard more modest clothing for the lady passengers? "Walking the plank" would probably mean a baptism. The parrot on the shoulder would probably say, "Amen" or "Preach it!" They'd probably gather for worship in some hidden cove of a Caribbean Island.

What was really funny was when Clint told me that Joel asked for prayer in class for "me crew." That IS how a pirate would give a prayer request. His praise report would probably sound like this, "Arrg! I'd like to tank me Heavenly Fadder for all his many blessin's. I got doubloons coming out me ears and me crew of me great ship, "The Pearl of Great Price" has been about witnessin' and we've taken many souls captive for our great Captain, Jesus Christ after we told those scurvy bilge rats to avast ye sinnin' ways!"

Thanks Clint and Joel for a laugh 10 years later!

Let's Put "It Is What It Is" To Rest, Shall We?

I'm getting pretty tired of the catch phrase, "It is what it is." It's really fatalistic and drains all the hope out of life.

It's a statement to end a conversation. It signals that there's no hope, it will always be this way, let's quit trying, leave and go home.

When the Christ follower uses that phrase we're declaring that God has no power to change the situation or the people involved.

Do we know the hearts and minds of the people involved and God's mind on the subject?

Do you really, Jonah?

"It is what it is" declares that WE'VE decided that there's no hope. But has God? Are we leaving room for Him to move? Or for people to change?

The Christ follower lives in hope! We believe that with God nothing is impossible!

In our history with God we know there are moments when God rescued, delivered, stopped the sun, parted the sea, tore down walls, opened blind eyes, raised the dead!

In a moment it all changed!

He did the impossible!

It wasn't what it was!

It was healed, it was mended, it was better, it was healthy, it was great, it was lovely, it was alive again.

Let's put that phrase to rest and quit thinking we know better than God.

Let's have a little hope.

Let's pray for change.

Let's have a little faith in an Almighty God.

The Man Who Swam Out Too Far

 

I just got back from a few days at the beach. I love the beach. Beach = freedom to me. Free from the usual clothes that weigh you down. Free from furniture. You can lay flat on the sand and it's not weird. Free from the ground. You can float - suspended in the water. Free from the normal sounds you hear everyday. You can even go underwater and hear nothing but the turning of the earth. Free to breathe. Free from "have-to." I can walk or sit or float for hours. Free from buildings and trees and anything that gets in the way of looking as far as you want to. You can actually see where the earth curves. Isn't that fabulous?! I think a lot of people love the beach like I do.

 

One afternoon, I sat on the sand in a groovy peaceful quiet state of mind and body. I watched as a man and his son began to swim out. They were talking and laughing and going under the water like ducks in a giant pond. They swam and bobbed, their heads becoming smaller and smaller dots on the surface of the water. After a while I realized that I didn't think I had ever seen anyone swim that far out in the ocean. Of course, I had nothing to compare their little dot heads to, no reference to gain perspective. At times, their dot heads would disappear completely and I would frantically search the horizon. I mean, this is an impressive shark attack summer after all. Then I saw their dot heads again.

 

After a while, a leathery tanned couple walked by and asked "Are those people out there?"  pointing to the horizon in the direction of the 2 dot heads.

I told them, "Yes."

"They're too far out!" The woman declared emphatically.

"They sure are!" The man agreed and took out his cell phone and called the Beach Patrol as he paced nervously waving his arms in disbelief at this man's unabashed behavior.

 

In a short, information-filled conversation I discovered that the tan couple had just moved to the island from the city and I'm sure they were not going to let anyone drown or get shark-bit on their island, not on their watch! So they started the commotion.

 

They found the man's pre-teen daughter, the boy's sister, and worked her into a frenzy so much so that she was going to swim out and save her father until the tanned man stopped her and saved her life to the tune of , "Oh, no, you're not little missy!" She was in tears reaching out to the little dot heads.

 

A group of round, half-naked, sunburned city dwellers gathered pointing and wagging their heads disappointed that one of their kind would do such a thing. A couple of women comforted the pre-teen girl. The small children sang and danced excited by the commotion that the tan man created who now stood tall and proud like a ringmaster in a circus.

 

Eventually, the man and his son got back to shore and they didn't look very tired or afraid. They seemed a bit confused as to why they were being reprimanded by the uniformed beach patrol. The onlookers showed their disappointment by their frowns and comments. The pre-teen girl dried her tears.

 

Now, some of you will think the tanned couple did a heroic thing, saving the man and his son from their foolish behavior. Others will be angry that someone dared to step in and pass judgment and hinder them from their adventure.  There are a lot of factors here: the man taking his young son so far out, the rules (which I didn't see posted) and just common sense that of course come into play. But I'm not trying to determine right and wrong here, I just think it's interesting that there are those reactions to the man who swam too far out.

 

When anyone gets "too far out" people react the same. They will panic and rush to save the person from their foolish ways. Others will just watch to see what happens and still others will cheer them on and get angry with the people who stop the adventure.

 

Think about artists and pioneers and inventors and mystics and lovers and haters. When they get too far out, people react. It's dangerous to go too far out, you might get hurt or die or you might change the world. When is it worth the risk? When should someone step in and stop the madness? When do we step aside and let them take the risk?

 

It makes me think about when Jesus taught about counting the cost of following Him. He said, "those of you who do not give up everything you have cannot be my disciples." He was calling us to go "too far." When we decide to take a chance and take a risk we have people who try to save us from our madness. They tell us we're "too Christian" or cry and worry that we will endanger ourselves and others. Then there are those who just hang back and watch and see but don't commit on the same level we do. Then there are our brothers and sisters who cheer us on in the adventure. They're good cheerleaders but you can't be really close because you're still a bit too dangerous for them.

 

Finally, there are our "sons," those rare few who think just like us, who swim out into the deep beside us. They're partners in the adventure! They will have seen the dolphins, too. They will have experienced the height of the waves, too. They will have experienced the vastness of the ocean and the tininess of themselves, too.

 

Keep those people close. They are very rare and precious.

 

Skandalon

I was reminded of Jesus, the skandalon, the stumbling block, the trigger of the trap. It was one of those moments when you know something, but then hear it again and know it applies to your life right now. You know it intimately. 

I am just very aware at this moment that Jesus really is the trigger. We can talk generally about love and goodness and God and compassion and faith and forgiveness and prayer and meditation with everyone. Even God is seen as a beneficial addition to our lives when we hear that belief in a higher power is helpful in healing and dealing with stress. 

But when we bring up Jesus, there's a problem. He's the One that divides us. He's the One who of His own admission says He "did not come to bring peace, but a sword. For I have come to turn a man against his father, a daughter against her mother, a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law - a man's enemies will be the members of his own household." ~Matthew 10:35-36

Jesus is so difficult! When I read of how He lived His life, I love how He pulled ALL people to Himself. He didn't show favoritism, He didn't exclude people from His love and compassion. But then He goes off and says something like, "Unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you." ~John 6:53 

People run away as fast as they can. Jesus even asks those guys closest to Him, "You do not want to leave, too, do you?" 

I imagine the disciples wished at that moment that Jesus wouldn't be so controversial, so divisive - He's forcing them to make a decision, take sides.  

Why do we hate to be forced to choose? In love and war we decide, we choose. Why is it so hard when it comes to God? 

For people in love and war, it is not a hard decision. There is only what their hearts know to be true: "I can't not love." " I can't not fight." 

For those of us who have met Jesus, had an experience like John, only in the spiritual: "That which was from the beginning, which we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes, which we have looked at and our hands have touched - this we proclaim concerning the Word of life." ~1 John 1:1  We admit, like Peter, that there's no decision, there's only what we know in our hearts and our spirits and our souls and our minds: "Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life." ~John 6:68 

Only those who do not know Jesus this way have a choice. For the rest of us, we love the Skandalon. 

Jesus calls us to love the difficult in Him - the mystery, the unknown, to be satisfied with being unsatisfied, to have Him now but not totally, take the risk that's not a risk, the tension of being in this world but not of it. 

It's not easy, but we can't not love, can't not follow.