When I was a senior at Texas A&M, I was the Historian for the Class of '85. It was my responsibility to write an entry in the Aggieland (yearbook) about our time at A&M. In addition to that daunting task, I was to read my thoughts at the Senior Banquet which was held just before the much awaited senior celebration called Ring Dance. That night, the banquet room would be filled with cadets, non-regs, and lovely young ladies in beautiful dresses.
Some of you are probably rolling your eyes at the mention of Aggie traditions, but for me, this was all a part of life. It was the cherry on top of my years at TAMU. And Ring Dance was an event I had heard about for many years (although when I was younger I thought it was "Rain Dance," and asked my father why on earth there would be such an event)...
Now, let's get back to the night I was almost "pretty in pink."
I was going to wear the most beautiful dress my mother bought from The Townhouse, our favorite shop in Nacogdoches. Our friend Shelba special ordered it, and this dress was adorned with all of my favorite things.
It was the Goldilocks color of pink--not too bright, and not too pale. It was just right. The dress was strapless, and the top portion had an overlay of pink lace, matching the dress color perfectly. The material was gathered at the waist, and in the back supported a big bow. The dress flowed freely; it would look stunning as I twirled around the dance floor. The formal was just below the knee, making it appropriate for evening attire.
With this dress, I wore spectacular shoes, and I donned a strand of pearls that belonged to my mother.
The night was going to be magical. It was a time of remembrance, as well as a time to look forward to all the things to come. It was a celebration of our Aggie journey, the friends we made, and the many lessons we learned along the way.
My parents planned to meet me at my apartment, and follow us to the banquet. These fancy events always added a bit of stress, but having to give a speech in front of a large crowd had me extra nervous.
In addition to my unwelcome anxiety, there were three of us, all trying to get ready for the big event; all trying to take turns in the one bathroom apartment.
I was ready well ahead of the scheduled departure time. I was still in my robe, but my plan was to put the dress on last, so I wouldn't muss it up.
Just before my parents arrived, I put on the appropriate undergarments and slipped on my lovely pink dress.
I called out to my roommates, asking if one of them would come zip me up. They were both hurriedly getting ready, as their dates had already arrived. Since the dates were in the living area, I couldn't skedaddle down the hallway to get zipped up without them seeing me.
I decided I could zip it myself.
But I was wrong. As I pulled the zipper up, it got caught on the lace portion of the dress. I decided to pull the zipper down and hopefully release the captive lace. As I tried to do this, I was too forceful, and the zipper began to eat up more of the lace. I was about to reach panic mode, and in hindsight, should have slipped down the hallway and asked my roommates for help.
Instead of that, I thought I would spin the dress around so I could see exactly how to pull the zipper down without damaging my dress.
Thinking I was pretty smart, I followed this plan. After reviewing the situation, I ascertained that if I carefully continued with the zipper going up, the delicate piece of lace that had been snagged would be released. If the lace was torn a bit, that wouldn't be a big deal.
But as things often go in life, my plans went awry. When I pulled upwards on the zipper, it became uneven, and in a moment of complete chaos, the zipper split, and pulled away from the dress.
Panic ensued, and tears began to fall. I was hopeful, though, because my mother was an excellent seamstress. I was sure she could find a fix for the pickle I now found myself in.
But, in order to fix the dress, I would need sewing supplies, and I had none. There wasn't enough time to run to the store and purchase anything. If I hadn't been the speaker at the banquet, I probably would have skipped it, and spent that time darning the darn dress. Again. Not an option.
My parents arrived, and I was a mess. Mascara was streaming down my face as my roommates left the building to go to the banquet. My date was notoriously late, and for once, it was a good thing.
After looking for a solution from every angle, my mother finally stated the obvious. The only way to pull the dress together would be with safety pins. Something we had an abundance of.
I'm not sure how many safety pins my mother used, and I'm not sure how she pulled it together so that my undergarments weren't seen, but she did it.
My dad was nervously pacing in the living area, and I heard my date arrive. I was absolutely devastated that this important evening had gone south before it even started. I was inconsolable, and hysterical. But there was nothing else that could be done. I would have to attend the Senior Banquet and Ring Dance with my dress pinned together by silver safety pins that had no silver lining.
As I was about to walk out of my bedroom and into a night which would surely be filled with gasps, and comments, and people stating the obvious, my mother knew I was at a loss, and any confidence I had stored up for this evening had been snared by that hateful zipper.
I dried my eyes, touched up my makeup, and as I headed for the door, my mother said, "If anyone comments about your dress, tell them it was made that way."
I thought to myself how ridiculous this sounded. How could I say that and be taken seriously?
I arrived in the Banquet Hall, flawlessly gave my speech, and was ever-so-grateful that I was sitting at the head table facing the crowd during this portion of the evening. No one could see the safety pins vertically attached to the back of my dress, encompassing the all important task of keeping my dress from slipping down in an unprecedented wardrobe malfunction.
I made it through the banquet without much fanfare. I knew there were whispers of pity from the people who were walking behind me, but I entered the ballroom like I owned the place.
It wasn't surprising at all, when a certain young lady waited until the most inappropriate time to exclaim in a loud and catty voice in front of the large group we were with, "What happened to your dress?"
Without missing a beat, I turned to her and said, "It was made that way."
For the rest of the evening, no one said a word about my fashion faux pas. All because my mother gave me such sage advice. It wasn't haughty or rude. It was spot on. How could anyone respond to that retort? It was made that way...
The above story was the easy part in writing this blog. From here on, I'm sure I will have to take frequent breaks, and many deep breaths. The Kleenex are as close to me as my emotions. As much sorrow as I have, I am also filled with joy, for the life, legacy, and love my mother left behind when she parted from this world.
On June 10, 2024, the heavens opened up and welcomed my mother to her eternal home. She ran the race. She received the prize. She's where she has longed to be.
But, oh, how I miss her.
Without going into much detail, my mother's health had been declining for a couple of years. We attributed most of this decline to her age. Many of her ailments were expected, even considered normal for an eighty-six-year-old.
Mother fell on May 17th, and from there, went to the hospital where she stayed for a week. The doctors finally told us that she needed bypass surgery, which she was obviously too frail to have.
All Mother wanted was to go home. To her house, and then to heaven. In order for this to happen, we had to agree to set up hospice care for her. My brother diligently worked to get this done, and my mom was able to go home.
I have learned so much about hospice. It's nothing like I thought it would be, but it's a thousand times better than I ever imagined. The hospice staff of nurses, and caretakers, and a chaplain, were in charge of everything.
The care and compassion shown by each person at Heart to Heart Hospice, was exemplary. Along with her caretaker, Mary, these individuals helped make my mother comfortable in her last days.
When Mom first arrived home, she was unable to walk alone, due to the heart catheter that went through her groin. Other than that, she was her old self, except she was constantly trying to escape from the bed.
She was happy, and chipper, and talkative. We thought hospice care would be around for several months or more.
And then eighteen days after her fall, reality set in. Mother was in excruciating pain, and wasn't eating or talking. The decision was made to give her morphine to make her comfortable. I didn't understand until then, this meant her days were numbered.
My brother and I took turns being with her daily. Along with hospice and her caregiver, she had care twenty-four/seven.
On Sunday, June 9th, her sister was on her way from South Texas. Phone calls came from her grandchildren. We held the phone to her ear, and watched her struggle to find words that never came. Her expression didn't change, although she desperately tried to make it do so. A solitary tear rolled down her face as her grandchildren thanked her for all she had done for them, and expressed their love to her.
Earlier that day, I was alone with Mother for several hours. In the background, my Bose speaker quietly played praise songs. I sat by her side, held her hand, and talked to her about her life, and the life she gave me. She squeezed my hand a couple of times, or batted her eyes. I knew she could hear me.
During that time, I said all the things I wanted and needed to say. Hearing is the last sense to go, and I knew that God was allowing her to hear me, as well as her grandchildren, family, and friends who stopped in to say goodbye.
This wasn't the first time I expressed everything I felt I needed to say to Mother. Last fall, feeling that I might be running out of time, I wrote her a letter. Not an email, or a text. A letter that I mailed to her.
Here is what I said:
Dear Mother,
I just wanted to take a moment to thank you for all you have done for me throughout my life.
As I reflect on my childhood, it was idyllic. We lived in a charming town, and were always surrounded by wonderful friends in the neighborhood, at school, or at church.
I remember all the activities I was involved in. Thank you for those opportunities:
Dance with Mr. Haden, and later Judy Ann. Twirling lessons, piano lessons, a brief stint at gymnastics. I appreciate that you and Dad didn’t ever want us to quit anything, but if that was our choice, we had to be the one to tell the teacher/instructor at the end of the year. That was such an important life lesson about being responsible, as well as accountable.
You also made sure I was a part of the Summer Theatre Workshop, and a mini-sewing course provided by the County Extension Agency. I never finished that red skirt, but I did learn a few sewing skills.
You and Dad sent me and Greg to Camp Huawni every summer, where we both made lifelong friends.
Greg and I were so lucky to have you and Dad as our parents. You were supportive, and encouraging, but never tried to micromanage or solve our problems for us. You allowed us to make mistakes, and in the end we learned so much more through those mistakes than we ever would have if you had gone before us, fixing the issues at hand.
I remember summers at cheerleader camp, where you were either a sponsor/chaperone, or drove to Dallas to drop us off at SMU, or to pick us up at the end of a very long, hot week. The summer before my freshman year when you were our sponsor, you didn’t faint or come undone when Linda Flood and I bought a mouse from the pet store in Town East Mall, rescuing it from becoming a snake’s dinner. If you didn’t know about this, I apologize. We ended up taking the mouse with us to SMU, and if there has been a rodent problem there since 1977, it was probably our fault.
I’ll never forget you consoling us in the lobby of the SMU dorm one day during lunch that same year, as twelve Nacogdoches Freshmen cheerleaders were sobbing and wailing when Kitty on the soap opera “All My Children” died.
From as far back as I can remember, you made many of my clothes. I always felt special because no one ever had the same outfit. When we were young, you would coordinate our outfits, finding a boys’ shirt for Greg, and then making me a dress with the same colors in it.
Every Easter, Greg and I looked extra dapper. It was important that we celebrate that day by looking our finest. I especially remember the black patent Mary Jane shoes, or the shiny white shoes with gold buckles. And a matching purse, of course.
As an adult, you supported and encouraged me every step of the way. I know at times it seemed I didn’t appreciate your advice or wisdom, mainly because I thought I knew it all, as most young people mistakenly do. You never held it against me, or said, “I told you so.” You were always good like that.
Thank you for loving Brian like a son. In fact, at times Greg and I think he’s your favorite! But what a wonderful thing to have a husband who is so highly revered and respected by you.
Thank you for being a wonderful grandparent. You did it without Dad. Christopher and Meagan were both two years old when he died. And Charles was born six weeks after he was gone.
Some of the best memories of our family are the times we shared at sporting events, especially in 2006, when you followed the Arp Tiger Basketball team all the way to Austin to watch us win the State Championship. I always loved how you got to know our friends, the coaches, and other people who were on the journey with us. You never met a stranger.
Thank you for contributing to the grandchildren’s education. And a special thanks for buying the boys their Aggies rings for their twenty-first birthdays. That was such a special and generous gift, and the boys will always remember you each time they put on their rings.
The A&M years were so fun, but were also sad, as we were constantly reminded of Dad’s absence. I think it did, however, make us feel closer to him whenever we were in Aggieland.
When Dad died, I was so worried about you. But in true Claudette Brown fashion, you rose to the occasion. Your strength, determination, and resilience were inspiring.
Before you sold our childhood home, you informed Greg and me that you were putting it on the market. You wanted our blessing. We both replied that we thought it was for the best—that the house didn’t seem like home without Dad there.
Thank you for teaching me to love books, reading, various kinds of music, but most importantly, thank you for teaching me to be tolerant of those who have different views from my own.
You led by example, and shared stories, movies, and books that taught important lessons, the most special being To Kill A Mockingbird. Aside from the Bible, no book, or movie has had a bigger impression or impact on my life. I’ll always remember when you picked me up early from a birthday party so that I could watch a movie about a mockingbird. I was in seventh grade, and was embarrassed to be the first to leave the party.
But that night, I became friends with Atticus, Scout, Jem, and Boo Radley. As I watched in awe, you explained the historically significant details about the time period, setting, and relations between races. After watching the movie, I understood the importance of walking around in someone else’s shoes; seeing things from another point of view.
Everywhere I go, I run into people who know you. Mostly your former students who always praise you for teaching them so much about government. Your influence has extended beyond the classroom into all walks of life.
I love how you helped teach your grandchildren the importance of being involved in decisions at the local, state, and federal level. Many of the best conversations have revolved around government, the Constitution, and voting.
When Christopher lived with you, he was tickled when you left a list of suggestions of who to vote for in local elections.
One of my favorite things about you, is the way you have always expressed your feelings when something isn’t right or fair.
My favorite example is when you used to drive to the Daily Sentinel to talk to the sports reporter about the lack of coverage of SFA basketball. If an article was the least bit negative, you drove down to express those concerns, and to defend SFA basketball on the highest level.
Most of all, Mother, thank you for your example. You’re a hard act to live up to, and I know I have fallen short more times than I care to mention.
Through it all, you have loved me unconditionally, and infinitely.
I haven’t been good at expressing these thoughts over the years. It’s too difficult to do without becoming an emotional wreck. All of these feelings are tucked into a place I visit often, but don’t share with others.
Since Dad died, I have built a wall around that part of my heart, protecting myself from the deep emotional scars that feel like they will never heal.
I can’t imagine my life without you, and I want you to know that. I apologize for always keeping my composure, and not treading to the area where I dare not go.
I love you with all my heart, and thank you for the life you’ve given me. I admire you more than you could possibly know, and am so proud of the imprint you’ve left on so many lives. Your life has, indeed, been well-lived.
I know you’ve struggled over recent years, being in constant pain. I wish I could take that away. I wish I could make you feel better.
Just know, without a doubt, you are my hero. Thank you for your classy example, your kind heart, and your brilliant mind. If I am one fourth of the person you are, I will be happy.
I know this letter will make you emotional, and you don’t have to say anything about it. I know that we will both be together, sharing that space of unspoken words. Once the dam breaks, it’s hard to stop the tears from flowing. But feeling those emotions, in the deep recesses of my heart, is a reminder of the great, never-ending, all-encompassing love we share.
As Scooter (mom's cat) says, “We’re all lucky to have you in our lives.”
Much love,
Sharon
We used to laugh at the fact that Mother spoke for her cat Scooter. When she wanted to say something that she couldn't say without getting emotional, Scooter would say it. "Scooter says he's proud of you." If there was something that wasn't as complimentary, or had to do with her frustration with politics, or the world, Scooter would say those things for her too.
And now, "Scooter says," has become a precious memory. Something to bring a smile to our faces when the days seem long and dark.
I'm a firm believer in letter writing. As a child, my mother made sure I sent my grandparents thank you notes, and letters throughout the year. My grandmother saved those letters, and after she died, I found them.
Letter writing allows you to put down on paper things that might be hard to say. Letter writing is a link between people and generations. Letters become a part of one's history and legacy.
The afternoon before Mother died, I told Greg that several years ago, I found a box of letters in the filing cabinet in the garage. Letters between my mother and father as they began "courting" through a long distance relationship. Dad was at A&M, and Mother was at Mary Hardin Baylor.
I put the box of letters back, and it wasn't until June 9, 2024 that I took them out of the cabinet and showed them to my brother.
The box of letters is the story of their love. And these letters are the most precious thing Greg and I have of our parents. It shows their love, but also is the beginning of our story. The story of our beautiful family, and the life Mother and Dad gave us.
On her last full day on this earth, my brother read her some of the letters from my Dad. A tear rolled down her face as she listened. Later that day, she reached out, as if she was trying to take someone's hand. She called out to her mother, and father. And then she called out to my dad, "Charles, come get me."
Mother hadn't said my name in two weeks, and on that day, she said it twice. Once she called me over to her, the other time she asked me to get her sweater.
We knew this was probably her rally day, and we made sure we let her know how much we loved her.
On June 10th in the afternoon, Mother went to Heaven and bowed down at the feet of Jesus. She joined my dad, and other family members who went before her.
It's hard to express, and people who have experienced this very thing will all see it differently. For me, watching my mother suffer and knowing death was near was horrific. The physical things that occurred will never be unseen.
But the spiritual experience and the complete honor of caring for my mother as she prepared to go see Jesus is the most precious memory I have of her. It's a hard memory. It's tough not to relive her pain. But in the end, she fulfilled the promise given by her Heavenly father.
And by fulfilling her lifelong commitment to the Lord, her friends, and her family, she left us behind. And while I look back on those moments, and the waves of grief that continue to wash over me, I understand more than ever something about Life.
It's made that way.
We're intended to love. We're supposed to experience hardships, pain, and loss. Our lives will be far from perfect, because this is our temporary home. Life is made that way.
The lesson my mom shared with me on that calamitous day when my zipper failed me, is one I have carried with me throughout my life. It was a lesson filled with honesty, grit, determination, and confidence. It helped me to look at situations that can't be changed and find the good.
Mother was never dramatic, or hateful, or rude. Her example is one that is hard to live up to, but at the end of the day, when I'm lost, or sad, or don't know what to do, I will remember how to carry on. I will remember how I was created and loved, and beautifully and wonderfully made.
When I doubt myself, or feel alone, I will remember my pink dress, my mother, and the letters left behind. When I question life, and death, and joy and sorrow, and muddle through grief, I will look at myself and see my mother. I will remember the times she fixed my broken heart, or helped me with a problem, or simply led by example. The times she held me together, or mended my heart with a safety pin only a mom possesses.
I will always think of her as the person I hope to be. The one who gave me the best life advice ever, wrapped up into one phrase, "It's made that way."
Right now, I feel sad, alone, and heartbroken. I miss my mother, but know she is looking down, coaching me through the tough days, praying for my heart to heal, and for my soul to be joyful once again.
And if she could tell me one thing it would be, "You can do this. You're made that way."
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