Think Teal

My mom was named after Elizabeth Taylor, and they shared today as their birthday. And I was named after my mom. Elizabeth Taylor was my grandmother's favorite actress.

My grandmother was named Elsie Lee. Apparently she and her sister were both named by nurses because their mom (my great-grandmother) either didn't want to name them, or couldn't come up with names. I think my Nana came out better on the deal than her sister who is named Vesta Gertrude (she goes by "Emma," and I can't imagine why...).

Nana, Gramps, Alison and I

When I told Nana I was getting married, her advice to me was,

"I am going to tell you the same thing I told your mom and your sister when they got married. DO NOT name any children you might have after me. I hate my name, and wouldn't wish it on anyone."

She was quite the character. For proof of that, here Nana is, with balloons under her shirt, and wearing her dentures as earrings:

Nana, being Nana

Mom was a character, too. But they were characters on different levels. I doubt she would have posed with balloons and dentures!

I have so many stories about them. I'll save some of those for a different day, though. Part of their stories are sad, but necessary to tell to hopefully save others. My grandmother had breast cancer, and had to have a mastectomy. When she went in for surgery, the doctor found that she had drawn a smiley face on her chest in permanent marker - and that's not even the wackiest story I have about her (as is probably evidenced by the above photo). She passed away years later, however, it was suspected her cancer had returned. My mother passed away from ovarian cancer. It was only one month after the tumor was found and she was gone.

My baptism: Mom, the pastor, me, and my dad (isn't he handsome?)

Today, in honor of Elizabeth and Elsie, please click the teal ribbon below to visit the National Ovarian Cancer Coalition's website to learn more about ovarian cancer and its signs and symptoms, as well as it's possible links to breast cancer. You may just save a life. It may be yours.

Wicked Writing Tips

I love reading and writing, and my blogs are just another way for me to exercise that hobby. In searching for grad schools, I stumbled upon Southern New Hampshire University and was added to their email list-serv. Here is some excellent - and easy - advice from an amazing author via SNHU.

Author Gregory Maguire: 5 Wicked Tips for Writers | SNHU

His tips sure make me feel better about what I'm doing. Maybe it means I'm on the right track.

remembering you

For most people, I think February symbolizes love, hearts, flowers, candy, pink, red. February reminds me of all the missed opportunities. Not only that, but all the memories that I am terrified will fade away, that I'll no longer be able to recall. The memories we had together. The memories you had that I never knew. My own memories that I fear no one will know if I don't write them down.

Like your favorite color. You used to tell me it was pink, but mine was pink, so I wonder if you were just siding with a toddler rather than reasoning difference with one. How can you know someone 21 years and not be positive what her favorite color was?

I never knew your father was an attorney. Not until last year when it casually came up in a conversation with dad. Did I miss that somewhere? All I ever knew was that he was in the military.

I wonder about how you and dad met. I know the basics, but not the specifics. I have asked him, but there's two sides to every story, but this story is now forever one-sided.

Remember when you used to cut my hair in the kitchen when I was little? I'd sit on those milk jug stools that Dad brought home from Bordens before my time and you painted yellow. Then, when I was older, how I'd cut your hair in the kitchen as you sat on the very same stool.

I remember how you used to tape the Astros games that would air on TV in Rock Springs, and how you'd yell at anyone for telling you the score until you'd watched it, even if it was days later.

Or when the huge box of knitted baby clothes and a handmade ring pillow for a wedding arrived in the mail from your mom, when I was just in high school, along with a note that she might not be around when I had kids, and she wanted me to have them. I thought she was just being her crazy self. The one that made a sock into a purse and wore it to Alison's wedding. But it turned out neither of you made it to my wedding, although that pillow did.

I wonder what you'd think of me now. You never met my husband, my kids. I think you had a lot in common with all of them, and that you'd really get along. Hell, I think even dad likes Harry. Nana thought that was quite impressive. Sometimes I wonder what you'd do in a particular situation or how things might be different. I know it's useless, because you aren't here, but my mind wanders.

February brings your birthday. You'd be 57. Almost exactly 30 years older than me. It's still so weird you aren't here. There's still situations where I am thisclose to picking up the phone to tell you something or ask about your day when I remember.

I remember so many Valentine's Days with you. Even your last. I still have the stuffed puppy dog you brought home to me, not able to bear parting with it. Remember you and dad helping me make my Valentine's card box for the contests at school when I was little. Sharing dinner with you at the French Quarter, not knowing we'd never have another Valentine's date together.

I laid awake late last night with tears streaming down my face for no apparent reason. I guess February really makes me miss you.