Daughters

“Are you a writer?”

~ Bri Sperry-Renfrew ~ 6 Comments

“Are you a writer?” the author asked as I handed her my books to sign. They were “my books” because the young(er) man with the barely discernible grey streaking back to his slightly sloppy man bun, had given a “Buy first!” directive at the conclusion of his author introduction. His words, having received a flittering of insider-ish laughter, fluttered down upon front-row me. I already held the author’s works in my lap, because I had nabbed them from the nearby display table to peruse while waiting for the reading to commence. I knew I would purchase them. These days I don’t need permission to go to book readings or to buy books. 

Now I was handing my guilt-free purchases to the woman who had made the words come to life with her friendly, slightly drawling voice.

I’m sure her question was prompted by the fact we had been introduced by her college friend and fellow-author, Jennifer. Jennifer and I are new friends and members of the same book club. She is a published author and the reason I came to this reading (instead of road-tripping to Tombstone, another of my guilt-free choices for the day.) Jennifer can answer that question affirmatively. Most affirmatively. I’ve read her books, too. But me?

No. Not the way these bonafide authors’ experiences define this question. Still, I fumble at the pleasantly proffered query.  As I am sometimes prone to do, I fall back on my hallowed status of Mother. “My daughter is,” I say, surprising myself with the confidence of my assertion.  I know my daughter’s grad school Creative Writing pursuits, while likely appreciated, are of little significance to this author. But, to me, there is a voluminous intricately woven world in those pursuits. I know how I influenced those pursuits. This is no prideful, self-congratulatory knowledge. My daughter’s writing comes from the wounded life I passed on to her. Her own keen sensitivities perceived the word-nursing I applied to my own pain.  They nudged her towards the academic realm shared by the hand that slides my signed purchase towards me.

This morning I wondered if I could find my password. I almost felt like a traitor, returning here. I couldn’t even remember my last entry. The one I wrote after my last visit to the same bookstore. image

 

 

You can’t go home

~ Bri Sperry-Renfrew ~ 15 Comments

It’s always a sad day to have to disagree with Jon Bon Jovi and agree with your mother-in-law, but here I am.  When Bon Jovi asks with rock-n- roll bravado, “Who says you can’t go home?” who wants to disagree?  Not me.  And yet, when my daughter was preparing to make the drive home after her first semester of college, and her grandmother told her that going home wouldn’t be the same, I knew her MeMa was right.  My daughter didn’t want to believe it, she confessed to me, but before she knew it, she was experiencing all the angst that comes with wondering how things will be when you get home.  Will your friends treat you the same?  Will your parents and your siblings be the same?  Will all those familiar places calm the unsettled yearnings of your heart?  She learned that you really can’t go home – at least not the same person you were before.

As she was making that long drive home, across three state lines and past an obscene number of Subway restaurants, my daughter was anticipating a joyous reunion with family and friends, still clinging to the hope that her grandma didn’t know what she was talking about.  She wasn’t thinking about the fact that she has spent the last six months living with new people, working with new people, studying with new people, worshipping with new people, buying tampons and Top Ramen and Chai tea lattes from new people.  Those seemingly mundane activities can’t help but change a girl.  She has a whole new set of experiences that don’t include those of us back home.  She’s in that terribly frightening but awesomely exciting place in her life where she’s holding onto the fragile threads of change, trusting that they’ll weave her into a life that is every bit as durable as the piece of cloth from which she is being unraveled.  From one tapestry to another, this is the way the Weaver of our lives works.  He does not allow us to hang perpetually on museum walls, but rather proves Himself to be the artisan of living, breathing fabric that surpasses the finest breathable cotton cultivated on this planet.

Of course, my daughter did experience the reassurance of the love of family and friends this trip, and I am confident that someday she will be able to come home without angst and reservation.  Bon Jovi’s words will ring true, and my mother-in-law will be…well, a little less right.  There will be more strands of my daughter woven into a lovely new tapestry than will remain in the old, and she will be beginning to feel secure with the new thing of beauty that she will be.  Even if the Master Weaver does allow times in her life when the dust mites of reality nibble on her front side and the cold walls of perseverance chill her backside, she will know that “It’s alright, it’s alright, it’s alright, it’s alright, it’s alright.”

Naked navigation

~ Bri Sperry-Renfrew ~ 2 Comments

 

 

I shuffled out of my bedroom, fumbling with the belt of my fluffy robe and bumping my shoulder into the door jamb.   “Cof-fee, cof-fee, cof-fee,” my jarred brain throbbed.  I navigated the dark loft, but not as adeptly as a blind lady in her own home; I almost stumbled over the bodies.  Wait…bodies?  Naked bodies!  Many, many naked bodies. The shadowy silhouettes aggravated my eyes to a blinking state of awakened disbelief.  There were mostly girls, but yes, a couple of guys, too. My dilated pupils canvassed the bare legs, arms, chests, and breasts and came to rest upon the mixed pile of boys’ and girls’ clothes.  The limp pieces huddled together and lay at a distance, as if afraid to sneak any closer to the bodies from which they’d been so haphazardly discarded.

I searched for my daughter.  Her body was not among those on the floor, but I knew instinctively that this mess was her doing.  I shook my head.  Then lifted it.

“There is no shame here,” I told myself.  “This is only natural for a girl her age.

Smiling at the memory, I thought of the hours I had spent undertaking similar endeavors.  I remembered the tiny snaps and pin head-sized buttons.  I would have thought Velcro would be a great improvement,  but apparently one is still prone to just give up on the whole onerous exercise.

The programmable coffee maker had done its work, and a bold roasted aroma abruptly reminded me of where I was headed before being hijacked by the scene at hand.  I turned to descend the stairs.  “She does need to be better about putting her things up,” I muttered under my breath.  “Remember to tell her that when she wakes up.”

My daughter is 10 years old.  She still plays with Barbies.  She knows to cover her ears if I step on one of those pointy plastic hands.

You found your pizza where?

~ Bri Sperry-Renfrew ~ 6 Comments

– “I was wondering why my car reeked…definitely didn’t notice my leftover pizza had fallen out of my lunch sack.”

– “I’ll pray this music keeps me awake on my way to school.”

– “Every time I drive through a yellow light I tap the roof of my car.”

Just a sampling of my daughter’s Facebook statuses.  She’s in college 1,100 miles away, a safe distance for keeping me from freaking on her for giving me heart palpitations.   Yes, I know she could be posting things far more alarming, and I’m truly thankful that most of her posts reflect what a determined, capable, thoughtful young woman she is becoming.  I’m not so sure my mom would have been able to say the same about me at the same age.

My college days predated cell phones, laptops and the internet (NOT electricity – contrary to what my kids think.)  Otherwise, my mom might have read things like…

– “Just drove across the entire state of Kansas BY MYSELF.”

– “Ran out of gas on mountain road to Kittredge, CO.  Walking to lighted house.”

– “Note to self: no more blind dates with friends of brother’s brother-in-law.”

– “Listened to roomie’s new record (U2?)  Think I’ll stick with Lionel Richie.”

All of which would have betrayed my 18-year-old ignorance.  Then again, the betrayal of ignorance is the most necessary of sign posts on these wild, amazing journeys.  Even the solo ones down mountain roads and across vast deserted prairie highways…and I suppose, even through yellow lights when you’re barely awake.

Checkered Past

~ Bri Sperry-Renfrew ~ 10 Comments

I rose early this morning.  My daughter had asked me  to edit an English assignment, a story about a defining time in her life.  This is the daughter through whom I’m convinced I will live vicariously.  I sometimes fantasize that she will be the Rose Wilder to my Laura Ingalls, that when she is living the exciting life of a writer in Dublin or Portland or Tempe, she will coax her aging mother into writing about the good old days – the days on Dorchester or Gilesford or the painted desert, the days of cow print pants and checkered comforters.

She hated those pants, but she mentioned the checkered comforters in the story that put a lump in my throat.  I didn’t realize until then how attached to those comforters she and her sister had grown – like babies with their favorite blankies.  I remember the day we picked them out, the trip to the Town Center – back when it still had the ice skating rink where Tonya had infamously practiced her Olympic routines.  (“Yes, sir.  I’m sure.  I am NOT related to her!”) Shortly after our move to Gilesford Street, I had trekked there, a vision from a Southern Living magazine dancing in my head, my two little girls dancing along behind me.  Perhaps subconsciously I was clinging to my roots, despite being enamored with the Pacific Northwest.  I wanted to find flowered prints and checks.  We found them in perfect blues and yellows.

When we moved to the desert I thought the girls would want new bedding for their new rooms.  They played along, but the first opportunity they got they switched back to those soft, bulky, checkered comforters.  I was glad we’d spent the extra money for quality, durability that would last through slumber parties, forts, stair slides, nightmares, illnesses, and moves.  I’m glad to know how much they’ve meant to my girls, who no longer dance behind me, but in front, pulling me into their futures.

Memory Lessons from Life’s Cafe

~ Bri Sperry-Renfrew ~ 2 Comments

“Memory is a child walking along a seashore. You never can tell what small pebble it will pick up and store away among its treasured things.”

– Pierce Harris, Atlanta Journal

More and more my memory fails me. Ask my husband, my kids, my friend who went to a concert with me the other night. (“You were there?” I asked during my moment of temporary insanity.) The things I do remember seem to come from left field, those small, bizarre pebbles I must have picked up as a child – or in the following case, as a teenager. However, more and more I see that the things I do remember have a purpose. Its almost as if there was an angel sitting on my child-sized shoulder, whispering in my ear, “That motley one! Pick that one up! You’ll need it in 30 years.” Only the angel muttered the last part under its breath, so I never really knew why I picked up the pebble. Until now.
My daughter called the other night, rather discouraged with her new work in a trendy deli market. Her angst stoked my memory. I remembered my own job as a waitress in a small town restaurant. I was a teenager, a couple years younger than my daughter is now. The cooks, two tough broads, harassed me ceaselessly. I had no idea why I was the target of their incessant verbal abuse. I was a quick learner; I did a fairly decent job. I did forget to wear a slip under my dress one day, but I never saw how my increase in tips should have bothered them. There was also the time I spilled a bowl of soup in a guy’s lap. (He was a big city actor, in our neck of the woods with his troupe doing a performance at the request of our thriving Arts Council.) At least I was wearing a slip that day.
So, I made a couple of mistakes. Did it justify being mocked and berated every time I placed an order? I was just a shy kid trying to earn a buck. I was also a kid who was determined not to crumble under the harassment. I was determined to persevere, to prove myself. And I did. By the time I quit that job, I had those cooks eating out of my hand. Well, maybe not exactly, but they would at least sit at the same table with me and engage in civil conversation.
This story of perseverance, I thought, was the purpose of my memory. I encouraged my daughter to “hang in there,” prove what she’s made of. But even as I told her this, I was growing unsettled with my own answer. Perhaps the angel had returned to my adult shoulder and was shouting, “No, no! There’s something else.”
It was, as it turns out, maybe not about me. As I was telling my daughter about those two mean, crusty cooks, I remembered other things about them. They didn’t have the easiest of lives; one was well past the prime of life, the other was a struggling single parent. Those women needed compassion, they needed Jesus…just like the people my daughter works with – just like everybody.
As my daughter and I talked about this, I found myself hoping – hoping that she was picking up a memory to tell to her own daughter someday, and that maybe she’ll listen to the angel a little more closely than I did.