Bow Ties o’ the Day say MERRY BIRTHDAY! to my nephew, Kyle. And to my niece, Angie. They share a birth date, but not birth years. At least, I’m pretty close to certain I remember they were both born on February 10th.
I’m at the age when facts which I absolutely know to be true somehow feel a bit iffy. I woke up this morning, looked at the calendar, and thought, “Hey, it’s Kyle’s and Angie’s birthday! I better do a celebratory birthday post!” And ever since that moment, I have questioned if my memory is recollecting correctly. Could I text ’em and ask? Yeah. Could I call my sisters to verify their kids’ birthdays? Yeah. But that would be admitting I don’t know everything I’ve always known. That would be defeat. I will not do it. I would rather take a chance on being wrong than out-and-out admit I’m hazy on facts I’ve known for decades.
If my memory turns out to be correct today, I’m a fabulous aunt with a terrific memory. If my recall-er has failed me, Kyle and Angie will at least appreciate my effort. But they’ll know my noggin is slippin’. I’ll be found out.
FYI The dearly-departed deer you see posing with me and Kyle is my first and last venison kill. One was enough for me. Yes, Kyle is larger than this Bambi. Dad mounted the antlers for me and I still have them. I should probably make them into a keychain.
Tie o’ the Day is one of my fave Valentine’s ties. I like the lips and hearts covering the teddy bears’ scant clothing, and of course I am enamored with the bow ties.
My dad was a burly bear of a guy. In fact, he seemed larger than he actually was. Ronald Edmond Wright had a gigantic presence. He had “it.” But he was one of the most gentle men I’ve encountered in my life. If it had been possible, he would’ve hugged every one of his millions of bees to show them they were loved.
But he stuck to hugging Mom and us and our pets. Dad was protective of Mom in ways large and small. They were in a restaurant once, and some dudes at the next table were swearing while they talked. Dad gave them “the look.” They continued on, as if to show they’d speak any way they wanted. Dad said as nicely as he could, while giving them “the look” again, “This is my wife, and I won’t make her to listen to that kind of language.” They continued spewing their profanity. Dad stood up. They immediately cleaned up their language. Chivalry was alive and kicking when Dad was with Mom.
I’m sure you don’t believe it, but I wasn’t a rebellious kid. I don’t think I ever had a real “fight” with Dad when I was a teenager, but I remember loudly arguing with Mom a couple of times. The arguments were about my hair, believe it or not. Mom was never happy with my hair. Well heck, I wasn’t happy with my hair either. But it’s her fault I inherited her lifeless, style-resistant locks.
Anyhoo… One day after school, Mom and I were having one of these yelling matches, and I finally hauled off to my bedroom in tears. Dad got home from work and heard the tail-end of the yelling, as well as Mom’s version of my whole, overly-dramatic teenage outburst. After a while, he came into my room to see how I was doing. I launched into my side of things– about how Mom was always on my back, and she was always unfair, and she was always wrong, blah, blah, blah. The usual teenage crapola.
Dad listened to my tirade and let me get it all out of my system, then he said, “I love you. But no matter who is right or who is wrong, I am always on your mother’s side. I will always stand with your mother.”
At the time, what Dad said to me made me even more angry. How could “right” and “wrong” not be what matters? And then I grew up, and found myself working to forge a lasting relationship like my parents had. I now understand exactly what Dad meant about the importance of standing by your spouse (or partner, significant other, etc.), against all conflict.
With its random bandaids, Tie o’ the Day represents love and the pain love inevitably causes us. We’ve all needed to heal our hearts when they have been broken. If we allow ourselves to love, our hearts will break many times while we live. Family members and friends pass away. Our pets meet death. Maybe someone we fell in love with fell out of love with us. Maybe we lose hope, and our dreams die.
If we choose to, we can empathize with each other’s broken hearts, because most kinds of losses happen to everyone. If they haven’t happened to you yet, they will. We’re part of the human race, and our lives follow similar trajectories. Birth. Relationships. Work. Aspirations. Death.
Loving is worth any pain that might accompany it. A broken heart is often the cost of a full heart. And broken hearts can be instructive. We have the power to look inside that broken heart at all the mistakes we made which caused the heartbreak in the first place. We can learn from those mistakes, and we can get a little better at the practice of love.
Two months after Mom and Dad graduated from Delta High School, they got married in the Manti Temple. Dad had barely turned 18, and Mom didn’t turn 18 until two months later. They were youngsters. Nobody should get married that young, in my opinion. The odds of a couple that young–and therefore that dumb– staying together are miniscule. Mom and Dad somehow found a way to kick the odds and stick together. They lasted 59 years together before Dad died, in December 2007.
Dad suffered through his pain for two years. He stayed with us for as long as he could– for all of us, and especially for Mom. During the last two weeks of Dad’s life, Mom often told him it was okay for him to let go. She told him she would be okay. She told him we would all take care of her. Dad knew we would. But I believe one of the reasons Dad held on for so long is that he was trying to make it another few months, to be with Mom on their 60th wedding anniversary.
Of course, no matter when Dad died, Mom’s heart was going to break anyway. And when he finally did let go, her heart did break. Eleven years later, it’s still broken. But Mom’s heart is also still full of memories and time and the adoration Dad gave her. It’s impossible for that kind of splendid stuff to ever fall out of even the most broken heart.
Tie o’ the Day makes its sweet point with its talky sweet hearts. I’ve always enjoyed getting and giving the little boxes of candy hearts, but they really aren’t very tasty. It’s their shape and their tiny messages that make them an annual have-to-have. It’s a childhood nostalgia thing.
I’ve been posting all kinds of lovey-dovey family lore this week to add to the Valentine’s Day spirit, but I have to make a bit of a sidetrack this morning. I must report on two of this week’s happenings. To put these incidents in context, remember that I had a major surgery six months ago, which I’m sure you’re tired of hearing about in my posts. My recovery has gone wondrously well, although I still feel tugs and pulls and weird pains in my gut on occasion– especially behind my itchy scar. I’m still somewhat limited in my physical activities, especially those which require me to move quickly or use my belly muscles.
The first incident, which occurred a few days ago, is what I refer to as The Calamitous Attack of the Wrapping Paper Tube. The simplest way to explain it is this: One end of a tube of Christmas wrapping paper was sticking out of a storage bin which happened to be temporarily sitting by the pantry– on its way to be stored in the garage until next year.
As I emerged from the pantry, I ran directly into the end of the tube. The wrapping paper isn’t usually in that spot, so I didn’t even think of it before I turned around. I have a normal-size, well-fed tummy– so there’s plenty of free skin-space to be poked hard by a tube, with negligible risk, but of course the tube attempted to impale me precisely on my scar. It felt like someone had rammed a metal cookie cutter into my wound. I can tell semi-important internal things beneath my scar got injured a bit, although I can also feel that it wasn’t a major injury. The normal strange tugs and pulls I’ve felt since surgery are now stranger, and it feels like my scar and beneath it is a complete bruise. Small setback, it is. But who knew a roll of Christmas wrapping paper could even spear a scar? I know it now. Watch out for wrapping paper tubes.
Second incident. Yesterday, Skitter and I were returning home from our walkie to the mailbox. As we walked back, I spied a guy walking a medium-size, leashed dog on our side of the street. Knowing Skitter’s fear of everything, I crossed us to the sidewalk on the other side of the street. A few seconds later, I realized Skitter had seen the other mutt, because she began to shake. On we walked toward home.
Apparently, the other dog noticed The Skit, pulled its leash out of its owner’s hand, and ran across the road to us– baring its teeth at Skitter. I reached down to pick up Skitter, but not quickly enough. Skitter’s absolute, monstrous fear caused her to pull out of her leash collar and run in the direction of home. Of course, the other dog chased after her. I couldn’t think of anything except getting to Skitter before she got hurt in a dogfight, or simply died of being petrified by the entire happening. I RAN! For almost two blocks, I RAN! It did not occur to me running is not allowed at this point in the recovery of my gut. And, of course, I haven’t out-and-out run since the late-90’s. But still, I love Skitter. There was no debate about what I should do, so I RAN!
As I ran after her, I saw Skitter almost get hit by a car. And when I turned the corner and saw her close to our house, the other dog was circling Skitter as she curled into a ball and cowered. (That’s what she does when she’s afraid and doesn’t have a safe blanket.) I had been putting up such a racket during the whole chase that when I finally got pretty close to the dogs, the other dog high-tailed it off to find its owner. Because of my yelling, and because she knew she wasn’t supposed to tug on her leash or leave my side, Skitter also thought I was angry at her. She immediately peed on the porch, in fright and relief. When we got back into the house, she holed-up in her crate. I made it clear I wasn’t mad at her. She believed me and sat between me and Suzanne. But because of the dog almost-fight, she didn’t stop shaking for an hour. She was a walking fur ball of trauma all evening.
This morning, I have two fears which are bugging me: 1. Did the The Calamitous Attack of the Wrapping Paper Tube, combined with the running to save The Skit, cause bigly damage to my healing innards? I’m certainly in more pain than I was before these two incidents happened. 2. Will Skitter now be too frightened to go on our walkies again? Remember, it took her five years to finally be comfortable enough to get excited to do her walkies. She only truly began to enjoy her walkies in the last few months. I’m hoping Skitter and I have not created humongous setbacks for ourselves.
On the other hand, Skitter and I are both tough broads. (We learned to be tough broads from Mom, the Queen of Tough Broads.) The Skit and I have been through a plethora of not-so-good experiences in our different lives, so we already know that these things, too, shall pass.
Bow Tie o’ the Day is dressed in a field of red and white hearts on black silk. It clashes bigly with my newest cape. My heart-covered hat does some eye-popping clash as well.
As you probably guessed from the hearts on my cape’s pink side, this is my Valentine’s cape. Suzanne cut, assembled, pinned, sewed, and ironed it just for me. Just like she usually does. You know I have an obsessive hankerin’ for Suzanne-made capes. A girl can never have enough capes.
I’ve discovered that although wearing a cape doesn’t make me a superhero, wearing a cape does make me feel like I’m walking around in my blanket wherever I go. To me, that’s every bit as wonderful as being a superhero. (I asked Suzanne to make me a flannel cape for extra warmth, and she’s all for it.)
Especially as children, but also as adults, we have a tendency to mythologize our parents. We make them more than human. We make them bigger, smarter, funnier, braver, etc., than they really are. We think of them almost as superheroes. And that’s okay. I mean, to be fair, our parents think each of their kids is a genius, an all-state athlete, a musical prodigy, an artist, and a mythological character– all wrapped up into one snot-nosed brat.
Now, I know my parents aren’t perfect. You know your parents aren’t perfect. But they’re our parents. When we realize exactly how precious they are, their mistakes seem to recede into the horizon in our minds. Their greatest kindnesses and triumphs come to the forefront of our memories. We learn to forgive their mistakes and embrace their most excellent accomplishments. That’s as it should be.
Of course, we should try to improve on the worst qualities our parents handed down to us. And we should live by the best characteristics that live in them. We should carry their best characteristics with us always. We should tell stories and tall tales about our parents’ lives to our families and friends and whoever else will listen. That’s how we teach the important stuff forward.
Even when I’m wearing a fantabulous cape, I try to carry my parents’ best qualities with me. Perhaps one day, if somebody mythologizes me into a superhero, I’ll be able to fly in it.
Each robot on Tie o’ the Day has a heart inside its metal, wiry self. Apparently, even robots have the capacity to love. Aside from loving hearts, Tie has nothing whatsoever to do with these pix of Mom and Dad. I just think it looks snappy.
I guess these photos were taken when Mom and Dad were being Bonnie and Clyde, playing cops and robbers. For nearly 60 years, they were partners-in-crime.
Bow Tie o’ the Day has its Valentine’s Day targets ready for Cupid’s arrows. Be on the look-out for a near-naked, winged baby armed with a bow and arrows.
When I first saw the picture with visible faces, I wondered who the heck Dad was hugging. It didn’t look like Mom to me, so I got my magnifying glass out. I discovered that it really was Mom. The shadows across her face were just weird. Whew! I was worried for a millisecond. Not!
Anyhoo… Something you might not know about Mom is that she is disgusted that people wear un-ironed clothing– particularly to church. She and Peggy Crane spouted off about the general lack of ironing on the planet a bazillion times while I drove them across the county on their daily drinking rides.
Mom and Peggy even threatened to put an ad in THE CHRONICLE, offering to teach people how to iron. FOR FREE! But they decided that wouldn’t do any good since, according to them, no one knows what an iron is. (Oh, my! What a wrinkly world we live in.)
One morning in their Senior year, Dad didn’t show up at school. Mom had no idea where he was or if he was sick. (Remember: no cell phones in 1948.) Later in the afternoon, Dad showed up in a class they had together. Mom quizzed him on his earlier whereabouts and he told her he had been doing an extra job for somebody, to earn some extra cash. And then he handed her the few dollars he had earned that morning. She asked what the money was for, and he said, “Well, if we’re going to get married, we’re going to need an iron.”
Based on all the stories Mom and Dad told me over the years about their courtship, that anecdote is the closest thing to a marriage proposal I ever heard about.
So Mom bought an iron, and 71 years later she still has it. Last I heard, it still worked.
I’m sure I’m reading far too much into this, but I think the sweet “iron proposal” is responsible for Mom’s enduring attachment to the importance of ironing. That would explain Mom’s pet peeve about ironing. I don’t know why ironing mattered so much to Peggy though– unless Grant proposed to her the same way.
When I was gathering my Valentine’s Day ties and bow ties to use in my posts, I hadn’t planned to create so many posts about Mom and Dad. But I’m finding it to be quite fun, and y’all seem to be liking the pix and stories about their love affair too. Thus, I’ll put aside some of the other Valentine-y ideas I intended to present, and the neckwear and I will show and tell a few more snippets about my parents.
Tie o’ the Day is content to hang in the background, while Mom stars in this morning’s pix. These are evidence of Mom’s alluring ways. Dad was born into a beekeeping family, and bees were his thing. He was crazy for bees from the minute he could toddle. Based on that fact, I have no doubt Dad thought the photo of Mom dressed up in beekeeper attire was the sexiest of these two pictures. Mom does have nice legs though.
I posted the following story about Mom and Dad a couple of years ago, but I’ll tell it again for those who might have missed it:
Dad’s family lived in Delta. Mom was from Oak City, where the kids went to school until high school, when the Oak City-ites finally rode the bus to Delta High School every day. Mom and Dad didn’t know each other until that came to pass.
But they had sort of met once before high school. Dad and his pals were at the swimming pool at the same time Mom was there with her friends. (I think it was the Oak City pool.) Mom was standing by the edge of the pool when Dad walked by and pushed her in.
Mom was ticked, turned to her gal pals, and said, “Ignernt Delta boys!”
Dad smiled, turned to his friends, and said, “I’m gonna marry that girl.”
Red hearts Bow Tie o’ the Day is ecstatic to be chosen to present this picture of Mom and Dad. They were probably 15 or 16 when this photo was snapped, and I’d bet bigly money this is a selfie taken by Dad.
If you saw my parents together, you saw something wild with life. They played their humor off each other like a vaudeville comedy team. They supported each other’s whims. When they looked at each other from across a room, even in public, you could see absolute brightness in their eyes.
In a time when it wasn’t always okay for women to work, make important decisions on their own, and speak their minds, Dad thrived on Mom being her spunky self. He encouraged her in her endeavors, and he watched with pride as he saw her conquer thing after thing.
Once, to her friends’ amazement, Mom went to the car dealership in Delta and bought a new car on her own, while Dad was in California working with his bees. Dad was fine about the purchase when she told him she had picked it out and bought it. He figured she must have needed it. They trusted each other even to make decisions that affected the whole family.
Of course, they had their disagreements and bumpy times. Of course, they huffed and puffed at each other from time to time. But it was always obvious Mom and Dad were in a deep, wide, tall, true love.
There are billions of things in the universe I don’t know. But I know this truth: I am the daughter of a grand romance.
The wall-hanging in this photo has shown up in the background of a lot of my post pix. It dominates our living room, on purpose. Mom chose a similar saying for the back of her and Dad’s headstone. The gist of its message is the over-arching truth with which I was raised. And it still frames the way I try to live my life.
To love and to be loved are not two separate things. Happiness comes from making and keeping them one thing together. (I’m not just talking about romantic love.) We love who we love. And we want their love in return, but we often don’t allow ourselves to accept it. Too often we don’t feel worthy of it, or we push it away because we don’t want to risk the chance we might get hurt. Loving and being loved is definitely going to have its pains, but think of them as growing pains. That’s what most of the hurts are. They are signs a relationship needs some overhauling in order to grow. So work on it. The payoff will happen if both parties are willing to give and take the love the work requires.
You can find love all over the place. For example, I’m wearing dog bones Bow Tie o’ the Day in Valentine’s Day honor of all the mutts in my life who have loved me. And in honor of my skittish Skitter who is snoring beside me as I type this post. She loves me even in her sleep. Our dogs simply love us. And they so clearly assume that we will love them back. They trust us. They expect us to befriend them and care for them. They make us better people because we cannot help but melt in their presence, like we give ourselves over to any baby that is near us. We coo at dogs. We talk to dogs in our baby-talk voices. We want to feed dogs and touch them and protect them. We want to cover them in warm blankies. Dogs pull the best parts of our hearts out into the open.
With my bipolar head, sometimes I feel lost and foreign even to myself. Having a dog around when I’m on one of my mental extremes can make me feel like I’m at home in myself, even if the feeling comes and goes. Even Skitter, who was severely abused before she rescued us, makes me feel at home in my bipolar self– just by following me around, or doing her chew dance, or prancing to the mailbox with me. Skitter’s abuser could not destroy Skitter’s capacity for love. That’s how strong love is. I can’t help but exude love for her. She brings out the baby-talk in me. “Skitter, are you ready to go walkie?” The love goes both ways. That’s happiness. Her giving and receiving love is healing The Skit. It changes me. It strengthens an attitude that stays with me in my dealings with my fellow beings.
Perform love, wherever you go. Let your love rain down like glitter from the heavens.
That’s my sermon for this morning, and I’m sticking to it.
