Double Take

You say you will love me
If I have to go
You’ll be thinking of me
Somehow I will know…

 

A Swift Current Double Take whenever i see an owl, I see her

Halfway Through the Wood… Photo by Sylvia Ferrell-Jones

A quiet winter Sunday–

a charming photo on Facebook—

an owl peaks out from a tree.

I close my eyes

take in my breath

(Mama!).

I want to thank my friend for

this fleeting moment—

this unexpected gift

but

“my mom LOVED owls”

is all I can muster.

I don’t add

her small collection of ceramic owls

was the first thing you saw

as you walked in the door of our childhood home;

or that my sister and I wore

owl pendants on our lapels

at the funeral.

And now

owls are

everywhere

pillows and wallpaper and tshirts and stickers and notecards and calendars and ornaments and

A Swift Current wherever I go, I see owls

Oh My…Radish Moon creations by Sarah Nicholas Williams

 

And every single time,

I see her–

like a spark,

catching me off guard;

startling–

playful–

elusive.

And it’s not only the owls;

–that would be too easy—

but again and again

just when I least expect it,

–there she is!–

tracing the shadows

just out of reach.

My eyes fall on a solitary figure

a half block away;

her coat–

her gait–

her hair!

I quicken my pace

but just before I call out

she turns her head.

Well, of course-

of course,

I knew that!

(you didn’t really think I’d call out, did you?)

But just for that instant…that flash of an instant…

(thank God I didn’t call out!)

A woman sits next to me in the theater;

she smiles, adjusts her wrap, studies the program

while her perfume takes me to your room

I sit on your bed feel your nervous tension my excitement too as you put on your party dress the babysitter arrives my chicken delight too my face nestled against your cool neck your sparkling earrings my goodnight kiss I promise to be good you look so pretty mama so very pretty please

don’t leave!

I duck into a diner–

a quick bite–

tuna fish salad on wheat toast please and yes, I want the potato chips;

there’s a catch in my throat

but this time I knew you were coming.

I can never order a tuna fish salad sandwich (on wheat toast)

without a catch in my throat

we pile into a booth at DuPars near the Broadway Wilshire or Hody’s at Hollywood & Vine back to school shopping I’m giddy your feet hurt we’re starving! and yes we want the potato chips and maybe even a root beer float…!

And now, mama,

my feet hurt too.

And maybe I understand, if only just a little, what it was like for you.

And how I never told you

all I meant to say.

I stare at the table;

the waitress sets down my plate

you need anything else, hon?

A woman walks down the street;

her perfume

her coat

her hair–

she turns away;

I smile.

Up the block

across the table

in the next seat

an owl peaks out from a tree.

You’ve been gone four years, mama

but you do not fade.

You ease my longing

dampen my sorrow

shelter me.

I still cry, mama

but not as much;

after all

how can I be sad

when you’re

always

just one

step

ahead.

 

A Swift Current  Double Take I see owls everywhere!

Walking Down Lex…Photo by Hallie Swift

 

Opening quote from the song “Things We Said Today” words & music by John Lennon & Paul McCartney Copyright © 1964 Northern Songs All Rights Reserved International Copyright Secured

Halfway Through the Wood photo by Sylvia Ferrell-Jones, copyright Sylvia Ferrell-Jones, all rights reserved. Used by permission. I entitled the photo with a not-so-vague reference to Stephen Sondheim’s No One Is Alone from Into the Woods…the song was the impetus for this essay.

Owl pillows and t-shirts are part of a line of products by illustrator Sarah Nicholas Williams, Radish Moon, all rights reserved. Used by permission. To view the magical Radish Moon creations (drawings and dishes and dolls, oh my!) see http://www.radishmoon.com

And to readers who love the artist Vuillard as much I do, rest assured that I looked…but I don’t think he painted owls, or at least I couldn’t find one!

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Thank You For Remembering Me!

A tall thin woman slowly edged her walker into my mother’s room. Her long silver hair was pulled in a braid, revealing bright blue eyes and high chiseled cheekbones

Are you Hallie Swift?

Yes, I’m Hallie.

She reached into her pocket, grasping a shiny gold lipstick tube

I’m Dorothy

She raised her arm high in the air;

giggling as she waved the lipstick back and forth;

her voice light, melodic

Oh Hallie, I just love my lipstick. Thank you for remembering me!

Merry Christmas!

In her monthly newsletter,

the head nurse had issued a plea—

she needed

Secret Santas

for residents with no families;

she wanted everyone in the nursing home

to find a present under the tree.

My friends and I discussed our gifts

…chocolates and sweaters and books with large print and stuffed animals and baseball caps and comforters and…

Lipsticks for the ladies!

Lipstick?

Yes, my friend urged

after all, you never lose your vanity!

But let’s not give just one lipstick–

let’s get lipsticks for everyone!

So we asked friends coming to our Christmas party–

Please bring a lipstick for the ladies!

And with that, a tradition was born.

Year after year

we were showered with

Estee’s gorgeous reds, Chanel’s shimmering corals, Bobbi’s hot pinks;

small rectangular boxes adorned with bright paper and festive ribbons;

our own Christmas cornucopia–

we collected so many lipsticks;

I needed an extra suitcase for

the lipstick express!

On Christmas morning

each resident received

a beautiful little package–

Santa’s surprise!

A Swift Current Christmas lipstick for the ladies!

Lipstick! Photo by her granddaughter

The head nurse was effusive:

my residents are so happy–

And when my residents are happy, my nurses are happy–

And when my nurses are happy…

Well, girls, what can I say?

you made our Christmas!

And they made ours.

For many of us, the trip to buy lipsticks became a defining moment of our holiday season. One friend told me she and the Bloomingdale’s saleswoman shed tears as they selected the colors, then added every powder, polish and perfume sample in the department!

A small box;

a simple gesture;

the electricity of Christmas morning;

a gift

under the tree–

bright colors;

big smiles;

Dorothy.

Silver braid

melodic laugh

she waves her lipstick high in the air

Are You Hallie?

Thank you for remembering me.

Merry Christmas!

A Swift Current Christmas Surprise-Lipsticks for the Ladies

Thank you for remembering me! Photo by her granddaughter



A reader in Arkansas has decided to be “Hallie’s Lipstick Girl” (her words) for her local eldercare facility. Thank you for spreading the cheer! And Merry Christmas!

The beautiful woman in the photos is the mother of a friend from grammar school.  Thank you for permission to use these wonderful photos and thank you to my friend’s daughter for taking such gorgeous pictures.

Remember The Ladies (Reprise)

A Swift Current Remember the Ladies--Christmas Owl Tree

The Owl Christmas Tree–Just Because–Photo by Hallie Swift

The head nurse was concerned.

She knew many of her residents had outlived family and friends.

She knew

come Christmas morning

many of her residents would not find gifts under the tree.

Determined to end their disappointment,

she issued an appeal:

WE NEED SECRET SANTAS!

Eagerly accepting the assignment,

my friends and I started to plan—

but what do you need at 90?

Chocolates and sweaters and books and stuffed animals and comforters and…

You need lipstick!

Lipstick?

Yes, urged my friend,

after all, you never lose your vanity.

She was inspired.

But let’s not give just one lipstick–

let’s get lipsticks for everyone!

And in our annual Christmas party invitation,

we issued our own appeal.

Instead of a hostess gift,

we included a specific request:

Please bring a lipstick for the ladies!

And a tradition was born.

That year,

and every subsequent year,

we were showered with

gorgeous reds, shimmering corals, hot pinks;

a cornucopia of small rectangular boxes

adorned with festive ribbons and bright paper.

Our friends were enthusiastic–

I even needed an extra suitcase for

the lipstick express!

And Christmas morning,

when the nurses presented our beautiful little packages to the residents,

the response

was electric

(you never lose your vanity!).

The head nurse was effusive:

you made my residents happy–

And when my residents are happy, my nurses are happy–

And when my nurses are happy…

Well, you made our Christmas!

And girls—

Estee Lauder; Elizabeth Arden, Chanel…?

My ladies are beside themselves;

you girls are too much!

Wayne Thiebald, Lipstick (detail), 1964

Wayne Thiebald, Lipstick (detail), 1964

But actually, our friends were too much. They gave us elegant brands in luscious colors, lovingly selected and carefully wrapped. One friend reported that she and the saleswoman chose lipsticks with tears in their eyes—then added every powder, polish and hand cream sample in the department. Even friends who couldn’t attend the party joined the lipstick brigade.

I wish they could have seen the smiles.

A few days after Christmas, a resident approached me; her eyes wide and glistening; her beautiful grey hair pulled back in a long braid.

Are you Hallie?

She reached into her pocket and produced a lipstick.

She giggled as she waved it high in the air;

her voice light, girlish, melodic;

I’m Dorothy.

I just love my lipstick. Thank you!

The pleasure was ours.

For many of us, the trip to buy lipstick became a defining moment of our holiday season. Some friends even continue the tradition; now taking lipsticks to their local nursing homes.

And recently

a friend told me

she always thinks of my mom

this time of year;

I say a little prayer

for your mom…

remembering the lipsticks of years gone by…

Remember The Ladies.

A Swift Current Vuillard The Earthenware Pot

Merry Christmas from A Swift Current and Vuillard (Le Pot d’Argile 1895)

The Gift

It was months after my Mother’s death.  There were no more flowers; no more cards; no more donations to the scholarship fund.

“How are you” meant “how are you” not “How are you?”

How was I?  Glad you asked.

I thought I was losing my mind.

No matter what I was doing; my mind would flash back to the moment I learned my Mother was dead.  Walking down a crowded Manhattan street; standing at a grocery check-out; watching a movie; without warning, I was suddenly transported back to the night of October 11.

October 11 at 9.10 PM, to be precise.

Back to the apartment; back to the den; back to the ringing phone.

Hello Hallie, this is the nursing home.

Do you have bad news?

Yes, I have bad news.

Do you have bad news?

Yes, I have bad news.

Do you have bad news?

Yes, I have bad news.

The words were like a drum beating in my brain; a rhythm that would not stop; a sound heard only by me.

Is she dead?

Yes.

Is she dead?

Yes.

Is she dead?

Yes.

I was Bill Murray in Groundhog Day, except Bill Murray was funny.

This was exhausting.

For months, the shrill ringing phone and staccato drumbeat words were my unyielding soundtrack. On the outside, I was “fine.”  On the inside, I was unraveling.

My rescue was equally sudden and unexpected. Walking in my neighborhood one cold winter day, my eyes fell on a newspaper kiosk. A flier in the window stopped me in my tracks:

Be Brave. Write.

I had heard that message before.  Within weeks of my Mom’s death, a childhood friend visited New York. She had lost both her parents. We went to museums and theater and talked and talked and she never tried to change the subject.

At the end of our visit, she gave me a gift: a small lavender-colored book with pressed flowers on its cover and blank pages inside.

Write, she said.

She explained that when she wants to talk to her parents, she writes to them instead.

Writing helps, she said.

Thank you, I might have said.

I put the book on a shelf. It was soon covered by other books. And I resumed groundhog days–my mind repeatedly thrust back to the den; back to the phone; back to the voice from the nursing home.

Is she dead?

Yes.

Be Brave. Write.

This time I listened. I found the book with the pressed flowers and empty pages. And I started to record my groundhog life.  I described every single thing that happened from the moment that phone rang on Oct 11 at 9.10 PM; every single thing I said and she said and he said and they did…

And as the words appeared on the page, the scenes stopped unfolding in my brain. My words, my own written words, were healing me.

The moment did not own me anymore.

Later I met one of my favorite authors, Joyce Carol Oates, whose stunning memoir A Widow’s Story recounts in minute detail the months following her husband’s sudden death.  At a roundtable discussion, Oates nodded vigorously when I described the flashbacks of the endlessly ringing phone and the interminable conversations replaying in my brain.

She had endured the same flashbacks.

And while that might be the only thing I ever have in common with Joyce Carol Oates, it is good enough for me.

I was not alone.

Writing helps.

As this season of giving is upon us once again, I remember with gratitude the simple gift of a lavender book with pressed flowers.  I remember the blank pages and straightforward advice.
And I remember the healing words.

 A Swift Current || Letting Your Parents Go ||  Be Brave Write


Photo by Hallie Swift