Funeral Calling at Coldwater Creek

I've always been an old soul. 

My favorite song in first grade was "You Don't Own Me" by Lesley Gore, and I sang it in front of the entire elementary school in the Variety Show. 

1963

Looking back, a lot of time-outs and break-ups could have been avoided if everyone knew that this was my anthem at 7-years-old. 

For my 11th birthday I got episodes of The Honeymooners on VHS. 

1955

Best. Birthday. Ever. 

I have a real passion for rescuing things from the past and bringing them back to life. Which explains why you can barely walk in our garage. And also why there is an entire corn crib hanging up in the second floor of our house. 

I believe in hand-me-downs 
and writing letters 
and recipe cards stained by time and shortening 
and clothes on the line 
and mom jeans. 
Even mom jeans. 

This explains why I was pretty darn excited when I received a gift card to the women's store, Coldwater Creek. While I'm not in the market for any elastic waistband trousers, I do appreciate timeless pieces that I can add to my wardrobe and wear for years to come. However, the Coldwater Creek in Indianapolis just announced that they're closing in May. 
Tick.
Tock....
I rarely shop outside of Richmond's Elder-Beerman, but a bit of urgency to spend that gift card set in with the closing announcement.

But before I start this story, let's be clear on one thing: 

NONE of the women in Coldwater Creek actually look like the ladies that adorn the website. 

I was peacefully shopping (totally appreciating the fact that their X-Small = size 6) when I hear a man's voice completely interrupt the Barry Manilow playing over the store sound system. 

"Marie!!" yelled the 103-year-old man in khakis and a Titleist polo. 
"What Frank!?" a small, petite woman yelled from behind a rack of cardigans. 
"My God I've been all over this mall looking for you..." mumbled the grumpy old man with both hands full of shopping bags, shaking his head. 
"Why would you go all over searching for me?" she nagged. "This is the only place I shop!"

I smiled to myself and looked around; everyone who witnessed the reunion was doing the same. I found a few pieces that I liked and requested a dressing room. 
For whatever reason, some of my life's most memorable encounters happen in dressing rooms, where I'm completely exposed and vulnerable; at the mercy of some stranger to bring me the size I actually wear, without judgement. 

There was a gal about my age working the dressing room. Her name was Rachel. She was patient and had on comfortable shoes. 
Like a good granddaughter, she traveled down the aisle assuring that all customers had what they needed. 

"Margaret, do you need anything?"
"No, thank you," Margaret replied. 

"Doris, how are you getting along?"
"Fine, right now," Doris replied. 

"Betty? Do you like that dress you held back?"
"I haven't made it that far!" Betty laughed. 

"Phyllis, everything fitting?"
"Well," Phyllis said, "I guess I must have gained some weight since Christmas..." she said, sounding questionable. 
"Ok," said Rachel, "What size did you try on?"
"10," said Phyllis. 
"So would you like me to grab you a 12?" Rachel asked. 
There was rustling in the dressing room next to me.
"...Better make it a 16."

With my hand over my mouth, I wondered if Phyllis was referencing weight gain from this Christmas or the Christmas of '95?
Get.
Me. 
Out.
Of.
Here. 

I decided that I needed to depart Coldwater Creek as soon as possible. I found two things I wanted, and longed to find a store where the customer names weren't cycling back into popularity after 70 years. 

I got in line to check out when I saw something - a lot of things - that caught my attention:
Flowers...arrangements lined up on the shelf behind the counter like a funeral home. 
What in the world?
Beside me, Peggy wondered as I did, and she inquired. 
"Oh, those are from faithful customers and even some other stores here in Keystone. They sent them because of our closing," said the gal behind the register, voice cracking.

And just then, it hit me: I'm at a funeral calling for Coldwater Creek. 

And boy, did her comment open the flood gates. 
There were tears.
And questions:
"How could they?!"
"When did you find out?"
"You would think by the money I spent here..."
There were also the women pulling coupons out of their purses.
Gift cards, too. 
I was one of them. 
Women gave tearful hugs to each employee and thanked them for their help over the years. 
Amongst all the tears, one old hag even had the audacity to ask what the drop dead (no pun intended, of course) date for returns was. 
I liked her. 
Mind in the right place. 

By the time I got to the register I didn't know if I should just present my gift card or tell the employees how the store never looked so natural and that it lived a long and happy life.

I left Coldwater Creek with a few things that afternoon:

A new appreciation for customer loyalty,

a bag that better - given the price - last until we're the age that Cody gets lost looking for me in the mall,

and a new black lace pencil skirt to wear in the event of the next fashion funeral. 

Please, retail gods who make those decisions, don't let it be Elder-Beerman. 

I'll feel obligated to send flowers. 

Peaks and Valleys

"Lindsay, listen. Listen to me," Cody said as he put his hands on my shoulders and tried to make eye contact with me under the bright moon in our backyard. "Life is made of peaks and valleys. We've been on a pretty high mountain for a long while now. This, this tonight, this is a valley. And we'll be ok. Together, we'll get out of it. This is life." He put his arms around me. My tears soaked his shirt. 

When Cody was 24 he packed up life as he knew it and moved 952 miles northeast. He didn't have family there, or good friends, but he had just accepted a job that would lead him from Stillwater, Oklahoma to East Lansing, Michigan. He got an Australian Shepherd puppy named Birdie and within one another they found trust, companionship and sheer joy in working cattle together. Birdie became a popular character at the MSU beef barn; everyone who knew the farm, knew good 'ol Birdie. Cody and Birdie faithfully - and with great fun - navigated eight years of bachelor life at Michigan State University.

 

Cody and Birdie on our wedding day

When I was 24 I started a journey of my own as I moved back to Indiana from Washington D.C., bought a house in the valley of Greens Fork and found a pup I named Dixie to accompany me in the cozy little home. We would visit BSG daily and I would carry her in the front pocket of my hooded sweatshirt. Dixie grew to be more faithful than she was obedient. She made messes and ran wild, but her friendly spirit and gentle heart were contagious. There was a time when I say with confidence that Dixie loved me more than I loved myself. What an incredibly patient companion to a young, single gal finding her way in the world. 

From the age of 24 on, these two dogs have been an incredibly significant part of Cody and I's lives. When friends, jobs, relationships and time came and went, Birdie and Dixie remained a constant for each of us. 

Since we met, Birdie and Dixie have gone from acting like 14-year-old resentful step-sisters

to daily playmates. Yes, they're both having fun here. 

 And here, they're in timeout for nearly breaking a lamp. 

"If you have a dog, you will most likely outlive it; 

to get a dog is to open yourself to profound joy and, prospectively, 

to equally profound sadness." 

Marjorie Garber

Last night within minutes we lost both faithful pups, Birdie and Dixie, right in front of our house. Cody and I were able to stroke their ears, say goodbye and hold them in our arms along the roadside as they passed from one exciting life to the next. He and I have never known such a helpless, heart wrenching feeling.

Remember: Life, as Cody told me last night, is made of peaks and valleys. We get out of one to move on to the other. Always.

Birdie and Dixie spent most of their time together in Greens Fork, a tiny town nestled between two hills along the river. Quite often in this valley they chased the same squirrel, fought for the same piece of brisket and brought peace and familiarity to two newlyweds entering a whole new world together. They were playful and funny and really good dogs.

And at 7:00 this morning, instead of posting a blog as I have done consistently for over three years, Cody, Momma and I laid those pups to rest on top of the greatest peak we could find. Forever, they now rest under the beloved Growing Tree.

And I bet you didn't know, under that live oak, my favorite dog is buried in the yard

So now Cody and I work through this valley and 

with broken hearts we'll move on with our lives. 

We say farewell to our best animal friends, may they enjoy the greatest peak.

And dammit, I sure hope they realize there is more than one ham bone in heaven.

Stroke Material

I threw my Escapé (French for Escape, remember?) into park next to the mailbox and opened the back hatch. The blue Rubbermaid tub was nearly all I could handle. I grabbed both ends and lugged the deal across the patio and barely got it to the brick before I lost all control of the disorganized mess. 

A film strip floated like a feather to the ground from the impact of the near-fumble. 

It was time to sort through photos for the reception slideshow for our wedding. Can I just say, between the cleaning out of the red barn and the tree trimming leading to the poison ivy marathon and the invitation list organization, sorting through photos was the thing I dreaded the most. 

Not because I have a painful past or had some birthmark at a young age that scarred my self image or even the time it entailed. I dreaded it because every time I break open that dusty Rubbermaid I get this feeling that I have a tennis ball lodged in my throat and my eyes begin to develop a strange mist. It's weird. 

I sat down in a porch rocker, took a deep breath and tugged the tub to my side. Less than two weeks: it was go time. 

The old screen door flew open and Dad's cracked Mason work boots punched down the brick steps. He had a bowl of boiled peanuts and a to-do list in his hands. He stopped at the base of the steps and studied what I was doing, cracking open a peanut with his teeth. 

I didn't want to look up, but I did.

"What's all this, Jeany?" he asked, sucking the water out of the shell and spitting it into Momma's prized flower beds. "Stroke Material?"

His two words struck me: Stroke Material. He need not explain himself. 

"Yep," I responded trying to take it lightly. "That is exactly what this stuff is."

"What are you doing with it now?" Dad inquired. 

"I'm trying to find content for our wedding slideshow. So far I've found 18 photos of Laura, 8 of Luke and 1 of me. But two corners are torn off and I look like a paraplegic," I said, studying the 1987 photo. 

Dad just kind of laughed. He knew I wasn't joking. The third child is lucky to have a birth certificate accounted for, let alone any visual proof that she ever existed prior to 6th-grade graduation. Dad climbed into his Ford and started the diesel engine. Within thirty seconds he had gone to the farm. 

I sat back in my chair and thought about the brief interaction. It made my stomach hurt and my lips smile at the same time. That Dad...

So what is Stroke Material?

As completely sick as it sounds, Dad is convinced he's going to, one day, suffer a stroke. He told us this about 4 years ago. If you know Dad, you recognize that he only operates on two speeds: Fast and Faster. He doesn't slow down. He doesn't take vacations. His golf course is  maintained with a bush hog and and somedays the longest amount of time he sits still is when he's feeding hay at the farthest farm. 

When Dad first revealed this revelation to us, he asked that we bring every old photograph we could find to the hospital or nursing home to keep him company. Every. Single. Photo. we could dig up. We agreed to the Stroke Material.

Last Christmas I heeded this advice and asked (the way incredible) Nate Logston to digitalize every home movie we had on file. I figured if my Daddy was going to have this break down, the last place I wanted to be was at CVS trying to transfer files for the grumpy old man. 

But he got me thinking. When it comes down to it, in his final days, my Dad knows how he wants to spend his time: Reflecting. Remembering. Reliving moments in time through photos. He chooses that.

Think about this. If you prepared yourself for final days, what would your Stroke Material be?

If I were to judge those around me, I'm convinced Cody would love nothing more than having decades of past issues of the Angus Journal to leaf through and Luke would invest his time reviewing historic registration papers and bloodlines. Momma would ambitiously look through cookbooks and plan a meal if she had the ability.

So where does that leave you? What is your Stroke Material? The things that would occupy your days and bring purpose to hours that pass like months. 

Old photographs?

Love letters from someone you tried to forget?

Pure music?

Hemingway who seemed to-far-out, anyhow?

Home videos?

MASH reruns?

Cookbook collections?

Maybe even your favorite quotes and verses that got you through the impossible?

I think mine will be the box of Chrysalis letters still stored at Momma and Dad's. Letters to a naive 16-year-old from folks I never even had the grand opportunity to meet. Letters of promise and hope and love. 

My hope is that you never have to decide on Stroke Material. I hope your days are filled with life and ambition and forward thinking to the life ahead.

But if you had the opportunity to pick your very best Stroke Material what would it be? Let someone know. And enjoy those things now, rather than when it is too late. 

While you take care of that, I'm going to be busy changing all the "1982" on Laura's photos to "1988" to meet this deadline we call "Wedding Day" - - -  I won't tell if you don't. 

Who Is Sixty?

Momma turns 60 today, April 24, 2013. 

Not much has changed since this photo was taken. 
She still loves livestock, has the flip in her hair on the right side and she never did get rid of those kankels. 

I can laugh about that. It's genetic. 

Linda - Debbie - Susan

Granddaughter Marlee, 55+ years later

Momma has had a hard time wrapping her mind around turning 60. 
30 was fun - she was still having kids. 
40 was easy - we forgot to celebrate. 
50 came and went in a flurry of preparation for someone else: her youngest was about to graduate from high school. Finally, an empty nest. 
But at 60, she has begun to read the obituaries just to keep up on what everyone else "her age" is doing these days.
Have you seen my mother? She has a lot of years left in her. 

But I'm not going to discount the amazing woman she is today because of those 60 years that have flown by. 
More than a stupid number, in 60 years, who has Momma been?

The Multitasker - Kind of
Momma still packed my lunch well into high school. As in, until the day I graduated from high school (guilty). Every day, second period, I would take a sneak peak into my lunch bag. One Thursday I got a great surprise.   
A cube steak. 
Thawing. 
Quickly. 

Quite surprised and a little freaked out, my lunch bag went straight into the trash and Dustin Dickey gave me a couple dollars for lunch that day. I got home that evening to a frazzled mother. She had been searching for the cube steak she laid out for supper, and all she could find on the counter was a thawed ice pack. My thawed ice pack. The one that usually kept my yogurt cold. In the morning rush, she laid out the ice pack on the counter and packed the cube steak in my lunch bag. We had left overs that night. Things happen. 

The Trend Setter
Momma wore coral lipstick before coral lipstick was cool. I'm serious. For decades she has kept a few tubes in her purse (should she lose one), one tube in the truck (should company arrive), one tube in the downstairs bathroom (should company arrive), one tube in her coveralls (should company arrive) and another in the same location where our spare house key has lived for 30 years. I've never understood that one, but at 60 I'm not about to question it. 

The Chef
In forty-five minutes I have watched Momma pull together a four-course meal for twelve using nothing more than yesterday's beet salad (homemade), canned beef (home grown) and Frankie Valli on the radio. She has an amazing ability to stand in the pantry door, look around for eight seconds and develop an entire menu for our family, plus unexpected guests. The only use she has for measuring cups these days is to ensure she's drinking enough water daily and at dinner last weekend she recited to me the recipe - and timing, and stirring techniques - for the best all-purpose gravy I've ever had. Her mind is a cookbook with an incredibly accurate assessment of what lurking leftovers are in the fridge that can still be served when Luke shows up for lunch. 

 

The Cowgirl
Let's put it this way: The only difference between my Momma and John Wayne is that he didn't use Frizz-Ease hairspray.
But she can - and has - pulled calves, hand milked stubborn, free-standing cows, given her breath to a calf on it's way out, missed social obligations (that she bought a new outfit for) because she was trying to confirm a heat, gotten an entire herd in and off the road, played chicken with a bull and sat up all night with a calf, holding it's little frozen body in a blanket. She's maternal. She's also one hell of a worker. 

 

The Detective

Our family has lost PTA fundraiser checks, spare keys, passports, pompons, living pets, registration papers, show halters, hub caps, insurance cards, mower belts, receipts, hitch pins, bobby pins, good luck charms, remote controls, baby dolls and even wedding rings. Somehow Momma has always been the first to find them. I haven't lived in her house for almost ten years and I called her last week because I couldn't find my favorite red heels. I thought I'd give it a try. Didn't work.

A lot of experience and love is packed into the 60 years we celebrate with Momma today. I remember being a very young girl and Momma lifting me onto the washing machine so she could put shoes on me. We were going somewhere special; I studied her perfectly painted red nails.With her red sweater, denim pencil skirt, white button earrings and red flats, she was the prettiest person I had ever seen.

Twenty-five years later and I see the exact same, incredibly beautiful woman, who has traded in those "clean" clothes for full-time Muck boots and mom jeans. And because of that sacrifice for Dad, Laura, Luke and I, she is exponentially more admirable and beautiful than she has ever been. 

Happy 60th Birthday, Momma!

A Library Burns To The Ground

One year ago I sat in a waiting room and listened to an old man give me some of the most sound, unsolicited advice I've ever been given. 
It rocked me. 
It made me think. 
I blogged about it. 
I apply the lesson every single day. 

Less than six months after that conversation with the stranger in the waiting room, I drove to Ivy Tech Community College to sit on a committee to plan an event for their School of Agriculture. I walked into the classroom and instantly recognized an old man - the same one whose words struck a cord in me. 

I introduced myself and he said, "Yes, I was in the waiting room with you some time ago..." Just as I remembered him, Joe remembered me. 

Joe and I went on to work closely together to plan the event for the college. We met monthly, discussing who should be invited, who should speak and why we were so adamant that the event for the college went well. But as Joe's wisdom impressed me in the waiting room, his passion for agriculture - both local and global - impressed me exponentially more. 

I have never met anyone more devoted to learning, teaching and studying agriculture.  He defined initiative. A life-long learner. I have never met anyone so determined to teach others.  He was a passionate advocate for agriculture. 

Joe had a true servant's heart in a farmer's body.

And Joe was funny. We went to breakfast at Bob Evan's in February. Joe was conservative in his selection: oatmeal and other heart-healthy choices. I, on the other hand, ordered the biggest, meanest omelet a gal could find, extra mushrooms. Joe laughed at me when the waitress delivered our meals and an omelet bigger than my head was placed before me. But he took me a lot more seriously when he saw me finish it off. "What? I was taught to clean my plate," I told Joe. He threw his head back, his eyes dancing with laughter. 

I worked with Joe through Ivy Tech. 
I visited with Joe at the Soil and Water Conservation banquet. 
We both enjoyed the fact that we left Wayne County and drove to Indianapolis and visited again last month at the 2013 Livestock, Forage and Grain Forum.

He asked me that day if I was following him to each of these events. I told Joe - only half jokingly - that I couldn't keep up with everything he was involved in. 

My last laugh with Joe was in late February. He told me he had just bought a welder from my Dad and he was regretting the decision. Hesitantly, I asked him why. "Well your Dad has a wedding to pay for this summer. I bet in September that welder will go on sale!"

Momma called me late Monday night and told me Joe had passed away. 

When an old man dies, it is as if a library burns down. Never, ever before have I wanted to share his waiting room message more than I do now. 

Something I've never done before,  I'm reposting the blog about Joe, written before I realized what an impact the man would have. 

Even if you read it last February, I sure encourage you to read it again. 

A Lesson in the Waiting Room 

March 15, 2012

"Sometimes the doctor's office waiting room is the loneliest, most desolate place in the world," said the stranger, sitting four seats from me. 

I had taken Momma to the doctor. She'd been sick for days; she's also been bull-headed for years. I knew it was bad when she called me at work and asked me to get her to the doctor that very afternoon. So, being that daughter that drops off a rambunctious sixth-generation feral dog (with a heart of gold) at her house every day, I didn't hesitate to help Momma out. 

I took a book to read, as you never know how long you'll wait in those situations. Lucky for us, the doctor was surprised to see the BSG Manager of Operations sitting in his waiting room  and not in coveralls; he took her right in.  

While Momma was in back I kept reading Start with Why: How Great Leaders Inspire Everyone to Take Action; the full, silent waiting room seemed like the perfect place to read. Until the stranger, four seats away, broke the silence with his comment. 

He was older, probably in his mid-70s. He was a strikingly handsome man for his age, with a head full of wavy hair and a handsome smile. He wore brown shoes and black socks, a red flannel shirt with a turtleneck underneath. His jeans were faded but still in working order, and it wasn't until he went back to see the doctor that I noticed just how far he had them pulled up.  

With the exception of one man, the entire waiting room looked up at the old man after he made his "loneliest, most desolate" comment out of the blue. 

He had our attention, and he continued...

"I've been to a few of these in my lifetime. I'm a cancer survivor. I had several heart stints put in a year ago. I thought I was out of the woods until just the last few months, but something isn't right. That's why I'm sitting here, I suppose," he said with a smile. 

I put my book down. I had this feeling I was about to learn something, and it wasn't about leadership.

He continued, "When I was out in Indianapolis years ago I made some friends out there. The first week was scary. I didn't know what I was in for, or what they - the others in the waiting room - were in for. But I finally got one of the other men talking and we got to be good acquaintances. Others, daily, joined our waiting room conversation."

I couldn't help but notice how well articulated he was. I also noticed that the lady in the corner went back to reading her Ladies' Home Journal. Are you serious, lady?! How could you not find this survivor's story so intriguing?!, I thought to myself. 

Seeing he still had a somewhat captive audience, the man kept talking. 

"The place went from a room of scared, quiet, lonely fighters to a room full of supportive teammates. We were fighting the same battle. All we had to do was ask how the other person was doing that day. That's all it took to start a conversation. And to learn."

He took off his khaki coat and hung it over the chair beside him. I wondered why he hadn't done it sooner; it seemed like a blazing 400-degrees in that tiny room to me. 

"I truly believe that communication, that putting into words how we were feeling, saved my life. I looked forward to it. Guess I needed it. You never know what kind of battle that other person is facing until you ask," he said. 

The side door flew open, "Mr. Johnson?"

"That's me!" And as though he'd been healthy his whole life, the old man shot out of his seat, grabbed his coat and headed back to see the doctor. 

Just like that, the moment of inspiration had come and gone. But it certainly stuck with me, otherwise I wouldn't be sharing it here. What a simple, yet profound thought - we're never going to know or understand what a person is going through, or what they may need from us, until we simply ask. 

Take the time to ask, even if they wear a smile. 

That old man's inspiring words reminded me of one of my favorite quotes; I first read it waiting in line at a local office supplies store - it was taped to the cash register:

The world needs more like Joe Meyer. 

Acts of Leontien

Do you remember when I posted about Leontien?
The post was brief, optimistic and upbeat.
Much like Leontien's own life.
Today would have been her 34th birthday.
But her smile left us just last week on January 10th.

To honor this farm girl's spirit, love for life and contagious optimism, today Jean's Boots is dedicated to acts of kindness for Leontien.

Go out, face the day and be kind.

Double your recipe and give the second helping to an ailing neighbor. Discarding a shoddy recipe does not count!

Call a friend you've neglected.

Visit with your parents.

Write a letter to someone who isn't expecting it. Your recipient choices are unlimited - who does expect letters these days?

Give back to an organization you believe in.

Buy lunch for the guy in the drive through behind you. But don't roll your eyes when his total is $9.85 and your's was $3.45.

Hold the door for someone.

High five the trash man. He does great work!

You know that person at work that you're supposed to manage but you can hardly stand? Encourage them today.

Pick up litter. We all share this tiny piece of land we call Earth.

Don't turn on the light until you've warned your husband and have allowed him to pull the comforter over his eyes.

Pick up sticks in your neighbor's yard.

Hug a kid.

Once you've done your act of kindness in honor of Leontien, make sure you leave a comment below to share it with the rest of the great big world. You can also post your act on the Love for Leontien Facebook page.

Pass kindness on!

Momma Picks Her Place

Momma and I we're riding to town not long ago when she said something completely out of left field. If you know my mother, you likely know that this isn't anything out of the ordinary. Her  spontaneity  keeps us on our toes, and laughs aplenty around Bowman Superior Genetics. 

We were driving,  listening to a cassette of Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons when she dropped the bomb:

"I picked out my plot today."

"I'm sorry?" I asked, turning down the radio, heart in my feet.

"My grave. Final resting place."

"Mom, I thought you said your doctor appointment went really well last month? What do you need to tell me?" I asked, taking off my sunglasses, throat so tight.

Momma smiled a bit, "It did go well, but I'm at that age that I need to think about these things. Also, I heard last week that lot prices are going up soon so I wanted the lower rate."

"Alright, you know I hate these discussions, but lay it on me," I replied with great hesitation.

Momma didn't hesitate at all.

"Well that place is filling up! I had to go to the far south end to even get a parking spot," she said, as though we were talking about Target rather than a cemetery. "But I found one. And when I sit up in my casket I will be able to look across the cemetery and see Daddy and Mom," she said with a gentle smile, her mind drifting to a place other than Greens Fork, Indiana.

"Do you anticipate sitting up a lot in your casket?" I asked, half joking, half serious.

She ignored me. "They asked me if being next to a hydrant would bother me. I told them no, I've spent most of my adult life next to a hydrant watering cows and checking heat out in the pasture," Momma continued.

"Ahhh, good work Linda! A little piece of home for you!" I laughed.

"Besides," she continued, "I told them if they put me next to a hydrant you kids are more inclined to come water my flowers."

I responded to her quite suggestive comment, "Don't fool yourself; we're going for the silk option once they get marked down at K-Mart. You'll have tulips in August and greenery in March." 

"Yeah, you're probably right. But then I got to thinking the hydrant wasn't such a good idea."

"Why is that?"

"Well," she continued, "You know your brother. And the habit he's had since he was 7-years-old.....he'll forget to shut it off and leave the water running all night! Flood me right out of the hole."

How true that was. Linda had done her homework that afternoon at the cemetery.

"Ohhhh, good point. I hope you didn't pick the hydrant location?" I asked, impressed at Momma's odd assessment.

"Nope, moved west a bit. Never did learn how to swim."

"So.....is Dad close to you?"

She turned onto to College Corner Rd. then turned and looked at me, rolling her eyes.

"Seriously? Did you buy a plot and not get two?!" I asked, my jaw almost to hit the console.

"Oh, stop. I bought him one. We'll finally both get some rest without his snoring. No, seriously. I just need you kids to follow some instructions when that day comes," Momma said. 

"Oh boy......let's hear 'em," I leaned my head on the headrest. I knew this could be lengthy. Linda is a planner. 

"Well, I need you to lay me on my right side before they close the top. And take off my shoes. And my jewelry. And make it is tasteful. My jewelry, I mean."  

Don't worry Momma, you won't be going down in Mardi Gras beads that day, I thought to myself. 

"And, Jean, probably the biggest thing of all...."

I shut my eyes. Here it goes....

"Just make sure I have on coral lipstick."

In today's crazy world we can't accurately anticipate much. 
But on this Wednesday morning I lift a glass to predictable

ladies who are just head-strong enough to 

know exactly what they want - in this life and next. 

Betsy - Momma - Original Jean - Lindsay Jean - Laura