Layers upon layers of love and friendship
In this tapestry we call life, we experience moments that are only possible because of all that has come before. People we thought we’d lost show up at unexpected times, in unforeseen ways. Places that may have been dead ends or detours reemerge as delightful destinations. A news story triggers reminiscences of conversations long forgotten, gladdening our hearts for the day.
Today marked one such day. I’ve savored the layers. Maybe sharing them will brighten this split second of your life as well.
Layer one
My mother worked very hard to maintain her lawn and garden. She mowed one-third an acre every week, pushing an old-fashioned gas mower. “Exercise!” Her azaleas, hydrangeas, and blue plumbago thrived under her green thumb.
Once she decided we needed a porch swing. But since we didn’t have a front porch, she built a patio, and while she was at it, a sidewalk from the patio in the backyard, to the driveway at the front of the house. On a budget.
She hauled sand and broken bricks—free at the lumber yard—in our station wagon. She taught herself how to lay bricks. She found my grandfather’s old rubber mallet. She did that patio right. The broken bricks formed a patchwork quilt, red and yellow and white.
And yet, she did not work all the time. At the end of the day, she’d shower, change clothes, make a tall glass of sweet ice tea. And relax. Work was meaningless to her if she couldn’t enjoy its end result.
One day—lawn freshly mown, plants watered—my dad snapped a wonderful photo of her. “Joyce in her kingdom,” he would say every time someone commented on the picture (photo).
Layer two
I went to a public high school, enrollment around 4000 students, grades 9-12. My circle of friends centered on the intersection of three ‘cliques’ within the student body: Math, German, and choir. And choir overlapped with “drama,” since the choir teacher produced the annual musicals. While Math overlapped with other STEM classes.
If I put pen to paper, I’d estimate that around forty to fifty of us inhabited that Venn diagram. Place math and music and German into a bowl, toss it a bit, and the resulting salad is a bit nerdy and hella creative. We even had competing theater to worry about. Choir, orchestra, and drama put on an annual musical. But German club presented an annual play—auf Deutsch—for TAGS [Texas Association of German Students], ranging from fairy tales to Stifter.
Sometimes, just for fun, a bunch of us would commandeer the auditorium and perform, say, Our Town. With sound effects and rudimentary scenery. It was in that auditorium that I first heard one of my own songs performed. Impromptu concert. No one warned me that my song was on the menu. You know what that does to creative juices?
That unlikely Venn diagram of friends has stuck together for more than fifty years. Some died far too early, and we smile when we remember them and tell their stories. We still call Charles Chuckles, even though he’s a bishop, and Jody and Mrs. MacAllister will forever be linked to there is no green.
Those three teachers, the ones who taught us math and German and choir, loved us well. Combine quality pedagogy and warm personalities, and that salad goes beyond nerdy and creative. We’re lucky they’re in our lives even now.
Layer three
Kathy Drago, one of those drama people, was a friend then and is a friend now. In 2015 after her mother died, Kathy started painting “old-old women.” (See photo below.) From her Web site: A few months in to this body of work, I realized that I was envisioning my own aging and poking at my terror of how my mind and body will change as I age. …
I think about each woman’s life story — who she used to be and who she is now and how best to show it. My background in theater arts is useful because I approach these paintings the way an actor builds a character, using the outer physicality to show inner emotions and motivations. I love the outer physicality! I love the topography of the eyelid drapes, droopy jowls, neck flab, and the asymmetry of the wrinkled face; I love that it’s like painting a landscape. …
I like painting the old-old. I think they are underrepresented in portraits and I think they deserve to be painted. One 94-year-old woman, Margo, cried when she saw my work. She explained that she loves it when her daughter takes her to a museum or restaurant but is saddened when other people look past her, as if she were invisible. She said my paintings force viewers to look at women like her and consider her fully-lived life. Margo wanted to be painted because she wants to be seen.
Ever since Kathy posted about her new work, a little tentatively at first, I’ve loved her passion. Holding a mirror to the wisest among us. Those who have lived, and “lived fully.”
Following her work, her successes, her struggles, has made me appreciate the value of her friendship even more.
Note: If you fly into George Bush Intercontinental Airport (IAH) in Houston, Texas, look for Kathy's artwork along some of the concourses. We are truly proud of her!
Layer four
Another friend from that crazy Venn diagram, indeed, Prinzessin in the German Club production my freshman year, is one of those people everyone needs to have in their corner. She’s ferocious in the best possible meaning of that word. If you’re her friend, she never gives up on you (me!). She will have your back if it costs her the last dime in her wallet. (Hi Gwen!)
Like surprisingly many in that unlikely group of friends, she married someone from the same circle (hi John!).
Especially once my mother’s dementia worsened and I panicked, she’s one of the few people who stood by me and wouldn’t budge until I was finally all right. Clare and Joe also dug their heels in to keep me stable.
Really, the world would be a much better place if everyone had a handful of friends like these. It makes all the difference. It’s a waste of time to try to be popular with the full 4000. Focus on the forty who mean the world.
Gwen is also the initial beta reader for my novel-in-progress, social media working title Middle Earth Houston. She’s catching the discrepancies, the continuity errors. She’s asking, “What on earth did you mean by that?” But nicely.
Layer five
I posted the photograph of my mom in her kingdom on Facebook a few years ago. Kathy asked if she could use it as the basis for one of her “old-old women” portraits. She liked my mom’s relaxed state, holding her tall glass of ice tea, stretched out on her lawn chair. Of course! I’d be crazy to say no.
The resulting painting was charming. And although my mother rarely, rarely cussed, I have a feeling she’d appreciate the title Kathy gave the painting: What the damn hell happened to Texas? Most of us in that Venn diagram of friends wonder that every day.
I mentioned it to Gwen, but could not find Kathy’s post. “Don’t worry, I’ll just talk to Kathy directly.”
The conversation went in another direction and I forgot her question.
Layer six
Last week, Gwen said I should be on the lookout for a package. Should arrive on Saturday, “but don’t open it until Sunday!” Of course, the post office decided to send that package on a wild goose chase back and forth and back and forth to the nearest distribution center. I got it on Tuesday, two days late.
It’s a framed print of Kathy’s oil painting! So very wonderful. Every last layer of this poured over me. From remembering my mom relaxing in her kingdom and my dad seeing her beauty in that moment. To friends who won’t and don’t let go.
Today’s joy would not be as special if it were not for the fifty or sixty years of history behind the framed print. It’s more than a memory of my mother. It’s two friends, Gwen and Kathy, who plotted this and kept it secret, who delighted me with something extraordinarily meaningful.
Layers of life. Can’t survive without them, without the people who create them. Wouldn’t want to try.