Leave Room in Your Garden for Angels to Dance

Ten years ago, my friend Susie, made me a “thingy” for my flower garden.  I’ve since learned that “thingy” is actually a “garden ornament”.  If I hadn’t sent her the ONLY picture I took of her garden ornament, I would put it on here.  Susie does a lot of “folk art” in various mediums.  This one is similar to a cross but she paints her own angels, flowers and wording.  And that’s what makes it unique.  The one she made me had written on it “Leave Room in Your Garden for the Angels to Dance”.  Her hand painted angels were dancing on their “pole”. 

On Sept. 3, 2001 I wrote Susie a letter thanking her for the much loved garden ornament.  Fortunately, she saved my letter!  When I decided last December I was going to tell “my funny stories” this story was the first thing I thought of.  But I couldn’t find anything in the computer or anywhere else.  Susie mentioned to me back in the still frozen winter that I should tell this story and that’s when she discovered she still had my letter.

On September 3, 2001, my great-nephew, Jared, was only 6 days from turning four years old.  Hard to believe he just turned 14 years old and is taller than I am!  My favorite little boy in all the world really grew up fast!  I love him more than life, but have to admit that at 3 and 4 years old he was so very entertaining because he was so smart!  Watching him “learn” was always exciting!

So, here I am 10 years later “blogging” a story that still makes me laugh just thinking about it.  I know I haven’t managed to make it as funny as it was at the time, but this story is for sure in the top 10 funny stories I’ve lived in my life!  You probably had to be there to get the full impact, but use your imagination and visualize what we were seeing in our backyard!  Here's my letter:

September 3, 2001

Hi Susie,

Lest you think I am totally ungrateful for the garden “thingy” (what are they really called?) you made me, I have waited to say “thank you” because I wanted to take some pictures of it in my beautiful blooming garden.  As usual for me, there is a story.

I have worked all summer trying to get something to bloom - anything.  I’ve planted more flowers in the backyard - everywhere - than you can imagine.  And when I dig one inch, I immediately hit rock - so all these plants required a great deal of hard digging.  But I wanted your “thingy” to have flowers around it.  I finally decided while everything grew leaves and was very green - nothing was ever going to flower.  So I put your “thingy” up anyway.

Well, Jared comes over and asked what was written on it.  I read it to him:  “Leave room in your garden for the angels to dance”.  Jared, being almost a 4 year old, says, “Where do the angels dance?”  I should have figured out at this point that he and I were going to engage in a long question/answer time.

 I told Jared the angels dance in the garden.  He said he wanted to see them.  I told him he couldn’t - they only danced at night when no one could see.  He said he wanted to come out at night and see them.  I told him angels were all around us, but we couldn’t see them.  He wanted to know where they were.  I told him there were five great big angels on the roof of our house - one on each corner and one on the roof.  He asked how they got there.  I told him when we moved into the house I prayed for God to put the angels there to keep the house safe.  Our question/answer conversation went on and on and on about where the angels were, why he couldn’t see them, and why did they dance in the garden. 

I thought I would find some angel statues and put them in the “garden”.  After looking all summer I found these angels at Walmart on sale.  So I buy two.  When I got home I got the swan planters where begonias were blooming, and put the angel statues next to the begonias.  . I was determined to have you see blooming flowers next to your “thingy”.   I finally decided I needed to take a picture of my tiny little blooming patch.  Unfortunately, but normal for me, the battery was dead in the camera.  Summer rushed on and I never got batteries so I could take a couple of pictures until now.

A few days after I sat up my tiny, little blooming patch, I went to the back yard to water my container flowers and see if any blooms of all the flowers I planted in the ground had shown up.  The swan planters with the begonias and the angel statues are sitting in the ground cover.  The ground cover is the only thing that hasn’t died, so I use it to “frame” anything that has a bloom on it.  To my surprise, the angel on the right as you look at the picture had toppled onto the grass.  These are just resin so they aren’t very heavy and I just set it back in its place.  A couple of days later, it’s again fallen over.  So I dig around in the ground cover to make a hole so I knew it was sitting on ground and not the vines from the ground cover.  About a week goes by with no problem.  Then one morning I looked out and it was lying in the grass again.  By this time, I decide” the angels really have been dancing at night”.  This continued for several weeks.  Then one day Mother asked me why that angel kept falling over.   I said I don’t know. Maybe it’s just a  “fallen angel”.  So we had a good laugh over the “fallen angel” and nothing more was said.  

All my family was over here one evening and literally out of the blue, Jimmy says, ”Denise you are going to have to move that one angel on the right”.  I asked him why.  He says “because it’s sitting on a sprinkler head and every time I set the sprinkler to come on, it’s shooting the angel up in the air and onto the grass!”

 Well if you don’t think we didn’t have a HUGE laugh over that - the mystery of the dancing, fallen angel was solved!  What made it funnier was other than Mother and I talking about it, we had never said anything to anyone in the family about it so of course, we  had to fill everyone in on the mysterious “fallen angel”.   I did ask Jimmy why he hadn’t said something about it.  He said because he couldn’t figure out why I would continue to set it on the sprinkler head.  I told him I couldn’t see the sprinkler head since they went back down to ground level when not on.  Then he said, didn’t you see it lying on the ground?  I said yes, I did.  He said he left it laying there thinking that I would get the message.  I told him I wasn’t going to get a message when I didn’t know there was one to get!  Talk about left brain/right brain thinking.  But it was really funny at that moment and I still laugh about it.

Anyway, I’m very proud of the “thingy” you made me - maybe next summer something will bloom out there - and I’ll take another picture to send you.  Or if some night I look out and see those angels dancing and the sprinkler isn’t on, I’ll know there REALLY is a Santa Claus!   I’ve told Jared Santa and his reindeer land on the roof of the house and come down through the chimney at Christmas.  We talk about that one year round!  He wants to believe me, but I think he’s beginning to think between all the angels and Santa and the reindeer, it’s getting crowded up there!

Love you,

’Nise

SOUTH OF SIXTY

Observation on  ‘Who is This Man in My House”

I do not like to cook.  I am not a good cook.  Fortunately, I’m married to a man who didn’t marry me for my cooking.

He probably didn’t know I wasn’t a good cook.  He probably assumed all women could cook because all the women in his family are great cooks.  Thank God he was blinded by my beauty and overlooked the check list for marriage that included “can she cook”.

The first meal I cooked for him as his wife was tuna casserole.  He didn’t even try to eat it.  Just looked at it and said “please don’t make this again because I can’t stand cooked tuna”.   He then made a peanut butter-jelly sandwich for supper.  I was shocked!  It was the best thing I could cook.  My two roommates and I had it once a week for 18 months!  It was CHEAP to make!   But since I had never liked it either, I never cooked it again.

I cooked dinner every night the first five years we were married.   Worked great the first two years when he was home every night.  The next three years he took flying lessons after work every night and didn’t get home until 10:00.

I continued preparing a home cooked meal.  Ate by myself and made him a plate.  Around 10:00 pm he’d get home, eat the cold plate of food (no microwaves in 1967) and go to bed.  By the end of the fifth year of marriage, I had an epiphany!  Why was I cooking a meal to eat alone, washing the dishes after I ate and then washing his dishes the next morning.  Obviously we didn’t have a dishwashing machine.  I was the dishwashing machine.

I had not been liberated yet.  My childhood years were the ‘50’s.  I was programmed to be June Cleaver.  In the cultural revolution of the ‘60’s, my only rebellion was to figure out I was NOT June Cleaver and no amount of trying was going to make me like her.

I was ready to quit cooking when husband went to Air Force Pilot Training.  I didn’t have to work that year.  I felt real bad about sleeping late when he got up a 3:30 am to be at the Base by 5:00.  So I got up and cooked his breakfast at 4:00 am.   FOR A WHOLE YEAR!  Then went back to bed, slept late, lounged in the pool all afternoon, and cooked supper.  I liked that life.

After pilot training and relocating permanently to San Antonio, my work and his work enabled us to eat out more often – or buy it and bring it home.  I cooked less and less.  The last twelve years I’ve rarely cooked.  My life was good.

Jimmy just had knee replacement surgery.  He had one last year also but the weather was still good and I could bring cooked food home from all kinds of restaurants where I paid THEM to cook it.  And his niece was here the first week he was home and prepared and froze wonderful meals for us to eat after she left.  This year surgery was the start of bad weather in Missouri.  Ice storm, snow storm.  I knew I was going to have to cook this time around.  I bought food for a month.  I was prepared. 

Except for one small issue.  Jimmy isn’t a demanding husband.  Jimmy is a great patient.  He’s never complained about hurting, didn’t need me to help him in and out of bed or anything.  I just had to cook.  Issue:  Jimmy suddenly got real picky about how his food LOOKED!  How it was PUT TOGETHER.  Real picky.  By the third day he was home from the hospital I was asking “WHO IS THIS MAN IN MY HOUSE”?

I was already tired from going to and from hospital.  I have had some health “issues” the past few years that make it difficult to get around quickly – or at all some days. Getting him home and settled was exhausting for both of us.  But we did it.

First morning home from hospital.  Since I wanted to take care of him, I foolishly asked “what do you want for breakfast”?  His reply:  “Three sausage patties, two biscuits and gravy.”  I said why three sausage patties?  “I want two sausage patties, one to go on each biscuit, and one just to eat.  I want gravy over the sausage and biscuits”.  I asked “You don’t want one biscuit open faced with a sausage patty on each part”?  He replied rather abruptly (I thought) “No, I want two biscuits each with a sausage patty and gravy over all that.  Then I want one sausage patty by itself with no gravy.  And orange juice in a small glass and coffee”.  I laughed and said “you’re joking, right”.  His reply “no, I’m not joking”.  That’s what I want for breakfast.  Me:  “you’re pulling my leg”.  Him:  “no, that’s what I want for breakfast”.  He was really abrupt this time.

Jimmy knows I’m not a morning person.   Never have been.   Never will be.  He knows my body aches all over in the mornings.  He knows I need coffee and a bit of something to eat before I can even remember my name.  He’s always been, most of the time, patient with me being slow in the mornings.  Not this morning. 

When I asked the question, I was just being polite.  I KNEW he would say “just a bowl of cereal and coffee”.   Attorney rule:  NEVER ask a question to a person on the witness stand to which you don’t know the answer!  I’m not an attorney.  I asked the question.

I came oh so close to saying “forget it, what kind of cereal do you want”.  But he was just home from hospital and I figured in pain – otherwise he would NEVER have asked me to COOK at 8:00 in the morning!  He said he wasn’t in pain.  Not a good remark to make to me.

So I fixed his breakfast EXACTLY as ordered.  One and one half hours later I had cooked his breakfast to order, scrubbed the stovetop from all the grease, mopped the floor from the stuff I dropped, and loaded the dishwasher.  I didn’t even eat!  After cooking that much grease early in the morning – I had a bowl of cereal!

A couple days later, being the loving wife, I asked “what do you want for lunch”?   Now, I thought the directions for breakfast were a bit over the top, one thing about lunch was more over the top.  

Hubby wanted a ham sandwich.  I could do that.  Ham, Miracle Whip (we are from the Texas and always thought Miracle Whip WAS mayo) and bread – maybe a lettuce leaf.  I’m a purist with my own sandwiches.  Meat and bread – and Miracle Whip!

I asked what he wanted on that sandwich.  His answer:  Thin sliced Hillshire Farm ham with the thin slices spread out, sliced tomato, lettuce, Miracle Whip – and then the one that made me know he was on pain meds.  Two Vlsasic Stackers Zesty Dill pickles.

I pulled the jar out of the refrigerator, took out two slices.  Looked at slices, looked at sandwich.  Asked hubby:  “How do you want them put on the sandwich – long ways or sideways? I WAS BEING SARCASTIC.  He seriously answered “sideways”!  Sarcastically I asked again.  “You sure you don’t want them long ways?”  “No, I want them SIDEWAYS!”

Hubby didn’t know I was being sarcastic – and won’t until he reads this.  But I’m looking at the sandwich and saying to self “it’s just a sandwich for cryin’ out loud.  What does it matter how the ham is put on it or the pickles sideways or long ways”?  But he got it as ordered!

Obviously, cooking of food isn’t something I like.  Presentation of food – if I’m paying for someone else to cook it – I want “presentation”.  If I’m cooking it – take it like I dish it up – it’s just food!

I started writing this story shortly after his Dec. 7^th surgery date. 

I've cooked a lot of meals since then.  And there were other instances of his “quirks” with food presentation.   But I guess I forgot them in the daily life of three meals a day.  He is now driving himself to outpatient physical therapy and most mornings, brings me a bowl of cereal and coffee.   Aw, life is good again!

He did say one thing last week that made me realize how much the very few pain pills he took affected him.   I said something about being glad we could go out and eat again.  He said yes, you did cook a few meals while I was recovering.  A FEW??????????? 

I didn’t argue with him.  He doesn’t remember – he was drugged.  After all my efforts to do something I hadn’t done in YEARS – cook every day – I could have made him HIS version of a sandwich and he would have never known the difference!  But I wouldn’t have felt that I’d taken good care of him if I hadn’t cooked homemade meals for him.  And taking care of him was all I really wanted anyway.

Denise Ball Carrigan

January 21, 2010

SOUTH OF SIXTY

OBSERVATIONS ON “CHURCH FUNDRAISERS”

This story was written for a church Facebook Group. We are writing “memories” of our time at this church, posting them to the group page, and having a wonderful time doing it! 

One of the posts on our church Facebook Page was made by Tina, who was writing about fun things she remembered as a “Youth” in the church.  She mentioned making fried pies along with a few other things like the annual fireworks stand the church choir had to raise money for choir robes and other choir functions.  We had a church full of people with creative ideas for fundraisers.  Unfortunately, they usually involved a lot of hard work!

Tina’s post prompted me to tell the REAL story about making those fried pies because I don’t remember the event as being fun at all!  A few names have been changed to protect the innocent, but everything else is the truth! 

There were three of us “young married couples” who had been asked to “sponsor” our Youth Group as we had no Youth Pastor.  Since we married people were barely out of the Youth Group ourselves, I think our pastor thought we would relate to the Youth while providing some more mature guidance.  It is highly probable that our Pastor was mistaken about the “mature guidance” part.  This church was in Amarillo, Texas.  We had the greatest people in this church! 

We needed a fund raiser.  I think it was to help fund the very first ski trip the Youth Group made to Albuquerque and the Sandia Mountains. 

Several ideas were presented to and by the youth.  Since we "sponsors" worked fulltime, we were suggesting some type of fundraiser that was EASY and took little time. 

Linda was one of the young ladies in our Youth Group.  She suggested the Youth Group make fried pies.  There was a great deal of arguing back and forth about how hard & time consuming it would be to make fried pies.  I still have never figured out WHY we agreed to her “not so brilliant idea” to raise money.  It might have been because we would take orders for the fried pies for a month before and would be able to "sell" more people on buying those homemade fried pies.  

Orders were taken.  Many, many orders!  Dozens and dozens of fried pies were ordered.  We were really excited about all the money we were going to make which would pay everyone's way on the bus.  Did I mention dozens and dozens of orders?

The Friday arrived for us to start making fried pies.  I personally had never then, or since, made a fried pie.  But we got instructions from people like my mother-in-law who made really good ones.  Sandy was the best cook amongst us "sponsors", so she figured out all the ingredients we would need.

With borrowed money from the church (to be repaid), Sandy purchased tons of flour, shortening, sugar, various fruits because we offered three kinds:  apple, peach and cherry.  And lots and lots of cooking oil.  Many containers of it.  

We borrowed every frying pan that was owned by every cook in the church.  We DID NOT have deep fryers! 

We had so many orders, we set up 3 shifts working all Friday night from 6:00 pm to midnight; midnight to 6:00 am Saturday; and 6:00 am to 12:00 noon on Saturday. 

Friday the first shift was to arrive and begin making fried pies.  Then everyone was scheduled to be there for cleanup of the kitchen in the youth building on Saturday afternoon.  With everyone there we figured cleanup would take about 2 hours max. 

Sponsors, Dick and Sandy, had first shift and their assigned "youth" to get started.  That way we knew Sandy would have given prep and cooking instructions to everyone which would be passed on at the shift change. 

My husband, Jimmy, and I had the midnight shift.  We arrived early; about 10:30 pm.  Kitchen was busy.  We ate a few pies; watched the process so we had some clue what to do.  We had been there awhile when I asked if Linda was on our shift. 

Dead silence.  Finally one of the youth who was braver than most, spoke up and informed us Linda wouldn't be there.  At all.  She had gone out of town for the weekend!!!!!!! 

We sponsors could not believe it!  Linda was in deep trouble with us.  We grumbled about it all night and all day Saturday.  And saying “grumbled” is putting in mildly!

You see, most of the "Youth Group" could not get permission to stay all night cooking pies.  So we had rounded up a couple more married couples who had permission to stay out all night, and we cooked fried pies.  Mostly we sponsors cooked fried pies.  I think Dick and Sandy went home about 6:00 am.   Jimmy and I did not get home until after 6:00 pm on Saturday! 

We had so much dough on the floor, the walls, everywhere that when we finally got all those pies fried by Saturday afternoon, it took us hours to scrape up the dough and scrub everything clean for Sunday School the next morning.

But we did finish.  All those dozens of fried pies were put in the refrigerator with names on them.  A few people came by and got theirs fresh but 90% of them went into the refrigerator. 

I left there more exhausted than I had ever been in my life.  Over 16 hours in that kitchen standing on our feet, covered in dough, fruit, etc. and then on our hands and knees scraping the floors with putty knives to get all the trampled dough up!  And cleaning up all those frying pans!  Grease was everywhere!  We may have had to repaint the walls in the kitchen because of the grease! 

Sunday morning arrives.  Jimmy and I taught a Sunday School class.   We rushed to get there on time; therefore, it wasn't until after Sunday School when I arrived in the choir room to get my robe on, that someone said to me "too bad about the fried pies".  I whirled around and said what do you mean "too bad about the fried pies"? 

Answer was very casually given that SOMEONE had unplugged the refrigerator on Saturday night and all the fried pies were ruined!!!!!!!!!!!!  

There wasn't time until after service to find out WHO unplugged that refrigerator!  Murder was in my heart!  After asking two or three people the answer was "JOHN".  The janitor. 

John, the janitor, was a good man.  He just had a “hearing” problem.  What one would say to him would not necessarily be what John “heard”.  What was in John’s mind at any point in time was what John DID!

Several of us cornered John as well as the Pastor after service on Sunday morning.  Why in the world had John unplugged that refrigerator?  The answer:  because the Pastor had told John that after every activity in any part of the church, to go and make sure every light was out and everything unplugged so as to keep the electric bill down!  John never did understand why we were all so upset at him!

We sponsors had to pitch in along with a few of the youth who could get some money, to REPAY the church for what we borrowed for ingredients!  

Linda came strolling into church Sunday night with not a care in the world.  When attacked by all of us, she just looked at us confused and said, "I forgot it was this weekend"!

Linda lived many more years before illness took her life at too young an age, but she came REAL close that Sunday night of being one of two people who almost got killed.  John was the other one! 

As for the ski trip - we went on it anyway.  Left the church at 6:00 on Friday evening on a school bus, drove all night to Sandia Mountain, spent the day on the slopes either skiing or riding inner tubes down the mountain, got back on the bus at 6:00 Saturday evening so we could make it back in time for us all to rush home and get dressed for church on Sunday morning!

Now you know the REAL story of making fried pies!  And why one should think twice before agreeing to “sponsor” the Youth Group!  “Sponsor” usually means doing most of the work!

Denise Ball Carrigan

January 15, 2011

Observations on Christmas “Being Lonely”

Do you know someone who is alone on Christmas Day?  Or a couple who won't have their children with them?  For parents, that's "being alone".

One Thanksgiving in San Antonio, Jimmy & I issued an open invitation to ANYONE in our church who wanted to join us for dinner at our house.  We specifically said married, single, divorced, widowed, just passing through, any age and bring your kids.  My sister and husband, Ron & Earline Mumme did the same with the Divorce Care Group they were overseeing.

I was amazed at who came to our house!  Was it a zoo?  Yes!  Were kids all over the place?  Yes & no - we sent them upstairs!  We had couples our age that had children they weren't able to be with, families with children whose "home family" were too far away, military people with no leave to go home, divorced people, widowed people.  Our house was bursting at the seams!  My mother and father were still alive.  They loved it! 

One of the reasons we did this was my father LOVED Thanksgiving.  He wanted a crowd on Thanksgiving Day.  It was his favorite holiday.  However,  at every Christmas, our house was filled with people other than just our family. 

My father was a minister.  My mother grew up in a minister's home.  As pastors of churches, they always made sure no one in the church was "left out".  My father had the true heart of a shepherd.  My parents taught their children to always look for people who might be overlooked and invite them to join in.

This Thanksgiving we had one couple from church that were a particular blessing to me.  The husband and father was in a wheelchair.  The wife and mother had MS I believe.  They had a 7 year old son who was definitely ADHD.  They were in our Sunday School class.

They sat at the table in our breakfast nook through most of the day.  Other people who had never spoken to them at church, sat and visited with them.  As usual, I looked to see who were overlooked and paid special attention to this couple.  I stopped by the table often to see if they needed anything.  Their son was having a blast upstairs with the other kids.

Our music director and her husband and children were there.  We had been practicing for six weeks for the choir's Christmas program.  I knew our director was exhausted.  She asked if they could come because their "family" was on the east coast.  She said she would bake three pies.  I told her I really wanted them to come, but she wasn't to bring one single thing - just show up.  She didn't want to do that but I finally extracted a promise from her they would just come.  She sat at the end of the sofa in the living room the whole day, laughing and talking.  Her kids were upstairs.  At one point I looked at her and she was sound asleep in the middle of all the noise.  She later told me that was the best gift anyone had ever given her - time to rest!  And know her family was still having a "family Thanksgiving".

The couple where the husband was in a wheelchair and wife had MS told me before they left - THAT NO ONE HAD EVER INVITED THEM TO VISIT IN ANY CHURCH THEY HAD EVER ATTENDED!!!!.  You see, they didn't exactly "fit in".  They had very visible physical and some psychological problems.  They were poor.   They were also so very grateful and thankful to have been included in "a huge family" get together with some of the other people from church, they cried when they thanked me. 

One couple our age were spending Christmas with their children but were alone on Thanksgiving.  At one point I saw the husband sitting at the table playing dominos with three other men.  His wife told me had hardly gone to any functions outside the church, and for sure hadn't played dominos in years and years!  She couldn't believe what a good time he was having. 

After that Thanksgiving, the husband’s activities at church really picked up and they “belonged” somewhere!

I’m not writing this to brag about what I did in inviting all these people.  As I have sat thinking this evening about all the people I know who are alone this Christmas, my heart hurt for them. 

Ironically, Jimmy and I are “alone” this year.  We did have plans to be with family for Christmas.  Jimmy’s knee replacement surgery was pushed out from November to December and he is not physically able to go anywhere!  We also aren’t up to having company come to us.  And we are OK with this because we know our families WANT us to be able to come for Christmas.  We aren’t sad and lonely.  We are rejoicing that Jimmy is healing so great!

As I looked over my Facebook friends and thought about people I know who have lost someone they love this year either through death or divorce, or children moving far away, or are in the hospital, it bothers me that anyone of these people will be alone.  None of them live in St.  Charles, MO so I can’t invite them.

Because of sad circumstances, there are people we all know who are lonely.  They may have their family with them, but are lonely because they have lost a parent or grandparent or other loved one.  Their family circle has been broken.  They will try and stumble through all the Christmas activities, but their hearts are sad. 

Do you know someone like anyone I’ve described?  If you are having Christmas dinner at your house, I guarantee you could probably feed an additional 10 people!

I have had people tell me “Christmas is just for family”.  That isn’t what Christmas is.  Christmas is to celebrate the birth of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.  All the traditions we have established for our family are wonderful.  It’s why they are “traditions”.  Most every lonely person at one time had “traditions”.  Now they are just alone – or lonely in a crowd!

May I ask as you read this, to think about who you would be able to invite to share your Christmas dinner and “traditions”?  You don’t have to buy them a gift.  It’s about sharing the love of Jesus. 

By the way, the family where the husband was in a wheelchair?  He died not all that long after our Thanksgiving dinner.  He wasn’t well.  I met his wife in the foyer of the church just prior to his memorial service.  I told her I could not stay as I had made an appointment I could not break, but I wanted her to know that I loved her and that we knew her husband was in Heaven.  She thanked me again for the Thanksgiving they spent at our house.  It was worth every minute of every hour that my sister and I stood in the kitchen cooking – if just for that one little family.

If you are alone but able to physically do so, look around for other lonely people, call them on the phone Thursday or Friday, and invite them to your place for a potluck Christmas dinner.  It’s not about the food, it’s not about the traditions, and it’s not about being so lonely yourself you don’t plan to get out of bed on Christmas Day.  It’s all about Jesus.

Denise Ball Carrigan

South of Sixty

12/22/2010

Observations on “Needing Shoes”

I believe almost all women are born with a passion for shoes.  I love shoes.  Hot high heels.  Flashy flats.  Sexy sandals.  Clunky clogs.  Super sneakers.  I love shoes.

Unfortunately, I was born with really flat feet.  I also was born with very narrow feet.  My shoe size is 9 ½ 4AAAA.  I haven’t hired a pollster to see what population of the world wears my shoe size, but it has to be maybe five other people. 

My sister, Earline, was born first.  Unfortunately, she had exactly the same flat, long, narrow foot as I was born with.  Our brother on the other hand, was born with perfect feet.  Is that fair?  Men don’t want hot high heels, flashy flats, sexy sandals.  They probably want clunky clogs and super sneakers though.  I often asked God why brother got the great feet and sister and I who were BORN to wear beautiful shoes got the ugly feet.  God never bothered to answer that question.

It’s safe to say I had a shoe fetish.  Only problem was finding a shoe that would fit.  As my father was a minister, there wasn’t a lot of money in our house for two girls with flat, long, narrow feet to feed our shoe fetish.  So we went through our teenage years with shoes that never fit.  They all flopped because they were too wide.  With flashy flats it wasn’t such a big deal.  With hot high heels, it was a big deal.  We walked out of those heels quite often.  Or in my case, turned my ankle or tripped and fell.  I was the clutzy child.  I could find an accident when one wasn’t looking for me. 

My husband, Jimmy, God bless him, early on in our marriage decided he should have checked my “hoofs” before marrying someone who could only be fitted properly in a shoe that carried the name  “Stuart Weitzman”.  I realize for men that name probably doesn’t mean anything.   For women, it means bunches of bucks to buy a pair of shoes. 

After twelve years of marriage, Jimmy and I had jobs that paid decent wages.  I bought my first pair of Stuart Weitzman shoes.  They FIT!  I had never had a shoe that had FIT before!   There were black high heels.  Then I needed navy high heels.  Red high heels.  White. Yellow (yes, yellow).  Brown.  Taupe.  Bronze.  Silver.  Gold.   And a few colors “especially made by Stuart Weitzman”.  I didn’t buy them all at once.  I accumulated them. I NEEDED them!  Except for black and those were twice a year because my very flat foot stretched them out and I was again walking out of them. 

Several years ago my shoe salesman called to tell me he was having a special trunk show of spring and summer shoes.  I’d never been to a trunk show of anything except at garage sales!  We didn’t actually move in the social or financial circle that attended trunk shows. I had to ask him what a trunk show WAS! This trunk show was in October.  Mr. Salesman convinced me that I NEEDED to order the shoes I would need in the spring and summer to make sure I got what I NEEDED because Mr. Salesman didn’t carry a lot of my size shoes on a regular basis.  I grabbed that hook like a starving fish.  I’m sure women reading this understand that NEED!

And so, I ordered shoes.  Hot high heels, flashy flats, sexy sandals.  I ordered in bulk.  I NEEDED all those shoes.  I NEEDED ten pair of shoes.  I PAID for ten pair of shoes.  Shoes I wouldn’t even see for six months!  I told my husband.  He said “you did WHAT?”  But being a great sales person, I convinced him I NEEDED those shoes.  Well, that last sentence might be an untruth.  More likely he mentally threw his hands in the air and reminded himself of the wedding vows we made!  I think he’s had to do a lot of that in these 43 years!

Six months later my shoes arrived at Mr. Salesman’s store.  I, with great joy in my heart, drove to the store to pick them up.  They were beautiful.  Hot high heels, flashy flats, sexy sandals.   I experienced the strongest surge of endorphins I’d ever had. 

I wore the black, brown, navy, and bronze a lot.  Not so much on the other colors.  In fact, five pairs of those shoes only walked three steps on carpet as I modeled my shoes for a loving husband.  Those five pairs of shoes have never been worn again.

Out of nowhere, one of my very flat feet had an instant sharp pain as I walked to my car.  The pain was so bad; I had to take my shoe off.  The next day I couldn’t walk on that foot.  In desperation I called my foot doctor and told him it was an emergency.  I hobbled into his office; he took x-rays, felt around on my foot and said the dreaded words no woman wants to hear.  Plantar fasciitis.  I didn’t know it, but my fate was sealed.  I was in a “walking boot” for six months. 

I had lots of physical therapy.  I even took a month off from work.  To no avail.  I would never wear those hot high heels again.  I did wear the flashy flats a few times and the sexy sandals once.  Then I had to wear the super sneakers all the time.

In my dress for success business suit, I wore super sneakers.  Every day.  Until those didn’t work anymore.  The surgeon fused bones in my foot so I could walk.  And gave me braces to support both feet until I could have surgery on my other foot to fuse it.  Now I wear combat boots with my braces so I can walk.  Remember that insult when we were kids “your Mother wears combat boots”?  I do.

I was terribly upset at having bought all those shoes, never having worn some of them, and knowing I never would be able to wear them.  I wasn’t just upset.  I was almost physically sick over it!  I’d even had a special shoe closet built in the new house.  So, my shoes sat in the shoe closet until we moved from San Antonio to St. Charles, MO.  Now they are still in the same boxes in which they were moved almost seven years ago. 

When I knew I could never wear them again, I had a REAL hot flash and told my husband that I’d bought those shoes, paid a small fortune for them, and was taking them with me when I died.  I wanted them in my casket.  Yes, he thought I was crazy.  He still does.  So does everyone else who has heard my story.  When I wrote in my first story that I wanted my shoes in my casket, I had a lot of questions from friends who asked if I was serious.  So far, I’m holding strong for those shoes to be in my casket.  Reality?  I’ll be dead to this world, won’t care what’s in my casket and Jimmy and/or my family can do what they want!

I’ll never go to a trunk show of anything again.  And too late I remembered the scripture “Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth….but lay up for yourselves treasures in Heaven…..for where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.  Matthew 16:19-21.

My treasures are in Heaven.  I believe I’ll be walking on streets of gold in shoes made by God.

Now you know the rest of the story!

Observations on Dressing South of Sixty

South of Sixty is a strange place for me to be.  Sixty-four!  How did that happen? 

On reflection, there are advantages to being South of Sixty.  I’m old enough to be eccentric.  I’ve probably been eccentric since birth.  I’ve finally grown into who I’ve always been.

I no longer am that concerned about what people think of me.  I’m just me and that’s OK.  I no longer have to obsess that I have matchy, matchy outfits with all the right accessories.  It’s OK to choose to just wear big, flashy earrings in lieu of any other jewelry.

Jewelry always bothered me.  Necklaces were too long or too short, too light or too heavy.  They slipped into strange positions.  I was always adjusting a necklace.  I had an epiphany.  Necklaces’ weren’t a requirement of life!

Bracelets were pretty.  I wore lots of bangles on my arms.  I liked the flashy kind.  But a bracelet also began to bother me.  It touched my wrist.  My wrist had begun to hurt. Another epiphany!

Rings.  Oh, I love rings.  Only on my fingers.  Only on my ring finger and little finger.  I had all kinds of rings.  They were all flashy also.  I still wear some of my rings on special occasions.  My fingers have begun to hurt.  Epiphany number three!

I was part of the first year of baby boomers – 1946.  My childhood was the heart of the ‘50’s.  I still miss putting on a hat and gloves for church.  Don’t know why because I pulled the gloves off as soon as I walked through the church doors.  Being as my father was the pastor, it didn’t take long to get from the parsonage to the church.  Pull gloves on in my bedroom.  Ninety seconds later, pull them off in the foyer of the church.  A proper, prim, young lady. 

Hats always gave me headaches.  Thankfully, the hats had to go when big hair became popular.  A beehive was in and of itself a “hat”.  Epithany.  A real hat looked really funny perched on top of the beehive. 

The gloves were the last to go.  I kinda liked carrying them in one hand in southern lady type fashion. 

Did I mention hosiery?  Oh, what joy when I was old enough for my first “hose” and heels.  I never liked “hose” from the beginning.  I had to have something to hold them up.  Choices were a garter belt or girdle.  There I was.  Thirteen years old and wearing a girdle with those weird hooks that held the hose up.  Girdles gave me gas.  Garter belts seemed too risqué for a preacher’s kid.

Oh, joy again!  Pantyhose were invented in the ‘60’s!  No more girdles.  No more gas.  Did you ever try to pull a girdle on while in an un-air conditioned house in Texas in the summertime?  You get the picture.

So here I am South of Sixty.  Great big, flashy earrings.  No necklace, bracelet, hat, gloves, girdle OR pantyhose.  The year my hip broke followed by the year my foot was fused, made it possible to never wear “hose” again.  I cover the combat boots I have to wear now with black slacks.  There are a few advantages to broken body parts!  Comfort while wearing clothes and shoes.

I have to make an “aside” here: I do still have all my beautiful high heels.  Lots of beautiful high heels.  I have given instructions to every person in my family that upon my passing, all my high heels are to be put in the casket with me.  I may not be able to wear them here on earth anymore, but I’m dancin’ in Heaven in beautiful high heels!  I’m sure women won’t have to wear hose or girdles in Heaven.  End of  “aside”.

Now back to the point of comfort.  South of Sixty I am now comfortable with what I wear.  Except for the bra.  Being amply endowed was OK when I was a teenager, young married woman in my twenties, career woman in my thirties and forties.  By fifty, I began to wish to have needed a training bra at twelve rather than a C cup.  Knowledge gained with age – cup sizes cover the entire alphabet!  Who knew there was a cup size HHH!

Epiphany!  I don’t have to get dressed to go to work anymore.  Now I just wear a robe all day but I’m not saying what I might or might not have on under the robe.  My robes are nice robes.  I have a few ratty ones still for even more comfort.

Another “aside” here - I used to have ratty nightgowns but the morning my hip broke while trying to sit on the toilet, I had my husband pull it off me and pull a nice robe over my head!  So now I have nice nightgowns in case another hip decides it’s had enough up and down on toilets.  End of “aside”.

But most of all, my robes are nice.  So nice in fact, that there have been a couple of occasions I actually wore my nice robe to the vet’s office to drop off the dog for grooming and to the massage therapist because I was just going to get undressed anyway so why get dressed to get undressed.  Eccentric has its advantages.  Oh, I wear nice house shoes as well. 

South of Sixty is OK.  As long as I can wear big, flashy earrings!