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When I pass by wooded paths, Or see old farm equipment covered in kudzu and brambles, I think of my father. I remember him on tractors or in old cars, Lincolns mostly, classics he collected from the forties. Or Suburbans, … Continue reading
Most of my compassionate friends and now the world know that I have always struggled with weight issues. If you don’t see me for a few weeks, the possibility exists that I may have lost or gained, (more likely gained) a few pounds. A few years ago, I went to a family reunion in California and when I got home, the pictures my cousins took began to show up on Facebook. That night I joined Weight Watchers.
It took me a year to lose seventeen pounds. Far from being nymph-like, I did feel better about myself and my size twelve jeans didn’t bind in the crotch. When my mother died the next year, I lost another ten pounds. By March, I was convinced I could maintain the weight loss on my own and quit Weight Watchers. By June, I’d gained every pound back. The true horror of this was made clear when my son Andy announced his engagement and I had to go Mother of the Groom shopping. My daughter found a beautiful, silver silk Oleg Cassini suit for me. My reasoning for buying a size sixteen, even though I have never worn a sixteen, was that I could have my dress designer neighbor Kirk alter it for me so that it fit like a custom made suit.
I couldn’t wait for it to arrive. Two days later, the big cardboard box was delivered by FedEx. I took it into the bedroom and started to strip. The suit was packed in layers of tissue paper. I couldn’t believe how beautiful it was when I lifted the jacket out of the box, rhinestone diamond buttons set in fake silver marched up the front. The wedding theme was metallic, so I would fit right in.
Then I tried to get the jacket on. When I say it was too small, I mean I couldn’t get my arms into the sleeves. Even my hands were too big. I was so upset I wanted to first tear it up into pieces and then kill myself. It was simply another reminder that I am fat. My husband can deny it, and my friends will tell me I look great, but now I have proof. I can’t even get a size sixteen on. What’s next? I am only 5’3″. Soon I will be as wide as I am high.
So I swallowed my pride and went to the doctor. I had to get on the scale, which was torture. He put me on a low calorie diet that was graduated in calorie amounts so my metabolism wouldn’t go into starvation mode. I took a ton of supplements. Fortunately, I had the time to lose enough to get into the suit.
This would be a good place to mention that the Mother of the Bride is a model.
By the wedding day, I felt great, I’d lost twenty-two pounds, I was starving, but what’s a little food, right? I could wear the suit. As a matter of fact, the skirt was too big. With a Spanx the jacket fit snugly, but the bell shaped skirt was too big. You get the picture.
I’ve decided I have reverse body dysmorphic disorder. When I look in the mirror, I see an average sized, slightly chubby middle-aged woman who without my glasses has smooth skin, albeit a wrinkly neck which is minimized by holding my chin up as high as my cervical spine will allow. But when the team of photographers at the wedding started shooting their cameras and videos in my direction, I was terrified. The first picture the photographer showed me made me sick to my stomach. Why couldn’t I look trim and nice like everyone else?
The next horror was realizing that while Andy and I jumped around like maniacs on the stage, having picked We Will Rock You by Queen for the mother-son song we would dance to, the video camera was about chin height and two feet from me. I can just imagine what it will look like.
It was while flying back to Michigan that the sudden epiphany struck me. I am a sixty-two year old, Greek grandmother. What the hell am I supposed to look like? This is me! Suzanne Jenkins, chubby, friendly, paranoid and in love with life. I proved that I am willing to put it all out there when I started publishing my own books. I was narcissistic enough to think readers would want to read what I conjured up, and I was right. If I can be that self assured, surely a few horrible photos of me in my son’s wedding album won’t hurt me.
So needless to say, if anyone on Facebook tags photos of me at the wedding, I’ll be removing the tag asap.
Kiss the Grandmother
My favorite place in our house.
A very early memory takes me to a place that must have been near Detroit, since that’s where I grew up during the 1950’s. The smell of what I now know to be old books hit my olfactory the moment my aunt and I stepped over the threshold. Leather, paper, cigarette smoke and dust mingled into a heady fragrance that to this day, minus the smoke, provokes a visceral response in me. Used book stores introduced me to the love of books. The introduction to new book stores came shortly after, but new books don’t have the same appeal.
As adults, wherever we traveled began with a search for a book store. I’ve been to book stores in New Orleans, Wichita Falls, and Sacramento and many more places across the country. Back in those days, customers weren’t allowed to bring beverages in, unlike today where they are sold next to the books. Books were reverenced.
I am somewhat of a book hoarder, too. A scene from my marriage has a very concerned and almost angry husband asking me why I needed to bring ‘moldy’ paperback books into our house. On a weekend antiquing jaunt, I’d happened across a gentleman who was downsizing his own sizable book collection which included a complete set of the paperback Mentor Philosopher Series. I’ve got ’em all; Spinoza, Bacon and Pascal to name a few. Then came the great anthropologists. Margaret Mead is my favorite, (didn’t they disclaim some of her observations twenty years ago?) She was all sex and culture, all of the time.
I also have all of the Greek classics. In paperback. I think Jim must be a book snob because a few years later, maybe in the early eighties, he signed on for the Franklin Mint Library book club. Or maybe he was hoping his purist attitude would wear off on me. It never did.
Those shining, gold-leafed fly-leafed tomes make my garage sale finds look shabby, but they are behind glass and anyone can pick up one of my used books and curl up with a cup of tea for an afternoon without worrying about ruining it.
My aunt sent me the complete works of Dumas; forty red leather bound volumes of bliss.
I also have an ancient Gibbons The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire, a very early Life and Letters of Charles Darwin, and Winston Churchill’s The History of the English Speaking Peoples. I have these books; I have NOT read them. My taste leans toward Pearl Buck, Betty Smith and compilations by Alfred Hitchcock. (Insert laughter here.) Odd that my own writing tends to be more like a down at the heels Jackie Collins. (with all due respect.)
My books also reflect what I was doing at different stages of my life. I have an extensive library of Christian literature. My friends and family have learned that it isn’t wise to argue with me about the Bible; I know what it says and when things have been taken out of context. Two entire bookcases are filled with books relating to yarn. I have every weaving book that was published between 1975 and 1980 because I had a store that sold weaving supplies. I no longer weave, but I don’t think I should part with the books. I also have lots of knitting books; I like looking at the pictures, and many dyeing, spinning, and surface design books.
I have a friend who has cataloged her books. At one time that idea appealed to me, but now I realize it would take up too much time. Imagine being able to put your hand on any volume you need. I can almost do that without the organization.
The only regrets I have are having loaned books out. I no longer do that. If you have ever received books from me its because I love you and want you to have them. By the time I give a book up, I am so done with it. It might be taunting me. Read me again. Or worse, read me the first time. And I might have no intention. Or it might be something from my past that I know I will not revisit. A past loved hobby, for instance.
One thing I should probably not admit is that the Jenkins’ family receives something from Amazon two or three times a week. Scary. It is sad that the independents are threatened by such a huge and inexpensive online presence. But one thing Amazon will never replace is the used book store. We have a fabulous used store in South Haven. The proprietress is rude, at least to me, but it is so worth suffering through it to browse in the shop.
Last month, when I was in California for a few days, I went to a used store in Santa Cruz with my Aunt Yvonne and her friend, Bruce. It was truly a reverent experience. The place was huge, it was open late at night, but we couldn’t stay too long because there was no bathroom to be found. I could have stayed there for hours, so maybe the lack of facilities was a good thing.
My mother was a lover of books. I argued with her to get rid of a huge collection of books she’d moved from her antique shop back to her house when the shop closed. After she died, my sister gave me the job of going through the books and getting rid of them. It should have been easy, correct? I hounded the poor woman for ten years about giving them away. And you know what happened? I could only get rid of one. One book. So if she is up there reading this, I’m sorry, Mom. I know exactly what you were thinking.
I bought home a ten pound Landmarks of Detroit, and old cookbooks to add to my vast cookbook collection. (I don’t cook.)
This actually has a picture of a long lost relative, maybe a great uncle, Richard Haigh, who was an attorney in Detroit.
Most other things I resisted, for now. My mom would be happy to know I am unable to get rid of her books! It was a joy we shared.
Today I am going to write. I haven’t done any new writing in months; its been about revising and editing. The second book just came out last month and third one will be ready in a few weeks. I feel like I should stall it a little bit, because there won’t be another for quite awhile.
Speaking of, I have a new editor! My daughter, Jennifer! Jen’s second degree is in fiction writing and she actually did some editing at her first job out of college. I’m psyched!
Back to work!
I am not a religious person, but I am spiritual, and trying to be alert to the spiritual around me these days. I have some distractions that immediately make me either be fearful or think negatively. I don’t live in a vacuum, so protecting myself from the unpleasant by isolation isn’t an option. One of the ways I am attempting to be positive is by trying to stay in touch with my spiritual beliefs. When someone asks me to pray for them, I do it right then. I learned to do this from my friend Claire, who confessed to me about thirty years ago that she prays right away for requests because she is afraid that if she doesn’t, she’ll forget. This technique has worked for me over the years, especially now when my memory seems to be fading at record speed.
Something that I am learning from my friend Jill, is to make sure that I set aside a time for the spiritual and don’t leave it to chance. The night hours don’t always work well for me because, face it, when you get up at four in the morning, by the time night falls, you’re tired! So I try doing my altar time or meditating in the morning. Or if is nice out at dusk, I might light a fire in the fire pit and sit outside on our patio at the edge of the ravine. It is dark and quiet out there after the sun sets and if you are very still, you can hear the animals moving through the forest.
My friend, Betty and I have birthdays within a couple of days of each other and when we turned sixty, we noticed that suddenly we were both being led to say no more often, and to not do anything that we didn’t want to do unless it was absolutely necessary. We try not to be coerced. Now that doesn’t mean that we don’t try to do everything we can when a friend is asking for something. But it seems like we are both able to resist being manipulated. Our inner voices are coming in loud and clear.
Sedona, Arizona is considered a very spiritual place, and I believe that this area in west Michigan, especially where we are right at the edge of the ravine, is very spiritual. So many things have occurred that are blessings! My Aunt Von told me yesterday to pay attention. She said that so much that we experience is our intuition, or something from the outside coming to guide us. In different instances lately, I know that my mother is giving my sister, Liz and I her wisdom. Or I feel her support. My intuition has grown by leaps and bounds. I believe this is due to using it and not ignoring it. You can get all the advice in the world but if you don’t recognize it and put it into use, it isn’t going to work. So I am working at considering ideas that come to me and investigating their source. Not every single thing needs to be put into play.
Something wonderful happened this morning that is a combination of blessings and an answer to prayer. I have written before about Jim and I sitting in our kitchen, watching birds and wildlife in our back yard. This morning I was deep in thought, and a large bird flew from over our roof and swooped into a tree. I thought it was a big hawk or even an eagle, which we have. And then its head swirled around and I saw that it is an owl! I love owls! I have been hoping to see one since we moved here. Suddenly I thought, this is no coincidence. The owl has come here for me. I quickly got out my books and found that Athene is the goddess of communication, the patron of writers and that her totem is the owl. I can’t describe how thrilling this is to me. I think my mother sent the owl. So while she is here looking at me, I might add, I am going to say my prayers for my extended family and all my friends and just enjoy being in the presence of such a fabulous creature.
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