say cheese

Last night as I was laying in bed, waiting for sleep to fall as heavily over me as my thick blue quilt had, I was considering life without photography.

Big deal, right? Of what do I ever take pictures that matters, that really matters... not those half eaten pieces of pie at the end of a fancy meal, not interesting ceilings in accidentally visited houses or random birds visiting my porch, not even candid moments or impromptu get-togethers with friends whose faces I see every day. Those pictures, once taken, are never looked at again. Not really, anyway, unless a particularly special person or moment is captured. The problem is that you don't know when you're taking the photos which will turn out to be treasured and which will just go in a file on the desktop under the name "random photos."

I have a picture of my grandfather that I cherish. I don't have the negative, so you can bet if my house caught on fire, I'd have Bub under one arm and that picture frame in the other. (My husband can handle the cat.) I was five, it was my fifth birthday party, and he's reaching over me, bending down and grabbing my knees to tickle me. He used to tickle me all the time, chase me, and grab at my knees, calling it "how a mule eats corn." When I got older, it turned into a poke in the ribs. He was so tall, 6'4" at least, and you can tell in this picture. You can still see some youth in his face, his already balding head still brown-black and not yet gray, his arms and hands strong and muscular, like those of a man who did everything for himself.

My memory is spotty, as I've said before, so this photo of him means the world to me. There are others of him, of course, but this is the two of us together doing something that only the two of us did. The casual laugh on his face and the squeal of both delight and terror on mine embody everything we were to each other-- he adored me, and I revered him.

What would life have been like before photography? You'd never know what you looked like as a child. If you were like me and forget faces, you wouldn't remember your loved ones faces after they'd gone, and you wouldn't remember the faces of your children after they'd grown. When you met your future spouse, you wouldn't know what they were like as a child and hence what your children could possibly look like, like the white-blond toddler hair of my brunette husband. I didn't believe him until he showed me the photo. There would be no record of your face after you were gone, and probably very little record of your life. Yes, there were paintings, but only the rich had those, and they're usually a poor imitation of reality. All sense of the past would be fleeting and changeable, moldable like wet clay under time's hands. You'd have no record of past events, all you'd have is your memory, and for those of us who rely so heavily on pictures now (all of us), we'd find that very difficult.

In the early days of photography, when you got one, maybe two, pictures of yourself total in your lifetime-- can you imagine that pressure? Blink or smirk when that powder ignites and you're blinking or smirking for eternity. No one would ever remember you looked any different.

My grandmother had a little sister die of cholera, I believe, at a very young age. The only photo they have of her is after she's already passed, being held up by my grandmother and her little brother. My great-grandmother had a large version, a foot tall at least, of this photo hanging in her hall, but I didn't know until I was 15 or so that my great-aunt was dead in it. Terrible-- I can't imagine being my great-grandmother and walking past this every day knowing this was the only way I'd see my child for the rest of my life. These days, by age three there's so many photos of most children you'd think they're all celebrities. I get emails and facebook updates daily with new photos of my friends and their kids, even videos from France and snapshots from London and Vienna.

All this was going through my mind as I tried to find sleep last night, leading me into dreams I can no longer remember. Maybe one day they'll make some sort of an internal mind camera. Then I could record everything I see, in front of or behind my eyes. You never know-- it was just a hundred and fifty or so years ago that modern photography began.

birthdays and holidays...

My husband's mother usually wakes us up at 7:13 a.m. on his birthday, as he happened to pop out into the world at that moment 32 years ago this past Wednesday. But this year, for some reason, she let us sleep. She didn't call until nearly dinner time. He was hoping that maybe she had forgotten so that he could tease her (and hold it against her) for the rest of her life, but no such luck. They have an odd relationship. His parents divorced when he was three after she cheated on his dad, and he didn't know the truth until he was 18, after he lived about 4 of his middle to high school years with her in her new home in Illinois so she didn't have to move alone. He felt betrayed. He claims to be over it now, but I know from our first year of dating when he was 25 that he had trust issues with women even then. I think our strong relationship has pushed him past most of it, but there still is and always will be an undercurrent of tension between the two of them. They don't speak about it, they love each other, and they're pleasant with each other, but she will never be the type of mother that he calls for no reason or hugs for longer than 3 seconds.

Family dynamics vary so greatly from household to household. Everyone has a different story; even people who grew up in the same house with the same family can have different versions of what happened, didn't happen, and why. My brothers and I are a good example of this, as I've laid out before (mostly here last January, but also here in April and here in May about my older brother specifically). Raised by the same parents, only six years between the oldest and the youngest, it amazes me how disparate we are from each other and how our stories vary as well.

My husband's family, or families I should say, are completely different from each other and completely different from mine. Thanksgiving is spent with his immediate family-- dad, step-mom, sister and brother-in-law, and little brother-- but also his step-mom's family including her sister, her sister's adult children, their kids and various girlfriends and/or friends. I remarked to my husband how sad I thought it was that this would be my fifth Thanksgiving at that house and I only half-way knew some of their names. He replied that he didn't know them either. They sit at one end of the table, us at the other. We see his sister so rarely that we tend to talk just to her, their little brother, and their parents. And his step-mother's family is... well... we'll put it this way: this year we were greeted with one of his step-mom's nephews, his new (pregnant by him) girlfriend, and her two-year-old daughter (by someone else), all of whom are now living with his grandmother (my husband's step-mom's sister).

This never would have happened in my house. Not that this is uncommon for the South, or for America in general, to have barely legal kids getting each other pregnant. But in my house, holidays were formal. You didn't bring extraneous guests, like the two high-school boys who brought their girlfriends unannounced, both of whom sat tight-lipped, talking only to their beaus, picking at their turkey like if they ate it they would A) blow up like a 300-pound balloon or B) show some kind of interest in something other than rubbing up against the boy when the parents weren't looking. You definitely didn't show up in camo straight from the deer camp, and you definitely didn't announce to the table that your girlfriend was pregnant. And to get the reaction that he got-- "congratulations" to a 20-year-old who's not married and living with his mom?

We ate quickly, thanked his step-mom profusely, grabbed his sister, brother-in-law, and brother, and left for our house. His brother brought Rock Band over and we played for hours, drinking beer and blowing off steam.

It was nice to have two days off in a row like that with my husband. His birthday, Wednesday, was all his. I told him we'd do whatever he wanted, whether that was drive to Memphis and go shopping or to Beale Street all day, or sit on the couch and nap. He picked something in the middle-- we started with donuts for breakfast, then walked around our town square, window shopping and greeting friends who work nearby. We then ate at an awesome plate-lunch place on the square. Afterwards we came home so he could nap off his macaroni and cheese and zucchinin onion stew. For dinner we went to a fine dining place so he could get a steak, then we met his brother at our favorite bar and laughed and tasted odd beers all night. I had some fun playing with my camera taking pictures of the bar. He seemed very happy with the day, done his way, and with the couple shirts and argyle socks I got him as well.

Having all these days off has really messed up my schedule. I hardly know if it's Thursday or Sunday. Going back to work on Monday is going to be hard.

Grateful Thanksgiving Thursday

Happy Thanksgiving everyone! I hope you're all having a warm, comfortable, and content day with family, friends, and other loved ones around a table of yummy food.

I went ahead and wrote this earlier this week to automatically post today as I'm busy with cooking and my family. I'll regale you with stories of my husband's birthday celebration and my crazy in-laws tomorrow.

As I said yesterday, since I do a "grateful" post every Thursday, Thanksgiving seems like it comes every week for me (except for all the carbo-loading I'm about to do). I believe that counting my blessings has made a huge difference in my attitude about life-- now when "bad" things happen, I laugh, I see that silver lining first, popping out at me like it's glinting in the sun, and I'm able to flip the bad around on itself much easier now because I know that in spite of any negatives, I live a very blessed and happy life.

So here's my list for this first Grateful Thanksgiving Thursday:

1) Living in a country where we take a day to count our blessings. Although there are many of us here who don't fully appreciate the spirit of this day, I think the majority do take at least a minute to look around the table and think about how much each person means to them, about the food in front of them and the hard work it took both to provide and cook that food, about the roof over their heads and the clothes on their back, and feel grateful for it all. There are a lot of countries that are not so fortunate as ours, and there are a lot of people in the world who will never know the bounty that we all experience not just on Thanksgiving but on every day of our lives.

2) My parents. I'm not spending today with my family-- my parents have gone north to visit my dad's mom and sister since my grandmother can no longer drive, so I'm missing them today. As usual, though, I feel so grateful and blessed to have such wonderful parents. They continue to take wonderful care of me, and I'm happy to count them as true friends as well.

3) Stability. Despite the economy, despite what life tries to throw at me, my husband and I have a rock solid foundation, and we remain financially secure as well. I do not take this for granted, not now or ever.

4) Fall leaves. There's all kinds of orange, maroon, red, yellow, and even purple outside my window. Although Spring is my favorite season, Fall comes in as a close second. The crisp chill in the air feels rejuvenating.

5) A few days off. I took Wednesday off for my husband's birthday, plus Thursday and Friday are paid holidays, leading nicely into a weekend, giving me five days off in a row. The industry in which I work pretty much goes to sleep between Thanksgiving and the beginning of January as well, so I've got a good month here to catch up on internal work.

6) A good night with my husband's sister, her husband, and my husband's little brother. Although his little brother lives here and we spend a lot of time with him (he's just now 21, I've known him since he was 15) I hardly ever get to spend time with his sister. They're spending the night with us since they now live too far away to make this a day trip, and we'll be playing our Wii, digging out some board games, and drinking a couple bottles of Beaujolais Nouveau. I'm looking forward to getting to know her without parents around.

Our world can be such a bitter, sarcastic place. I'm happy to have an outlet for my positivity here on my blog. Even though I try to be joyful in everything I do, it's hard not to get bogged down in the mundane details of life. But instead of stumbling and crawling unhappily through the mud, I'm going to chose every day to run, jumping from puddle to puddle, laughing and splashing. Life may be messy, but I'm going to enjoy every bit of the mess.

Veggie Kitchen Wednesday

Ah, Thanksgiving. Considering I spend a lot of my time, especially here on my blog, counting my many blessings, Thanksgiving seems like every Thursday to me and like a natural reason for a holiday. I'm looking forward to all that good food tomorrow and am planning on eating myself silly, courtesy of my step-mother-in-law, one of the best Southern comfort food chefs around.

In honor of that and of my husband's birthday today, I present to you one of his favorite foods, a Thanksgiving tradition here in the deep South, and a dish I could eat every day if it weren't so darned bad for you.

Scarlethue's Momma's Sweet Potato Casserole
serves 4-10 (4 if you're like me and could eat this for a meal by itself. But it's usually more like 8-10 servings)

5 or so large sweet potatoes
1/2 cup brown sugar
1 tsp vanilla extract
2 tsps ground cinnamon
1/4 cup butter, melted
2 eggs, beaten
1 10 oz. bag mini marshmallows (vegetarian ones, as in no gelatin, usually in the organic section)
2 tablespoons orange juice (optional. some people like it and some don't. gives it a citrus kick)
1/4 to 1/2 cup milk (optional. this makes it creamier, like creamed potatoes instead of just mashed. I would do either the orange juice or milk, but not both)

Peel and cut up the sweet potatoes. Boil them until tender, then drain. Mash the potatoes until there are no lumps, then add the melted butter, sugar, vanilla, cinnamon, and orange juice or milk if you want those. Spread the potato mixture evenly in a casserole dish, and dump the marshmallows fairly evenly over the top (the more, the merrier). Bake at 350 degrees until the marshmallows are bubbly and just beginning to brown.

Some people do a maple pecan topping on their casserole, but I love the creamy sweetness of the potatoes with the gooey sweetness of the marshmallows. No crunch needed here.

This along with dressing, made with vegetable broth, brocolli rice casserole, creamed corn, cranberry sauce (from a can, got to have the ridges, and yes you can find this without gelatin too), and some buttery rolls make for one mean vegetarian Thanksgiving dinner. I never miss the (usually dry, coma-inducing) turkey.

Plus the chocolate pie and pumpkin pie and pecan pie (pronounced pe-CAHN, not PE-can, thank you and welcome to the South), and my husband's birthday red velvet cake for dessert?

I am ready to eat!

two cents' worth

I love to read the "Dear Prudence" columns on Slate (you can see the most recent ones here and here), written by Emily Yoffe. Occasionally the questions are sad, heart-wrenching, the kind of family or personal drama that no one wants to find themselves in, dealing with death or violence or other terrible situations. Occasionally the questions are thought-provoking, the sort of spots we all find ourselves in now or then, with elaborate or delicate etiquette implications.

And occasionally they're just funny. A minister who doesn't like his parishioners' dogs, a boyfriend who doesn't brush his teeth, a fiancee who doesn't want to sit in her future-in-laws' family Christmas card portrait because she wants her own tradition, a woman with so much plastic surgery she thinks she's too perfect... who couldn't see the humor here? What's better is Prudence's biting humor, often poking fun at or even completely deriding the letter writer. She, for instance, informed the fiancee that after refusing to strike a pose, her new family "will be filled with seasonal joy that you'll be around for the holidays for the rest of their lives." And she told the would-be Barbie that after being "cut and sucked and stuffed head to toe" she can't possibly look natural anymore and should stop worrying and find a therapist.

But among her hilarious puns and one-liners, she gives fantastic advice. Really logical, thought-out, and correct instructions for people in all kinds of situations, from an abusive spouse to a dog that won't quit peeing on the wall. This is really why I read her column; the humor is just an added bonus.

I wish I could give advice like that. I've got the sarcasm and amused snorts down for those with the weird or silly problems, but I'd love to have the ability to produce concise and accurate advice for those with more serious problems. I think I just like to help, to be of some use.

I can't think of a time when someone really wowed me with advice given to me. Or is it that I'm so stuck in my ways I wouldn't recognize it even if it reached out and slapped me in the face and said, "hey, I'm good advice, take me!" I did have a friend tell me once that I was dating the wrong guy, and she was right, but it was probably pretty obvious to anyone who knew both of us. And fellow bloggers often point out things I hadn't yet considered, but the blog world is different as I'm much more open here. I think I'm probably just one of those people that hides my insecurities and puts on such a steely facade that no one thinks I need advice. Or at least I hope so?

Anyway, what's the last great advice you've given, received, or heard?

Grateful Thursday

1) Busy days at work. They make the day go by so much faster, and I feel like I'm getting good work done lately. I had no time today to post and now that I'm home, with a full belly, in front of the tv in my pajamas with my husband on one side and my dog on the other, I'm too zoned out to make too much sense out of this post.
2) A full belly, being finally in front of the tv in my pajamas with my husband on one side and my dog on the other.
3) Bub had his vet appointment today to see why he's been yelping lately. The verdict? Gas. Yep, gas. We thought  maybe it was his knee again (his patella was shifting and he's had surgery once already) or arthritis setting in, but the vet played with both his back legs and his hips and they're fine. He jumped when he massaged his stomach, though, so they did an x-ray that showed nothing other than he's gassy. So they told me no more human food and to give him a spoonful of plain yogurt every day for a couple weeks. Apparently older doggies can't eat what young doggies can, just like humans.
4) A good weekend ahead. We've got a party tomorrow night (I'm taking brownies, that would be 4.5), a game to go to on Saturday with lots of old friends in town, and a baby shower on Sunday for a good friend with a quiet afternoon afterwards.
5) Vacation! I'm only working Monday and Tuesday next week, and since the boss is on vacation as well, it should be pretty quiet and I'll be able to catch up on things plus get a head start on planning our Christmas party. Then Wednesday is my husband's birthday and Thursday I'm going to eat myself silly.

Veggie Kitchen Wednesday

I've been thinking a while about doing this, creating another "day," this one dedicated to recipes and vegetarian cooking (although there will probably be some fish thrown in every now and then). This is as much for me as for anyone else as I tend to forget recipes-- it doesn't help that I never write them down.

As a cook, I dedicate any creativity or spunk I have in the kitchen to both my great-grandmother and my father. My great-grandmother, who lived to be nearly 98, was an inspired cook. On special days she would whip up a roast, biscuits from scratch, creamed corn (that she grew), lima beans (ditto), stewed tomatoes, and at least two or three cakes and pies including fresh strawberry cake, caramel cake, lemon pie, and chocolate pie, all from scratch. Keep in mind she was doing this in my lifetime, and she was already 82 when I was born. She never measured a thing, not even when baking, pouring and seasoning just by memory and instinct.

My father's cooking style is very creative. He picked up that no-measuring thing from his grandmother, having watched her cook for the 50 years he had her in his life. But nothing scares him-- his philosophy is that if it ends up not tasting good, there's a pizza place down the street. And he never apologizes for his mistakes in the kitchen, something he says he learned from Julia Child. Unfortunately he can't seem to ever make the same thing twice, but that just forces you to remember to savor each bite of something wonderful as if it was your last.

Since it's finally cold here, at a chilly 52 outside today, I decided I'd start this off with my potato chowder recipe. I, like my father and his grandmother before him, don't measure. I guesstimate. I've never made a recipe exactly as it's stated-- I take it and twist it up, substitute, strip it down to its bare bones and redress. Recipes are just inspiration for me; at the most they are vague guidelines. This original recipe started out with boxed potato flakes and no other vegetables, but I've turned it into a combination of potato soup and corn chowder. I encourage you to take this as inspiration and make it your own!


Scarlethue's Potato Chowder
serves 4 as a meal, 6-8 as a side/appetizer (I always make too much so I have leftovers)

5-6 good size yukon gold potatoes (if you get big ones, go for 5, otherwise 6 is better. can't really have too much), chopped small
1/2 cup frozen yellow corn kernels
1/3 cup shredded carrot
1/2 white or yellow onion, chopped finely
1/3 cup finely chopped celery (sometimes I add this, sometimes I don't)
10.5 ounces of vegetable broth (use the best stuff you can find, organic is better to skip the MSG)
1.5 cups water
1/4 to 1/3 cup half and half (based on preference. You could use cream)

Put the potatoes, corn, carrots, celery, and onion in a large saucepan, and pour over the broth and water so that the veggies are just covered (add more broth/water mix if you went overboard on potatoes). Cover the pot and simmer on medium for about 35-45 minutes until the potatoes are soft. Get out your potato masher and start smooshing up the potatoes right in the same pot. This is what makes it more like chowder and less like chunky soup, but hey if you like chunks, leave this step out. Once you've got it significantly mashed, pour in the half and half, stir and heat through another 5 minutes. Serve with crusty bread or biscuits. It's very filling!

While writing this I just thought about adding leeks instead of celery.... Let your veggie imagination run wild!

my jar of marbles

Monday morning as I rolled over and looked at my snoring husband, examining the "flesh" colored breathe-right strip across his nose, I remembered that there was no one else in my house. Not a soul other than me, my husband, my Bub, the kitty, and the ghosts of our histories. I sighed and kissed him gently to wake him up.

We've had house guests since last Monday, so to finally have our house back, our quiet back, and our noise back, was so... relieving. When my friend was here, I wasn't as worried that she would hear something or that we would bother her, but out of respect and decorum we refrained. With his parents in the house, no swear words could be uttered, no bitchy words about work or life could be spoken, and by no means could they hear any sighs coming from the bedroom. It made for a very long week.

When we first got married, we would make out for hours on the couch, like teenagers, and make love like bunnies in the spring every day. We couldn't get enough of each other; we had to breathe each other in, take our time, linger, pause to examine each moment, like there was nothing else in the world but the two of us. But there are other things, other places to be, responsibilities and stresses and even mundane things like televisions that steal your attention away from the most vital things.

I heard once that if you were to put a marble in a jar every time you made love your first year of marriage, and then in your second year you begin taking a marble out every time, you'll never remove all the marbles from the jar. What a terrible thought, what a loveless way to live your marriage. And you do live your marriage.

This is one case where you want your glass to be half empty, or all empty if you can manage it. I'd say we've long ago emptied the jar, but we're slowing on removing those imaginary marbles. We talk about it. We've had several conversations about how we don't want it to be this way, that we want to spend an hour staring into each others' eyes, like we used to, stroking naked skin with no intentions other than the feeling of that one finger on an arm or neck or leg or back, swaying in each others' arms, loving. But the conversations aren't quelling the disquiet, aren't turning off the tvs and cell phones, don't take our attention away from our jobs or our families, and can't stop the noise inside our heads caused by it all.

How do you get back to that place? I love him, obviously. And he loves me. We're the wonder twins, best friends, we complete each other in that cheesy movie way that no one thinks is real, but it is. It can be. Nothing is perfect, of course.

I hear relationship "experts" (can you really be such a thing?) say that we should make date nights, we should schedule sex into our busy lives so it's not missed, we should strive for regularity so we don't forget each other in our crazy little world.

"Honey, don't forget, it's Tuesday. At 8 pm I'll meet you in bed."

Where's the romance? Where's that sweep-me-off-my-feet, adore me and cherish me feeling? Should we just feel lucky enough to have earned that half-hour on a calendar? Could one night a month of total dedication to each other be enough, one date over candlelight and wine to inspire 30 more days of self-interest and "quickies" squeezed in between morning showers and rushing to work, between the 6 pm news and our dinner plans?

The longer I go without him, the weaker I feel. Having him back yesterday morning was like waking up on that first warm spring day after a long and bitter winter. Rejuvenating, but over all too quickly, before I know it fading again into cold days with falling leaves and gray clouds.

If I could live in an eternal spring with him, just the two of us, like it was when we were new to each other. As it is, we do the best we can, reaching out for each other in the dark as often as we can, like a light bulb to be turned on to illuminate the corners of our lives. We're better off than so many people, and happier than so many people. He is so important to me he's like an extension of my own body, and I count him at the top of my blessings every day.

Such a Grateful Thursday

1) I feel better. I'm still coughing, and at times it still gets pretty rough, but I can take a deep breath now and only feel a very slight need to cough on the exhale. My husband said my breathing sounded much less labored last night, and my throat wasn't nearly as sore this morning, plus my head isn't hurting, finally. I don't feel full of snot anymore, to put it bluntly. This is all kind of surprising considering I keep forgetting to take my antibiotic. Stupid things, once I start to feel better I always forget about them. But I'll finish them.

2) My friend being in town. We've had the best time this week. She's one of those very rare people (very rare indeed for an introvert like me) who I can not see for years, but as soon as we're back together it's like we were never apart. Last night at dinner she said something about sleeping on a guy's couch, and without knowing it I must have given the impression I knew the truth, and she called me on it, saying "Oh, right, I forgot, I can't lie to you, sitting over there with that half-cocked smirk on your face." And she's right, she can't, because I know her too well, as she does me.

3) New direction at work. I have been feeling a little bored lately. We've got several new employees, a couple of whom have taken over duties that used to be mine, which is great because I was overloaded, but I was beginning to feel like I gave away too much. I had a talk with my boss about it, though-- can I tell you how nice it is to have a boss who recognizes my worth so that I can have an "I'm bored" conversation with him with absolutely no fear that he will fire me?? Anyway, he told me I was going to have to get used to supervising people rather than actually doing all the work myself, which is true, plus he gave me some new, more important duties. Project management responsibilities. I'm a good little organizer, it's true, and I love to make to do lists, so this has been fun. Plus I'm back to feeling important and needed again. There's really nothing better than that.

4) This weekend. Although I'll be saying bye to my friend again tomorrow, my husband's parents will be coming in for the weekend. He has Saturday off for a change, so we're all going to be going to the local college football game and tailgate party, then that night we will be joining my parents as well for dinner at a very tasty restaurant downtown. I'm already planning what to order. We haven't seen his parents in a while and I always enjoy their company, plus she always gives him money when she leaves. He's nearly 32 but that never has stopped her. He tried to refuse for a while but she'd just sneak it into his pocket.

5) A few days off in a couple weeks. I'm taking Wed-Friday off for Thanksgiving as Wednesday is my husband's birthday. I need to figure out what to get him! I usually do my shopping on Saturdays, but with him off this weekend I have no idea when I'll have the time. But I am looking forward to spending those few days with him.

just like a woman

My grandmother just called me and told me all about the picture show she had seen this afternoon, the one with the plane and with that very handsome young man. She had eaten popcorn with extra butter and very much enjoyed her afternoon. When we were done talking, I asked if my mom was there, and she said no, but she'd let me talk to my sister.

My mom took her phone back from her mother. Of course Grandmother hadn't left the Alzheimer's ward today and hasn't been to the movies in years. And I don't have a sister. She's much better at recognizing me when I'm there in person, but over the phone she often confuses me for my aunt. But it's okay-- mostly I just like to hear her voice, especially on a day like today when, even though she didn't know who I was, her first born granddaughter who used to spend entire summers on her screen porch, her voice was strong and clear and she had a story to tell me, just like it used to be. I could pretend for a minute it was really a grandmother talking to her granddaughter, rather than what it is, what it has become.

I suppose I should feel lucky that she doesn't have Alzheimer's, that it's just dementia, but somehow I don't.

My mother is a strong, beautiful woman. It sounds cliche for any woman, especially a feminist, to speak those words about her mother, but they are such distinct and concrete adjectives I feel they are the most appropriate for her. As a mother, she was loving but overbearing at times, a disciplinarian who could raise one single eyebrow, arched over an almond shaped eye, and drop the edges of her mouth, and you knew, you just knew, you were in for it. Hands on her feminine hips, she'd stare you down until you slowly moved back into the position she wanted.

She was not a demonstrative or an emotional woman; I'm still surprised when she hugs me sometimes. But I am never unsure that she loves me. Everything she did and everything she does for me, and for her boys, she does with joy. Shuttling me to and from gymnastics, humming Madonna songs, watching all my basketball games, cheering me on, dropping me off at college, buttoning up my white dress. I was hers, her own little girl, to mold. She never called herself a feminist, but through her strong hands and voice and opinions I learned to think for myself, to care for myself, and never let anyone push me around.

I owe a large part of who I am to her mother as well, a larger-than-life woman to me, who raised three girls even after losing one very early to cancer, a woman who demanded an egalitarian life with her husband before anyone knew what that was. A creative and expressive woman, she was able to push paint into elegant arrangements, stitch together bits of fabric into lovely garments, measure just right for the most mouthwatering meals, and move earth and seeds to grow both food and flowers, all while weaving stories to entertain and teach us. I am blessed to have been in her company, as was my mother, and I find I am doubly blessed to have had my mother as well.

I struggle to find my own voice sometimes, though, in the presence of all this womanly fortitude. The point of this endeavor I believe is to create my point of view, my way of seeing through my grandmother's, my mother's, and now my eyes, taking into account all the things they have seen and been and all the things I will see and be in my lifetime. Who am I as a woman and as a human, and what will I become?

As my grandmother's voice fades, at times I feel my strength fading with her, and although my mother hasn't expressed it to me in so many words, I know she feels it too. It's difficult to watch a person with such presence dwindle and wilt. But we both know that this is passing on, that there will come a time when we don't have her at all, and our voices will change. We will let them change because they must, but we must not let them lose their vigor.