Skin Deep

Christmas
(I never could pose as well as my mother.)

My friends always told me how beautiful my mother was. She was from the old south, rural Louisiana. She wore her hair teased with heavy makeup. She didn’t know how pretty she really was without all that extra color. Raven black, curly hair, almond shaped, green eyes, a sharp nose and high cheekbones compliments of her Daddy’s Blackfoot blood, copper colored skin speckled with freckles from her Mother’s Scotch-Irish side. She was a 5’7” beauty. Homecoming Queen in the 50’s. Toned legs that never showed one dimple of cellulite, even though her stomach had the typical post-birthing pooch.

“Don’t worry, the doctors can do wonders with plastic surgery nowadays,” was what my Aunt Carol told my mother when I was born. I had no chin and they were worried. My sharp, prominent chin grew in with a vengeance – a curse, I’m sure.

With my cousins, Annette and Tonja
(notice my "cocked" hip...)

“Your Momma’s beautiful.” That’s what they all said. I don’t remember ever having a friend who didn’t comment on how pretty my mother was.

The first time I saw my mother without make-up was when I was 5 years old and she was in the hospital after a car accident. I remember hiding behind my babysitter’s blue gingham skirt, not believing that was my mother in the hospital bed. Her nails, makeup and hair had always been perfect, my whole life. After a pin in her eyebrow, her jaw sewed back together, and a plastic surgery patch-up, the only difference was the missing dimple in her left cheek.

I was skinny – looked like I was an Ethiopian child – ‘least that’s what my mother said. My dark brown hair was straight as a board. My Momma tried to curl it but no matter how much hair spray she used, the curls fell out within 30 minutes. I couldn’t even stand straight. One hip was always cocked and my mother was frustrated with me every time pictures were made. I learned to lift my right heel off of the ground just enough to even my hips out so that I’d stay out of trouble. (I found out when I was 29 that I had one leg longer than the other and severe scoliosis – I’d adjusted myself all those years in an effort to live up to my mother’s expectations.)

An embarrassing perm, compliments of my mother.

I was 5’10” when I was 12 years old, weighing all of about 110 pounds, soaking wet. My mother was mortified. As I started high school, she bought me flat shoes and told me to be patient, that when I was 30, I’d still be tall and skinny, but the short little cheerleaders (who were currently dating the tall basketball players),…. Well, their asses would all spread out like fresh cow shit. No kidding. Those were her exact words.

The stage was set. I spent most of my adult years trying to be as beautiful as my mother wanted me to be, but I couldn’t do it. I was always tall and awkward, with a bad back, and a too-prominent chin.

Divorcing my father when I was nine, my mother went through three additional husbands over the next 15 years. I experienced abuse of every kind and my mother refused to see any of it. I spent every possible moment out of the house and never found comfort in my own home.

Me and my Girls, in Hawaii!

Those defining moments growing up left me feeling 2^nd place. However, I hope I’ve turned those tables around with my own daughters.  My girls’ friends have never said how beautiful I am, but they always love coming to my house because of the comfort found there. I’ve always put my daughters first, making sure they understand their worth inside and out. Having raised my girls on my own for over 13 years, I’ve always made them first in my life. I’ve been blessed with daughters as beautiful as my mother on the outside but their strength of character on the inside comes straight from me.

It’s true what they say – Beauty is only skin deep.

Solstice Story

I was invited to a Solstice party Saturday. Solstice is actually today, but the party was on the 17^th since the real Solstice falls in the middle of the week this year. We rallied around a bonfire that started at 3pm
(the sun sets at 4).
 

I’ll give you a moment to process that… outdoor party around a bonfire after dark in mid-December in Alaska…

The keg of local Red Knot from the Homer Brewing Company sat outside on the porch, chilling in the night air. Phaedra and Ticker were the ultimate hosts and everyone brought a dish. My stuffed mushrooms were added to the bounty of Rabbit Stew in a crockpot, Pork Egg Rolls, BBQ Ribs, and a Black Bean Cheese Dip brought in a cast iron dutch oven. The food was inside their cozy cabin, as was the box of Merlot.

The snowy rain from earlier in the day had abated just in time for the fire to be lit. Temps in the low 30’s. Smiles Davis (longtime friend of Ticker’s) was busily splitting wood to make sure the fire would last the night. In attendance were friends of both Ticker and Phaedra – I am fortunate to have known them both as friends before they even knew each other.

As I sipped my wine out of a red plastic cup, I dodged to and fro to avoid the sparks from the fire – didn’t want them speckling my new leather jacket – and I listened to typical Alaskan campfire tales. One in particular bears repeating…

As the story goes, Jack and Ticker were out at the moose camp. It’s nothing like the deer camps of the lower 48 where you park your pick-up outside the cabin and the next day, you walk ¼ mile to the deer stand. We do things a little different in Alaska. Their cabin is about 10 miles from the road where they park their trucks. That’s where they unload the 4-wheelers and hook up trailers to them to make the bumpy trek through the wilderness to the cabin. It is not uncommon for the 4-wheelers and/or trailers to break down mid-way due to the extremely bad trail conditions and one must always keep a lookout for Grizzlies. As a result, there are several broken trailers at the camp that never made it back out.

In town the day before, Jack had bought some “Moose Juice.” I’m not exactly sure what it is but it is something that comes from or imitates the female moose aroma. It’s supposed to be powerfully attractive to the average bull moose. Well, the first day at camp, Jack and Ticker strapped their usual beers/whiskey to the 4-wheelers and set out to track down a moose. The trick is to open all of the beers at camp so that the moose don’t hear you pop the tops. The boys had done their best to keep all of this in mind and by the time they rolled back toward camp, they were empty handed except for a few open beers and a bottle of Captain Morgan. They found a place near camp to stop the 4-wheelers and rest and silently wait for the appearance of the hunted, all-elusive, bull moose. Ticker soon laid his head down on the handle-bars of his machine to nap. Meanwhile, Jack took a swig of Captain Morgan and the lightbulb went on over his head. He reached into his pocket and took out the expensive bottle of Moose Juice, smiled slowly at it, and slid down off of his machine.

Starting with a wide arc about 15 yards away from the 4-wheelers, Jack began to spread drop after drop of the secret potion. Then, he led the trail up to Ticker’s machine and spread a few drops, with a grin, on Ticker’s boots. Jack went back to his machine and settled into the seat with a chuckle. (you know where this is going…)

Ten minutes hadn’t gone by when an 800-pound bull moose with a full rack stepped out of the brush and started sniffing at the arc of drops Jack had laid as a trail. He stopped at each one, sniffed, huffed, snorted, and moved on to the next. As he got closer to the 4-wheelers, Jack started to get worried. He realized that his joke might not turn out so well so he finally threw a stick at Ticker to wake him. When Ticker pulled his lazy head off of the handlebars, he tried to focus as he heard a snort and then the moose began to paw at the ground, never taking his eyes off of the man with the juiced boots. Jack had pulled out his side arm, ready to shoot. When Ticker saw this, he shook his head to clear it, grabbed his own side arm and then Jack motioned to him that the moose wasn’t big enough to shoot (there were even bigger ones out there). Ticker uttered a few explicatives and then Jack motioned to Ticker’s boots and with a thrusting of the hips motion, Ticker understood what Jack had done. As those few seconds passed, the moose eased closer, snorting and pawing the whole way.

At five yards, Ticker shouted, “Not today, Big Boy!” And, with that Jack cupped his hands to his mouth and made his best cow call. The bull, startled, stopped in his tracks, looked behind him, and then slowly made his way back to the tree line, where he stayed for another hour just looking at the two men on the 4-wheelers, now instantly sober, guns in hand. Eventually, the bull sauntered back across the marsh the way he had come, undoubtedly confused by the luring smell of the white men.

I’m not sure if the story holds the same vigor on paper as it did around the campfire Saturday night, but we sure did have a laugh. Toes cold, I headed for the cabin to stand in front of the wood stove and have a piece of homemade Apple Pie. I thought to myself, “Funny story. Funny men. God, I love Alaska!”