When I was a teenager I remember Daddy telling me that no boy was EVER going to honk for me for a date.  Instead they must come in, look him in the eyes, and shake his hand.  The man was a teddy bear but I remember all the boys confessing they were terrified of him.  He was large and dark skinned, with piercing blue eyes … a testament to both his half-Choctaw/half-German heritage.  We may have lived in an inexpensive apartment but he somehow always commanded their respect.  He was referred to as “Mr. Ringler” although he offered them the use of his first name.  My father fought eight years in the “Forgotten War” (Korea) and, despite his gentle demeanor, he was incredibly skilled in the armed forces and in martial arts.  He never bragged or mentioned it unless some type of trauma for him came up.  For instance, he always sat with his back in the corner of a restaurant.  I asked him why and I remember him rubbing the back of his neck subconsciously and saying he just needed to be able to see the room.  He loved all meat and especially anything barbecued.  However he couldn’t stand barbecued chicken.  When I asked why once he said that it was almost all he ate in the MREs (meals ready-to-eat) during the war.  My mother was so innocent she had no idea why he was so easily able to win her stuffed animals at the Texas State Fair by bursting balloons with darts.  I think we all know carnival games are rigged.  But I’m guessing a man who worked his way up from a private in the army to a sharpshooter could figure it out.  One of the sweetest things my husband ever said to me was that he missed my father … and he never even knew him.  It was while we were still dating and I never forgot it.  Burk will often ask me something about “Mr. Ringler” and I am always happy and proud to tell him.  Daddy was a romantic, the kind one dreams about (if they are so inclined).  He wrote mother many love letters, bought her chocolates, and brought her an orchid on LITERALLY EVERY DATE.  Apparently at one point Grandmother Maris asked him to please stop because their refrigerator was full.  I took a quiz once and scored a 100 on being “an incurable romantic.”  My husband shows his love in different ways.  I long for love notes, but he leaves articles by my nightstand which he believes I’ll like.  As it is with daddies and daughters — my husband is completely smitten.  Interestingly enough, without me saying a word I know she has inherited my romantic streak.  It is something that can horribly disappoint or be incredibly elating.  Recently she pronounced the hubs and I needed to go out.  When I was seven I remember being awfully concerned about the romantic well-being of my parents.  I think it has to do with the stability of family.  So we decided to do something which we had never done before — we had drinks, dinner, and watched a live stand-up comedy show.  My husband and I do not share the same sense of humor and I worried he was not having a good time.  It turns out he really enjoyed himself and wants to do more.  I was a precocious reader and I started in on adult romance novels in the fourth grade.  Oh Mama made sure they were Harlequin romances (very “clean”) but I discovered I had a passion for reading them.  I CRINGE at the whole “Princess” thing, but I must confess it was always vindicating to see a good girl who just happened to be down-trodden accidentally stumble into an extraordinary life with the only man she truly loved, and she the only woman he truly loved.  It may have taken awhile, but I am a living fairy tale.  I had no family except my elderly mother and some distant cousins; yet I got to have the big church wedding I never truly thought I’d have.  I am not speaking of a huge bridal party or presents; rather a full church whose pews were lined with candles, accompanied by an excellent choir singing every song chosen by me.  There was a Latin song I’d often sung, a lesser known rendition of “Ave Maria” by Edward Elgar, and “Laudate Dominium” by Mozart.  In the fifth grade I wrote and published my first book on Christian symbols, and in the sixth I wrote and published a book on Mozart.  I chose every scripture reading, the crucifer, the thurifer, and the acolytes.  I don’t even LIKE dresses and I wore a beautiful gown complete with a cathedral length veil.  My precious third cousins (sister and brother), at the tender ages of I believe six and three bravely made their way down the long, daunting sanctuary’s aisle together carrying the flowers and our rings.  It was my greatest sorrow that my father was not there.  My husband and I have been married for twelve years now.  I do not expect him to plan my favorite thing in the world, a scavenger hunt difficult to solve and ultimately leading me to him.  However, I can expect that daily he will walk though our front door, tell me he loves me, and look for our daughter to go hug her.  The American country singer Brad Paisley once said, “Date night is important, even if it’s going to Schlotzsky’s.”  I confess I do not care for that restaurant but the sentiment remains:  I have had dates with my husband where one of us has been very sick and we have each cared for the other.  We have had deaths in our families, a change of jobs, and were blessed with our child.  We have had terrible fights, experienced tremendous sadness, and have become even more busy.  But thanks to our little one, we are once again striving to keep our date night.

I came from a loving, highly educated family who lived below the poverty level; therefore they were not deemed “successful.”  My father worked six days a week, and often two or even three jobs.  Mama went back to substitute teaching when I was in middle school.  We had one un-airconditioned car, and my folks did not play the lottery, smoke, or drink at all (much less take drugs)!  I have learned it is very easy for someone doing well to proclaim that one who is not should not eat out, nor they should they go to Six Flags once a year (which was our family vacation.)  We did not get to go to the movies often, but my folks strived to give me every opportunity.  We visited the Dallas Museum of Art on “free” days.  We went to the Texas State Fair with canned goods as our admission.  I wore Polo shirts and Jordache jeans, but we searched for them at the Good Will.  So how come they struggled to pay their bills?  My father ran a painting business and I cannot recall how many times very wealthy people simply refused to pay him after he’d done the work, citing some imperceptible flaw, often saying it needed to be redone in a different color.  My father was a highly ethical, Christian man who prided himself upon his work.  I watched my beautiful mother wear the same three dresses to church, and she never let that impede her from attending.  I also discovered, to my great chagrin, there is a presumptive arrogance which can emanate from those wishing to “help” someone in need.  They judge everything and pronounce even the tiniest frivolity to be irresponsible.  For instance, why would one have a TV but not car insurance?  It is easy to have all types of insurance when one has the funds.  And yet there are countless people who begrudge the poor even the slightest of pleasures.  I loved a boy once.  We attended the same church.  He was so handsome and reminded me of my father in looks.  Despite his parents’ feigned graciousness, I always knew they disapproved of me.  After all, I lived in a low income apartment with my parents while he lived in a lovely, two story home in a high end part of town.  We dated the summer after high school and then we both had plans to attend college.  He was headed to Baylor while I would be attending a community college.  It was “suggested” by his mother that he date sorority girls.  I was bewildered and utterly devastated.  However, he had invited me down to visit and I brought my parents.  I guess he could not believe I actually took his offer seriously.  He seemed distracted and embarrassed.  I cried the whole way home.  Two years later when I was at SMU majoring in broadcast journalism I anchored a tiny cable news show in Austin.  From Dallas, Waco was a good stopping point.  I decided to revisit a place he’d taken me to once and, when I walked in I noticed a beautiful girl with long, curly blondish/reddish hair and remarkable green/blue eyes.  They say that everyone has a doppelgänger somewhere in the world.  We all think we’re so unique.  I was eating by myself when she approached me.  We took a few minutes to stare at each other in shock.  I remember her being so kind, but silently freaked out when she confidently said she believed my name was “Laura.”  Somehow instinctively knowing she had been hurt as well, I replied yes.  She then sat down next to me and asked if I new a certain guy.  When I said yes, that we dated the summer before our freshman year in college she told me they had dated as well — and that he’d always called her by my name.  Instead of feeling jealous, we both wound up each sorry for the other.  I was graduated from SMU and was in the Charter House of the third oldest sorority in America — Alpha Chi Omega.  I will admit I was not selected by peers; rather by a group of distinguished alumni who valued my GPA and the fact that I was in the Miss Texas USA pageant at the time.  I only went to that first rush party because of a friend, who did not wind up making it.  However, it never failed to escape my notice that quite by accident I had indeed (in theory) become someone of whom his mother would approve.  It never ceases to amaze me how many people believe someone is out for their money — even if their church bailed their parents out, saved their home, and put them through college.  My family certainly never had that benefit.  I remember Daddy once saying that the only way you could get money is if you didn’t really need it.  Just as I am neither wolf nor dog; I walk with a foot in both worlds.  It is a blessing.  All those years ago I thought God had told me no because perhaps I wasn’t good enough.  I realize now He told me no because that guy wasn’t good enough.  The American Christian author and speaker Joyce Meyer has said:

I believe that a trusting attitude and a patient attitude go hand in hand.  You see, when you let go and learn to trust God, it releases joy in your life.  And when you trust God, you’re able to be more patient.  Patience is not just about waiting for something … it’s about how you wait, or your attitude while waiting.

Out of the blue, when I least expected it, God graced me with the most handsome man I have ever seen and then He blessed us with our beautiful daughter who is genuine, caring, and kind.  All I ever had ever prayed for my whole entire life was to find love and have a family of my own that was like the one I already had.  For those of you out there reading this who may be waiting on something, I can only say that our time is not always God’s time.  However I am certain that God is good — ALL the time.

When I was a kid, our apartment complex did not have a pool.  What was great, however, was that none of my “well off” friends with houses had pools either.  I have only recently come to realize the great impact that our somewhat local recreation center had upon my entire childhood.  Growing up in Dallas, there were public pools.  Admittedly they were horrid concrete boxes that would scrape one’s skin off, but they were still a place where everyone could go.  It was a sort of an economic equalizer.  Early on my red-haired mother burned and freckled her skin walking me to the local community college for swim lessons.  Texas was in a heat wave and polyester was in fashion; God bless my poor mama.  In the summers, around second grade, my daddy would drop us off at Harry Stone recreation center for the day and he’d pick us up after he finished work.  I was never embarrassed by my mother who also liked to swim.  Her favorite was the backstroke.  She had a daisy yellow one piece with a swim cap to match.  I can still remember the thrill of that pool — despite knowing that coming into ANY form of contact with those viciously rough edges would scour the skin off my bones or put countless irreparable snags in my good swimsuit.  They had two diving boards — a low dive and a high dive.  I hate to admit I was always too chicken for the big one.  I was one of those kids who never could flip and so even just a regular dive freaked me out.  I cannot recall how many hours, days, weeks, months, and years that pool was endlessly cool for me.  Now I can only imagine what our club pool must be like for our little one!  There’s a full service bar (OK, that’s for me) as well as a whole menu full of extras like “rocket” popsicles, cold bottled water and lemonade.  They provide chairs, tables, umbrellas, and towels.  In addition they have pool toys and floats.  And that is just on regular days!  For special events (like holidays and the beginning and end of summer) they have all sorts of cool extras:  a pool DJ taking requests, a special buffet menu, face painting, balloons, glitter tattoos, giant blow up water slides, and even a mermaid who swims in the middle pool with the kids.  The multiple pools have varying depths, fountains, and even lights which change.  I think it is nothing short of magic.  And so, on this last pool day of summer at our club, I found myself fervently hoping our little girl truly appreciated all the lovely and magical things it had to offer.  For me summer meant late nights, June bugs, cicadas, and the smell of honeysuckle in the breeze.  I have shown my little girl all the “friendly” bugs I played with as a child and I have Star Jasmine planted all along the side of our house.  The sweet smell of it hanging in the warm summers’ night air brings me back to my childhood.  I am torn; I want our daughter to be carefree and happy, with all the simple pleasures that are magical and come along with childhood.  On the other hand, I refuse to let her become an “entitled” country club child.  I am very proud that she calls EVERYone “ma’am” and “sir” — regardless of station or race.  She adores the staff and I hope I have instilled in her how to address them properly.  Just like my mother, she loves to swim.  The late, great American competitive swimmer and actress Esther Williams once said, “Somehow I kept my head above water.  I relied on the discipline, character, and strength that I had started to develop as that little girl in her first swimming pool.”  That is what I want for my child:  she is a water baby and I hope that “discipline, character, and strength” will remain with her — long after summer’s final fling.

At some point or another in our lives we all must face our past.  It does not matter if it was good or bad.  Either sights, scents, sounds, tastes, or touches will trigger memories which come back to surround us.  I had a wonderful childhood.  However having lost both of my parents, whom I loved so very much, I now find the memories extremely painful.  I realize I should be grateful to even have them, and I know that many people never get that.  Photographs have always held great power for me.  I have long admired Edward S. Curtis and his mission to document the vanishing Native American Indian tribes during the last part of the 19th century.  I own two of his pieces and hope to acquire more.  Painted portraits I have never cared for, although I am aware that before photography that’s all there was.  One has only to study historical sculptures and paintings to acknowledge they were designed to flatter — primarily because they were commissioned.  However well-intentioned, I have always believed art falls subject to its interpreter, whereas photographs cannot lie.  Pictures capture moments both contrived as well as candid.  I will concede that now anyone has the ability to alter photographs.  For me airbrushing and photoshopping hold no appeal.  Rather, I enjoy the magic of a photo that is a real moment frozen forever in time.  I find it very apt that many Native Americans did not want to have their pictures taken.  In a wide range of traditions, taking an image of oneself was to trap part of one’s soul.  Lately I have finally started sorting though my late parents’ private possessions and photos.  Mama looked extremely glamorous and Daddy very dashing.  Their pictures go from black and white, to “colorized,” to “living color.”  My daddy went home to be with the Lord in 1998 and my mother joined him just five years ago.  Opening boxes I have discovered Daddy was a bold and dedicated romantic, faithfully writing Mama passionate letters from Korea.  I have also learned my mother loved Daddy devotedly and, despite the chance to marry “up” (into great wealth) she politely eschewed it.  I chose this picture because it holds such fond memories of being with my family in Santa Fe.  It was taken in 1997; the last year we would all be together.  It is a picture of a picture, so I’m sure it’s fuzzy, which seems very much like my memories:  some are crystal clear, while others are blurred.  It is a struggle for me to tell my only child about my parents without dissolving into tears.  Most of the time I just try to live out their examples, and know she is absorbing them despite their absence from this earth.  The New York Times bestselling author Gretchen Rubin said:

“One of the best ways to make yourself happy in the present is to recall happy times from the past.  Photos are a great memory-prompt, and because we tend to take photos of happy occasions, they weight our memories to the good.”

I know my parents would want the best for me and for my own little family.  It is a very painful and lonely journey for an only child to sort through their deceased parents’ things.  I persevere because I want to share them with my husband and I need our child to know them.  There is not only power in photos, there is a power in sorting through the past.