We are lucky to live in a city where they have a dedicated children’s theater.  Plays are geared for littles but it has a grown-up feel.  Time is shortened for younger attention spans and my husband has often said he enjoys the kiddo shows over the “regular” theatre.  My little one LOVES pink.  She adores it.  She LIVES for it!  And the name of the last play of the season was called “Pinkalicious.”  Based upon the popular children’s book, Pinkalicious loves pink cupcakes.  She loves them so much she eats too many and gets “pinkititus”!  What to do?!  It proves one CAN have too much of a good thing.  For me it would be blue.  But it shows the importance of eating vegetables and other things and how one can still love pink.  It was a darling show and I think my baby doll had a blast wearing all her beloved pink.  We made it a girl’s night and I even wore pink in my hair, for which I got a lot of compliments, getting into the spirit of things and willing to have pink hair.  (It was just clip on pieces; not dye.)  Anyway, we had a great time and my daughter got a little more exposure to the theater, which was an integral part of my childhood.  I suppose my most memorable experience was playing Dorothy in “The Wizard of Oz” in the sixth grade.  A part of me wishes I had continued past a brief stint as Maria in “The Sound of Music.”  Who knows?  Maybe she will want to take up musicals as I did.  At the very least I hope she can respect and enjoy them as an adult.  American football player and coach Vince Lombardi once said, “Perfection is not attainable, but if we chase perfection we can catch excellence.”  I hope my daughter catches excellence.

I used to go to Pow Wows a lot while my father was still living.  Every time I hear someone white, covered in dead animals, saying their grandmother was a Cherokee princess I just recoil.  I realize they mean well and want to embrace a culture they may have some connection to but it rankles — and I am obviously not full-blood.  Yes, I am aware I have blondish/red hair and greenish/blue eyes.  But my father did not.  He had hair so black it was almost blue and eyes so blue as to nearly be unbelievable.  With his red skin personally I think he was unbeatable and I can certainly see why Mama fell for him.  Having German and Choctaw ancestry, he “passed” unwittingly for white with his deep blue eyes and Germanic last name.  Men said they envied his “golf course tan” even though he never played golf a day in his life.  With Daddy gone I am not sure how much of his story he would want me to tell.  But I will say this:  my world changed at 15 when my grandmother died — and so did Daddy’s.  I always knew Grandma spoke with broken English; I always knew she did not look white.  But it was never talked about.  Secrets came out at the funeral; stories of the family blood being Indian.  I always wondered how Daddy felt, at 53, finding all this out.  What a shock to his entire identity it must have been; how so many pieces of his early childhood’s puzzle must have finally fallen into place.  American society made it so shameful to be an Indian my grandmother took it to her grave.  NO other race of people has had to endure what Native Peoples have:  forced sterilization of women even into the 1970’s, baby stealing, mass genocide, concentration camps called reservations, boarding schools where children were beaten if they spoke their native language.  They had bounties placed on their their scalps, the U.S. government deliberately gave them small pox infected blankets, women and children were shot in the back and left to rot in piles, and their lands were stolen under the guise of “manifest destiny”.  Treaties are still being broken, and now there is nuclear dumping and fracking on Indian land.  When will it end?!  As a young teenager I immersed myself in my newly discovered heritage and Daddy seemed relieved to be encouraged to do so as well.  My mother loved us and embraced it with equal enthusiasm.  And so we we were warmly welcomed home into the American Indian community.  We learned together about Grand Entries and Flag Songs, and soon my father became a proud member of the American Indian veterans.  It’s so funny, he never could pronounce any other language but Choctaw just sounded right on his tongue in a way my more-white-than-red self could not achieve.  We learned about the Northern drum and the Southern drum; snake dances, corn dances, grass dances, and more.  We ate fry bread and suddenly Daddy began opening up about a life he lived but did not fully understand until this came to light.  He passed away when I was 28.  Simply standing next to my father people knew I was legit.  But now all I had was my tiny, red-haired, white, widowed mother who kept a love of her husband’s culture long after he had passed.  So imagine poor Mr. Birmingham, who looked me in the eyes with a forthright steadiness as I told him my grandmother was Choctaw.  (He was probably thinking at least I didn’t say Cherokee princess.)  He never revealed his own heritage but seemed to be summing me up somehow.  I asked if I could get my picture with him — something I had never done in my whole life.  I do not read the “star” magazines or watch the celebrity “news” shows, but I confess I was giddy to see him unexpectedly at a local pow wow.  I felt so embarrassed.  Embarrassed that I did not look Indian and wondered how many “wanna-bes” he had endured.  But I stood my ground and shared my heritage just the same.  To not have done so would have dishonored my father, and all those who came before whom they tried to wipe away.  I saw this picture in a time hop on Facebook and decided to write about it.  I have had full blood friends who were Comanche, Apache, Navajo, Pueblo, Hopi, Zuni, Choctaw, Seminole, Kiowa, Chippewa, Sauk and Fox, Winnebago, Iroquois, Lakota, Salish, and yes, Cherokee plus others who were mixed with several nations.  It saddens me to see languages, crafts, and old ways dying.  People know the dances but they’re not exactly sure of the meaning behind some of them.  They do things that were passed down but do not fully know why.  An Indian friend of mine who got shipped off the rez as part of a government “integration” program knew the American Indian activist and actor Russell Means well.  Among other things, Russell was the author of “Where White Men Fear to Tread.”  In his book he said:

“Golden eagles don`t mate with bald eagles, deer don`t mate with antelope, gray wolves don`t mate with red wolves.  Just look at domesticated animals, at mongrel dogs, and mixed breed horses, and you`ll know the Great Mystery didn`t intend them to be that way.  We weakened the species and introduced disease by mixing what should be kept seperate.  Among humans, intermarriage weakens the respect people have for themselves and for their traditions.  It undermines clarity of spirit and mind.”

We cannot go back, nor can we rewrite history.  One thing I know I CAN do is to not hide my heritage out of embarrassment — ironically not embarrassment of being Indian; embarrassment of not looking it.

We kicked off the first day of summer as I believe the solstice should be celebrated … with an homage to the great outdoors.  These two ran, squealed, shrieked and squirted each other with water, red faced and ecstatic.  They cooled down with Popsicles and my little one came home happy and exhausted.  Oh I remember the joy of a good night’s sleep after playing hard in the summer!  In that twilight time between bath and bed I would replay all that fun in my mind with the joy of knowing I had all summer to do it again:  the sound of cicadas, the smell of fresh cut grass, and the promise of long summer nights stretched out before me like a magic carpet.  It is hard to believe these girls have known each other half of their young lives.  I am not going to wonder where life will take them; I am simply going to enjoy the ride and the precious gift we have been given of time.  I am reminded of my favorite Shakespearean Sonnet (Number 18):

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature’s changing course untrimmed.
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;
Nor shall death brag thou wand’rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st,
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

I enjoy all four seasons but summer holds a magic all her own.  I hope my little one experiences all she has to offer and will carry wonderful memories of these times; continuing summer’s joy throughout her life.  I know I do.

There is nothing sweeter than the sight of two little girls giggling and playing together.  I had forgotten what it was like to want to whisper some nonsensical secret into a friend’s ear or show someone my room or my things.  Times are so different; play dates have replaced randomly running wild.  I recently read somewhere that children spend less time outdoors now than prisoners.  What a sad, horrifying thought.  I think I had an advantage growing up in an apartment because all the kids met at the playground.  We were a roaming pack that played tether ball, rode our Big Wheels everywhere, hung upside down from metal monkey bars and, if it was not a safer time, it certainly was a more naive one.  My mother said I could go as far as the sound of her voice.  And when she called me in for supper I ran like the wind getting home.  I had grass stains and bruises on my knees.  Now kids have sunscreen and insect repellent with plastic playgrounds.  My little one was thrilled when her friend came over and they disappeared upstairs to play.  When her daddy swept her up to take her home we were sad to see her go.  Look at the joy in this picture.  I want my little one to have the freedom to make friends and play without worry just as I did growing up.  The venue may have changed but the sentiment has not.  Mencius, the ancient Chinese philosopher, once said, “Friends are the siblings God never gave us.”

I have always known I was the stereotypical “crazy cat lady.”  It is a label I have accepted in part with embarrassment and in part with pride.  Why is it the compassionate ones are always labeled crazy and animal killers are considered normal?  I do not mean to sound harsh but I believe it is the absolute truth.  Obviously I cannot pass through pet stores and visiting shelters make me so despondent I have no words.  I suppose I am just not strong enough.  Anyway, I was minding my own business one day when these two popped up on my Facebook feed.  It was a last ditch rescue plea from a local shelter and I could have cheerfully strangled the friend who posted it.  They just haunted me.  First, if you are not a cat person and did not know this most orange cats are male.  I believe they used to be even more rare but current statistics place them at 80% male and 20% female.  Calico cats (three colors:  black, orange and white) are almost always female and tortoiseshell cats are as well.  (They have two colors; black and orange.)  So this little rare pair were both girls.  I confess I went for the kitten (a dilute calico) but her cries as she was taken from her mother will haunt me the rest of my days.  It was AWFUL.  Equally so was seeing her near starving mother reaching her paw out of the cage to her kitten.  Their cries echoed down and through the corridor and looking at the mother I KNEW she knew he was going to be killed.  In that instant I uncharacteristically ordered the mean, immune officer who had callously grabbed the kitten by the nape of the neck to put her back immediately with her mother where she belonged.  And then I announced I would be taking them both.  This haughty proclamation was followed by a texted plea to my husband not to divorce me.  His response was, “You got them both, didn’t you?”  And then I knew he was the kindest, sweetest man in the whole world; possibly the only one who truly understood and accepted me.  When we met I had seven cats.  Yep; seven.  And he loved them all.  Judge me; make fun of me; but they were my family.  I needed them just as much as they needed me.  And I do not regret one single rescue.  Returning to my story, I was not prepared to take two cats and one kind officer went and emptied out a box of printer paper so I could get them home.  I remember feeling ill carrying them, as the mother weighed less than four pounds and her kitten who even knows.  Something happened when I took the mother.  She knew I was keeping them together and she just seemed to let go.  I was afraid she would die because she had not been eating in the shelter.  I am sure it was because she could smell the death.  After leaving them to our bathroom upstairs with food and water something miraculous happened.  She started eating and gained enough weight to nurse!!!  Soon her little kitten’s tummy was full of Mama’s milk and they would lay together purring contentedly.  I began a sort of perverse reverse mental count of how many days they would have been gone contrasted with how well they were doing at the present.  And so I named the Mama cat Soleil which in French means “sun” and Giverny is where Monet lived when he painted his famous waterlilies.  Both kitties are rare in that you also do not see many dilute calicos.  Notice she is more gray and pink and white as opposed to black, orange and white.  Her muddled tones reminded me of Monet’s pond, which we had just visited.  They needed antibiotics and eye drops but flourished.  Giverny still remains tiny and our little one’s eternal “kitten.”  So if/when someone crinkles their nose when they discover our cats I remember the sound of them crying for each other that will haunt me as long as I live.  I will wear the crazy label; at least I know they were saved and are a loved, cherished part of our little family.  The renowned French-German academic Albert Schweitzer once said, “There are two means of refuge from the miseries of life:  music and cats.”  Both have been a refuge for me as I have struggled with the loss of both of my parents.  So really I do not believe, in my arrogance, I “saved” these cats.  I believe they saved me.

“We’re having a girls’ day!” is something my little one often likes to say.  It warms my heart.  Really mostly I’m working and doing chores, feeling guilty I’m dragging her with me.  But she makes our mundane time special; filled with laughter, imagination, and adventure.  In between rounds I scheduled time for a manicure and pedicure, or mani/pedi, and my little one asked if she could have pink sparkly princess nails.  Winking at me, the ladies fussed over her and gave her the palest of shimmer on her still-baby nails.  She felt so special and held so still.  Afterward she did not want to wash her hands for fear of her polish coming off.  She thanked everyone in English, Spanish, and Vietnamese just like I’d taught her and said it was our best day ever.  I confess the day picked up when I discovered the Hawaiian themed nail salon served tropical frozen drinks!  I almost dropped my teeth when they handed her a strawberry one.  Again with a wink and smile I realized they’d given her a virgin one, while Mommy’s lime one had a hit of rum.  Oh she was SO thrilled!  She said, “Mama!  My first margarita!” but it came out more like “marmameetuh.”  How precious this time is, and these moments.  I realize looking back I never regret time spent with my father while he worked.  I learned so much from him either about how to do something or life or just what his own childhood was like.  German theologian Walter Benjamin once said, “Counsel woven into the fabric of real life is wisdom.”  And now I carry that fabric with me and I am sewing it into the pieces of Maris’ life quilt.  Someday she will do the same for her children.  I hope and pray her scraps are filled with love, beauty, strength, happiness and memories that she will hand down and that they will last long into the next generations.  I can only pray and aspire to be the example my parents set for me.  So my little girly got a little mani … and maybe a special memory woven in along the way.

Look at my girl!  I don’t care; she was the most beautiful baby I have ever seen!  I believe I may have mentioned (shamelessly bragged) before she got a perfect 10 on her APGAR test in the hospital.  Oh WHERE did the time go?!  I remember being terrified of bathing her because she was so little.  She has always loved the water just as her namesake would suggest.  (In Latin Maris means “of the sea.”)  My husband and I loved her paw shaped birthmark (“stork bite”) which, ironically, she got about a week and a half after she was born.  We reluctantly had it removed when she was about 2 1/2.  Surprisingly, it was never remarks from other children; it was always adults making the comments.  For a long time I used her Godmother’s sweet reply that the angels had kissed her.  But it became harder and harder to ignore as she grew more aware.  The defining moment for me was an adult pointing straight at her face and asking what had happened.  I will NEVER forget her lifting her tiny hand up to her face and wondering why she was being pointed at.  Burk strongly felt we should have it removed because he didn’t want her to feel self conscious.  Now, two years later, she is upset with me for removing her “special wolf paw mark.”  Everyone who knew us was freaked out that it looked like she was touched on the cheek with a perfect wolf paw print.  My Daddy used to say hindsight is 20/20.  I can only pray she will not regret the decision we made in her stead forever.  American author Bret Harte once wrote:  “Never a lip is curved with pain that can’t be kissed into smiles again.”  I kissed that mark a thousand times.  I loved it; it was a part of her.  It belonged to her.  God gave it to her.  And at the tender age of three she started expressing her upset that her mark got removed.  It took two laser surgeries to have it removed.  I pray that I can kiss her lips into a smile again, and that she will not always regret the decision we labored over on her behalf.  And, for the record my darling, I do believe you were kissed not only by the heavenly angels but by the wolves as well.  I am proud of you for embracing it.

This photo of my folks is fuzzy and out of focus.  I fear my memories are becoming the same and I do not want that.  I want to remember them; their love, their warmth, and their strength for as long as I have breath.  It is especially important so that I can pass that along to Maris.  She is their legacy and the living embodiment of my entire life.  I try to stay upbeat in my blogs but OH how I miss them!  I tell my little one stories about them every day to keep them alive for her.  This was taken when I was in the Miss Texas USA pageant in Padre Island and it was the very first time I had ever been anywhere outside of Dallas with my family.  I believe I was 24.  I discovered Mama’s love for the ocean and remember marveling at how my dark red father’s feet were impossibly white — a shocking reflection of his mixed heritage of German and Choctaw.  I would say we were all in our prime then.  It is before my parents had any health problems that surfaced and I weighed less than 110 pounds, eating whatever I wanted.  I lost to who would become Miss Universe and I ate her cheese danish every day for breakfast so I got two.  I only got to spend one night with them on that beach in Padre Island but I remember I saw them in a whole new light.  I have been so fortunate to travel since I have gotten married and it is terribly important that our daughter never become blasé about such a privilege.  The French novelist Marcel Proust once wrote:

“The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.”

I want to continually see the world and people with new eyes — always seeking out the best.

Oh dear God what has happened to my house?!  I think it’s called “my child is home from school.”  I could not believe the state her playroom was in.  Little pieces of Lord knows what were everywhere!!  I walked in, took one look around, and wanted to give up and go straight to bed.  Before I had a child, I always thought mine would be the house they’d come to.  I have a new iMac that was not inexpensive which some kid cracked within MILLISECONDS of coming in to play.  I especially love that his Dad covered it up and I did not discover it until later.  That’s when I realized once again our child was actually very good and has not touched anything she wasn’t supposed to.  I’ll never forget her third birthday (the last in our home) when a little boy broke a piece of Native American art whose artist’s work is in the Smithsonian.  The mother asked if “it was worth much” and when I looked horrified she asked how I managed to keep “nice” things out.  “Nice” and “priceless” are quite divergent.  But at least it taught me just how good my little girl really was.  As I write and I’m thinking this through I realize she was simply playing with her own things in her playroom.  The rest of our house remains intact.  Sometimes toys spill over from her room to the loft and I ask her to please keep certain things in specific areas.  So for instance her kitchen things need to stay in her kitchen; outside toys like bubbles stay on the porch, and she has a designated table for coloring, etc.  This room was the result of me not reminding her to put things away for several days as I have been really sick.  I came across a quote from the comedienne Phyllis Diller which I thought was apt:  “Cleaning your house while your kids are still growing up is like shoveling the walk before it stops snowing.”  Thankfully my karate kid girl is learning the value of discipline and responsibility.  I had her put everything away under my guidance of restored order.  I want her to be free to play … I just don’t want to see any more Play-Doh tornadoes; the wolfies have had rainbow-colored poop for days.  We’re not in Kansas anymore Dorothy.

Pictured here is Alamo, Tux, and Cocoa.  They have been clients of mine for years.  I came across this in my Timehop on Facebook from three years ago.  This is one of those stories which is funny now but was absolutely HORRIFYING at the time.  My client’s mother-in-law I believe had passed away but they had her old meds still hanging around.  So I was making my rounds and I discovered all these chewed open pill bottles — EVERYWHERE.  I completely freaked.  Oddly enough, first I worried about the plastic.  So I went and got them all white bread (which they thought was a treat) to coat their stomachs with since I had no way of knowing who had ingested how much and of what.  Next I lined them all up and DEMANDED to know WHO had done this!  If you’ll note, Alamo (on the far left) looks guilty and Cocoa (far right) wouldn’t meet my eyes.  Well she was a rescue, poor thing, and the sweetest doggie in the world — as Pitbulls often are despite what people have done to them.  So who does that leave?  Look at Tux in the center looking all unrepentant.  Sure enough, he was the culprit.  Fortunately, he was not hurt by the THIRY some odd prescription bottles he’d managed to open.  I swear I turned grey that night.  I prayed and prayed they would all be OK.  I tried to give them a doggie sobriety test (they’ve never looked at me the same since then) and I stayed over later to make sure no one vomited.  WHAT a scare!  American reporter and humorist Franklin P. Jones once said, “Scratch a dog and you’ll find a permanent job.”  And so it goes.  Tuxedo got showered with freaked out love and attention … and lots and lots of scratches.  Alamo and Cocoa justifiably demanded the same.  My job as a petsitter is to give as many scratches and as much love as I possibly can.  Fortunately, I am happy to take on the task.