I’m Letting it Go

So, October is fast approaching and with it will inevitably come the 29th. That day will be the 93rd anniversary of my mother, Jewel’s, birth.  On the 30th, I will probably feel somewhat better.  You see, my mother died on October 1, 2004…she was 82.   I think she got screwed over; her mother and her mother’s mother lived to be 93.  I know that sounds weird, but Jewel would agree with me.  We always counted on her living till 93.  The fates didn’t allow it and I have been angry for 10 years.  I am vowing right here and now to let it go on October 29th.  You might argue that Jewel would not have wanted the anger and sadness to be in me for 10 years…and that would prove you didn’t know Jewel.  She would be kind of happy I have been tormented and pissed on her behalf.  Okay Jewel…I carried the anger for you, but I enveloped it in a cloud of love.  I am letting it go this next month.  It will take its leave and what remains will be pure love, wrapped warmly for years in our genetic code that yields seething temperament, but pure love.

The truth is that most Americans don’t live to the age of 93. Jewel would love that I carried the torch for her, but would have been the first to point out that thousands of her peers never made it out of the war theatres in the Pacific and Europe alive. Never making it out of their twenties, let alone living to comb grey hair. “The Greatest Generation” had a bunch of self-indulged people we call the Baby Boomers. I don’t think we are dealing with our parents’ deaths too well. I am not a 52 year-old orphan, I am a middle-aged woman whose parents are dead.

I have been going through a life-changing event the last several months. I was accused of being a different person since Jewel died. The accuser meant that I had changed to my detriment, I would have to agree. Just as births change the patterns of our lives, death leaves its carbon print all over our psyche. I have toughed it out…I have made it, probably in error, without the help of drugs or counseling. I cannot believe I am typing these words, but I choose to be happy.  I vow to work on it with the same due diligence I gave to the resentment these past years. If you see me you might not see it on my face, as I have a frown wrinkle between my eyes, of which Jewel once remarked, “That big crease makes you look bitchier to people.”

So this is it Jewel. I’m letting it go. I am releasing myself of the anger. It is exiting the weathered door with its collaborator, grief. I would have loved to have had you in my life for another decade, for sure. But you had me at the age of 40 and that ensured that your exit would leave me with years of my life without you. It’s okay. You did a good job and I thank you. Can I tell you though that I am mildly irritated that my target year is now 82? Well, hell.


Juju was actually proud at the moment she puked the three Pink Things into the Six Flags trash can.  She had just successfully completed her first ride on the Mine Train Roller Coaster.  A tall kid, she could have accomplished the feat the summer before, but had balked just as she reached the point of no return on the long ride’s line.  She had turned on her heels that day and ran as fast as she could to the Log Ride.  Hearing the mocking laugh of her sister Junene in the background did not bother her at all, another day she had thought.

Little did Juju know, her time would come on a July day in the summer of 1970.  Juju’s mother and sister had somehow convinced her in the darkness of that night that they were waiting online for the “Mini Mine Train.”  The Mini Mine Train was the sedate little sister to the scary and unyielding regular version.  The comparison of the amusement rides and the personalities of the two sisters would one day ring true to Juju’s adult memory.  On this day however, Juju took her place in the seat next to her mother and the cross safety bar clanged to a locked position.  As the train moved forward, out of the station, Juju looked overhead and read the sign as she flew underneath it…..what did that say???  Juju looked at her mother with all the disgust, fear, and betrayal an eight year old could muster.  As the train zoomed into it’s first sharp turn, Juju could be heard screaming in the darkness, “YOU TRICKED ME!!!”

At the end of the ride, Juju was giggling and running ahead of her mother and sister…off to find her place in line to try it one more time.  The second run took place about five minutes after the pink spewing….Juju was hooked on the speed and the funny feeling the coaster gave to her stomach.  Six Flags would become a yearly stay-cation, adventure that she would enjoy up into college.


The park closed on that long ago night at 11pm. Juju and her mother ended up at the Race Car Track, her personal favorite.CP43
Juju would push the pedal to the floor board and pretend she was Mario Andretti. Her mother, Jewel, always game, would play along with her imagination. Mother and daughter were both laughing so hard that tears were streaming down their faces as they approached the pimply, pit crew. There was 10 minutes left until the park closed. Jewel looked at the vacant line and back to the kid begging them to exit the hot rod. Jewel said, “Kid, I will buy you a Coke if you take your foot off that master brake and let her go around one more time.” One dollar exchanged hands and Juju was once again racing around her imaginary Indy track.
One dollar bought that summer memory, decades later it has become priceless. Juju can still remember the motor vibration on her hands as she gripped that steering wheel. Throwing her head back in laughter, laughing into that long ago night, hoping for one more Pink Thing on the way to the car.

Enjoy your summer.

Thank You Jewel.

My mother was 20 years old when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941.  Jewel had me 20 years later and growing up she liked to regale me with stories of her life and America during “The Great War.”  My mother and my father were members of that group that Tom Brokaw likes to call, “The Greatest Generation.”  It was a different war, I realize that now….it was not Vietnam or Iraq.

When my mother, Jewel, heard the radio reports and listened to FDR tell America, “The only thing we have to fear, is fear itself,” she, like millions of other people, knew she would be of service to her country in some capacity.

The term “Rosie the Riveter” was first used in a song in 1942, but soon became part of American culture as millions of women stepped up and took over jobs, not normally held by women, when large numbers of men entered the military branches to fight in the war.  Jewel started working for Tesco Corporation in Tarrant County, Texas and was one of the first women “meter readers” documented in the state.


That wasn’t enough for Jewel though and she soon joined the Women’s Army Auxiliary Corp (WAAC) and traveled to freezing temperatures in Illinois for basic training. About 150,000 American women eventually served in the WAAC during World War II. Besides nurses, they were the first women allowed in the U.S. Army. My mother drove a supply truck for the duration of her service. I have blogged before that she met my father, a mess Sergeant, making a delivery one day. She would eventually give him seven “deliveries” with me being lucky number seven.


I sit in my office today thinking about all this because this Sunday is Mother’s Day. I got up this morning thinking about how I now really hate Mother’s Day and I need to change that around….hence this blog. I need to think about stuff like this and just how damn cool of a mother I had on this earth. I followed Jewel’s lead out of college into a service position, I was a police officer for eight years before going to law school. I like to think that if I was around in 1942, I would have joined the WAAC too. I like to think that Jewel and I had lots of similarities, all the while knowing that we were so completely different human beings.

This Sunday, I will raise a glass to Jewel and think of days gone by. I will silently thank her for service to family, community, and country. I will remember past Mother’s Days when she would be waiting for me and my siblings on her porch swing….knowing I would have some beautiful flowers or a plant for her gift. Who am I kidding? I think and honor her every single day of my life. I don’t need a stinking Hallmark card holiday to do so, do I Jewel? You are in my heart. You are the reason I serve my clients every day to the best of my ability. You are the person I want to be proud of me.

I would give anything to be sitting on that swing with you today Jewel. Sipping on a Fresca and listening to you talk about your garden or the neighbor’s “damn dog.” I miss you desperately.

What I would envision myself doing is giving you a big bear hug of thankfulness. Of course, I cannot do that any longer, so this blog will have to suffice.

Happy Mother’s Day, Jewel, I humbly thank you.


The Answer

It all started back in January when I was watching CBS Sunday Morning and saw a story on Chris Rosati…..this story to be precise.


Krispy Kreme Heist <<<click on it

I felt an instant connection and draw to Chris and his insane idea to steal a donut truck and go around town giving out free treats….why? Well, given his same circumstances it is just exactly what I would do. I started thinking that someone in Fort Worth, where I live, should do something equally crazy to honor Chris in his fight against ALS….and I was just that crazy person. So I drafted some amazing friends who gave of their money and time…and we did this.

Donut Giveaway <<click on this

You see Chris Rosati knows the answer. His disease may be terminal, but it doesn't matter at this point….because of the answer. I have blogged before about life being very small moments of perfection. Watch out for them because sometimes they are moving quite quick in front of you. I witnessed one of those moments, the CBS story, and knew that Chris had the answer.

"Love is the answer, and you know that for sure." John Lennon.

Hand someone a donut and they smile, a simple thing. I saw it on TV in January and experienced it first-hand in March. A random act of kindness, big or small, is based in love. My friends and I felt the impact of the Rosati event in North Carolina on the day we gathered to give total strangers a smile. It wasn't about the donuts though you see, it was the act toward a fellow human….the impact…..the ripple effect. We all want to matter. In the end of lives, whether it comes at 20 years of age or 98, we want to know we mattered while here on earth. It isn't about money in the bank, or celebrity, material possessions….it is about the people one impacts with the answer.

I am willing to bet that Chris Rosati has been impacting people in a positive way his entire life, his illness just gave him clarity, focus, and urgency…urgency to shift gears into overdrive. I commend him for what he is continuing to do with his life.

I think I will grab hold of some of that focus and urgency and ramp up some of the things I do in my life to help others. I have always been a "doer." Today, I want to encourage you to become one too. Don't read this blog and think it was cool what we did and then go about your day. I want you to create a moment of perfection today. Work on your answer. Do not procrastinate or rationalize…start a project that will create one of those ripples of your own. It feels really good, let me tell you. It feels great to have the answer, better than a chocolate covered…well, you get my point.

"If you are not impacting someone, then this whole thing is a waste." Chris Rosati

"Get off your ass and go do something for the greater good." Julya Billhymer

Food For Thought

“Juju, there’s a woman out in the parking lot setting up the party, but that has to be your grandmother,” said Mrs. Short,   Mrs. Short was Juju’s second grade teacher.  Nope, said Juju, that’s my momma!  Juju didn’t even have to look out the window, she knew Jewel was out there unloading the 62 Tan Cadillac that was loaded with cookies and big restaurant size drink dispenser.

Juju further knew that her 78-year-old grandmother was probably securely seated in her favorite chair at her house in Haltom City, watching “Days of Our Lives” or another one of her programs…she had never learned to drive ruling her out immediately.  Juju was used to people thinking her parents were her grandparents.  She was number seven of seven, coming at a time when her mother was 40 and her father was 49.  Juju’s mother had a large swath of grey hair starting at her forehead and flowing all the way to the rear of her head.  People were recently calling Juju’s mother “Maude” after a popular TV show.  The two women had two similarities…hair and attitude.  Juju’s mother did not care for the moniker, telling Juju that people like to put down women that were smart and spoke their mind.  “Never let anyone silence your opinions Juju!” said Jewel.

The Harrison Lane Elementary second grade class was putting on a performance of Little Red Riding Hood for the school.  Juju played the lead because Mrs. Short said she was the only girl who could memorize all the lines. 

Jewel did not come into the school to watch the performance.  She worked for one hour out in the parking lot, setting up a long table for a treat buffet.  By the time the play was over and the entire second grade was lined up, the table was perfect.  Colored paper decorations were attached to the pressed, white linen table-cloth with the floral design.  Dozens of cookies were displayed on shiny silver platters.  Juju’s father was a chef and he had “donated” some the equipment from his restaurant.  He even took the time to carve radishes into pretty little roses that complimented the icing on the trays of cookies.  The big drink dispenser was full of iced cold lemonade, just sweet enough for all the kids to line up for seconds.

Mrs. Short was speechless, when Juju had volunteered her parents to cater the event, she had no idea what the result would be.


After all the kids dispatched with the table full of goodies, they marched single file back into the second-grade hall, no one looking forward to the afternoon math class. Juju enjoyed being the girl in the spotlight that day, but the funny thing was, it was the party in the parking lot that made her swell with pride…not her starring role. Her parents had taken great pains in ensuring that the table was decked out and looked just as fancy as the buffet did at the place where her father worked.

Juju sat down at her desk in Mrs. Forrester’s math class and looked out the window. There was her mother, now folding up the long table that would stick out the back trunk of the Cadillac, on her trek back home. Juju watched as her mother turned the car south onto Harrison Lane, back towards the modest ranch-style house her large family shared.

Years later two of Juju’s friends remembered that day and the fancy snacks served on silver platters. Juju asked them if they remembered the play before the snacks….they did not. It seems Juju’s parents were on to something. People remember good food and presentation….they incorporate it into their memories. Juju knew this to be true because almost all of her childhood memories were attached in some way to food. Her family were “foodies” long before the term became fashionable.

Remember that Christmas eve? The one where we had 80 people over for dinner? Yeah, that one. Remember your third birthday? The one where momma made the birthday cake to look like a lamb? Oh yeah, right! Remember when we went down to ride inner tubes down the Comal River? Yes, when dad made a huge fruit boat with lunch that Saturday and grilled those pork steaks? Yeah…..yeah.

Juju doesn’t remember much of the play at all, not her costume or anything. She does remember sitting on the curb chomping on a cookie that was almost too pretty to eat.

Juju was watching the Food Channel last week and felt a tear rolling down her right cheek. Forget chopping onions, carved radishes can do that to you too, even after several decades. Those radishes were food for thought…the thought of a greying mother of seven, working hard in a hot, Texas parking lot. Creating a memory that remains of a sweet afternoon so long ago, as sweet as that lemonade…and that was some mighty fine lemonade.

Shots Fired, Officer Down! (Part Two)

Originally posted on Dyke in the Heart of Texas:

And after that brief commercial break….our story continues.

Well, the keys explained why the car wasn’t moving. The wife told me that her husband wasn’t hit. Ross’s return shots had all went right through the center of the back window and out the front….unbelievably missing both occupants.

I could hear the siren of back-up Officer Fritz approaching the scene from my west. The hammer on my Smith & Wesson was ready to strike it’s mark….as the suspect started to exit the vehicle. I asked for hands and he showed me hands, no gun. He was screaming, “please, kill me!!” I would have gladly obliged him, but again, no gun.

In a split second, he turned and ran right into the path of eastbound traffic and headed across the center median of the four lane highway. Officer Fritz saw this and drove his unit across the median, in hot pursuit.


View original 681 more words

Shots Fired, Officer Down! (Part One)

Originally posted on Dyke in the Heart of Texas:

It was November 6, 1988 at about 12:40 a.m. and I was on patrol on the east side of the city. I checked out at a tire store because I saw a suspicious car pulled up by the back door. I gave the dispatcher the plate number of the vehicle to run on the computer and began to investigate.

I let my guard down a little when I checked the hood of the car and found the engine was cold. I started walking the perimeter, along with my handy Mag light. The dispatcher called out, “221?” Go ahead, I replied. He told me the vehicle was “clear,” meaning not stolen and no warrants attached to the registered owner. The address was local, so I checked a few doors and went back to my unit.

I had graduated the police academy just 9 months before this night.
Low seniority had bestowed…

View original 1,202 more words