Happy 30th, Lilipootin & Jaco!

As the effervescent young Lillian Simmerman skipped off to Catholic school in her little plaid skirt and Mary Janes, I'm sure she often dreamed about one day meeting her Knight in Shining Armor. I'm not so sure she ever imagined her shiny knight would turn out to be a slick musician in a football jersey. A vertically challenged, hairline receding musician whose longest running committed relationship was with a guitar named Twila.

About the time 18 year old Jackie 'Jackson' Haney was cutting a wide swath through the female population of Texas - armed with nothing more than a guitar and his innate charm - baby Lili was loudly protesting the indignity of being slapped on the butt post-delivery.

And while Lili was studying catechism under the tutelage of nuns, Jack was banging out music in bars and ogling babes. If those well-meaning nuns responsible for shaping Lili's eternal soul had so much as suspected the two dichotomous lives would one day intertwine, they would have called out the Knuckle Rapping Ruler Brigade in full force. Because as any good Sister knows: marriage to a musician is seldom the path of least resistance.

In my 40 years of knowing Jackie, I had grown accustomed to seeing him change girlfriends at least as frequently as he changed the strings of his beloved guitar. I think it's safe to say I had pretty much given up all hope that Jack would ever have a meaningful relationship with any female other than Twila. I pictured him riding off into the sunset of his life, side-by-side with an attractive, big-eyed doll made of durable plastic from China. Then along came Lili. Lovely, sweet, warm, nurturing Lili.

Jack met Lil, his heart went still, and love came tumbling after.


Over the course of their relationship, Jack had become aware of Lili's progressively worsening health problems from diabetes. He called me one night and I could tell immediately that something was very wrong. He told me that Lili was in the hospital and had suffered a heart attack. This man who feared nothing in the world except screwing up onstage, was scared to death. "She's gonna be okay, isn't she, Robin?" He asked. "Of course she is", I assured him, simply because I couldn't imagine her to be otherwise.

When she returned home, he realized more than ever how precious she had become to him. He realized he wanted her to be his, now and forever.


On Christmas Day in 2009, with a pot of Jambalaya bubbling on the stove, Jackie-the-confirmed-bachelor-for-life decided there would never be a better time. Surrounded by family, with no warm-up, no lead-in, and really...no game, he literally dropped to one knee and humbly asked for his sweet Lili's hand in marriage. He was barefooted. He had bed head. He was wearing remnants of breakfast on his sweatshirt. And still, she said yes.

She was slightly miffed that he had asked her while she was wearing sweats and an old t-shirt, but he told her she had never looked more beautiful...

To mark their engagement, he gave her a Claddagh Ring, an ancient Irish ring designed to represent Friendship, Loyalty and Love. Inside the ring was a one-word inscription...eternity.


Today, Jack and Lili celebrate their One-Year Anniversary. Which would be a respectable achievement of seven in dog years, but is an even more extraordinary feat of something like thirty in musician years. They are crazy about each other and have melded their lives into a wonderful symbiosis which bears a passing resemblance to normalcy. While Lili gives Jack a soft place to land, he fills her days with laughter and her nights with song.

It's hard to believe that we've taken one short trip around the sun since these two pledged their love to one another on a rainy day in June. I gotta tell you, I've been to many weddings - from the extravagant to the simple, from the romantic to the sublime - but this was by far the most unique, tender, wacky, wonderfully sweet wedding ever.

It's a wedding story that can only be told with pictures. Lots of pictures.

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Tucked away in the Ozark mountains of Missouri, looking out onto beautiful Table Rock Lake in Branson, generous friends provided the beautiful setting of an empty house. God provided a majestic backdrop. The Dickman provided the vows (because, really...how often in life does a man get the opportunity to marry his brother, outside of Arkansas?)


There were clues from the get-go that we would be coloring outside the lines of normalcy at this wedding. The guest list included some of Branson's finest performers and impersonators as well as virtual legends of music. As people began arriving at the beautiful house overlooking the lake, the wedding began to resemble a scene straight out of central casting.

There was Elvis...


Mr. and Mrs. Paul Revere and assorted Raiders....


Bill Medley of the Righteous Brothers (chatting up Beatle George Harrison)...


Bill Haley's Original Comets, including my boyfriend Dick Richards (who once dated Grace Kelly, I swear it's the truth)...

Not to mention Little Richard, at least two more Beatles, and a dozen sedately dressed Amish (friends of the bride).

As the Wedding March queued up from the kitchen the beautious Lillian walked out of the bedroom and up the makeshift aisle, holding onto the arm of her best friend, her Mom.

At the sight of a glowing Lili dressed up in her beautiful wedding dress and veil, almost every eye in the place grew moist. The realization that this very moment had come frightenly close to never happening caused emotions to run high.

Just ten days prior to the wedding, Lili had suffered a second heart attack and had been hospitalized for several days. Suggestions of postponing the wedding had been tossed about, but Lili insisted on going ahead as planned. Sweet, sweet Lili with her broken heart and gossamer gown was the very embodiment of the lyrics of Leonard Cohen:

Ring the bells that still can ring / Forget your perfect offering / There is a crack in everything / That's how the light gets in.

A room full of hearts filled with love and concern followed each step of the indomitable bride. I literally heard Jackie gasp as he got his first glimpse of her white satined glory. His face lit up with a smile that spread clear across his face as tears of love sprang to his eyes...

The calloused hands famous for coaxing intricate sounds from his guitar, now carefully held the hands of his beloved as Dickie spoke of their purpose...


...May the Lord bless these hands and grant them strength to hold on during storms of stress and the darkness of disillusion. May He keep them tender and gentle as they nurture one another...may these hands continue to build a relationship founded in His grace.

Then Preacher Dick shared a letter that Jack had written to his Lili. It came as no surprise that Jack relied on the metaphor of music to describe his love.

Lili, you are music to my soul. You are every love song ever written...

"You are So Beautiful"
"You Make Me Feel Brand New"
You are "My Girl"
"You Make Me Feel Like Dancing"
"You Are the Sunshine of My Life"

and finally, "You're my soul and my heart's inspiration"

...at which point Bill Medley righteously stood up and took a bow in appreciation for being the artist behind that particular song.



Before she could change her mind, the Dickman quickly asked Lili the burning question: Would she take his brother to be her wedded husband...to love him, honor and keep him in sickness and health...to keep herself only for him, so long as they both should live?

The very second she voiced the words, "I do", the house shook and the sky exploded with a show of light and sound that could only have been choreographed by God, Himself. The audience clapped in spontaneous approval.

If God was well pleased, no less than Him were we.

After sealing their promises with a kiss, the betrothed couple rocked back down the aisle to the tune of (what else?) Rock Around the Clock.

And Mr. and Mrs. Baby Comet kept right on rockin' their way to Club 57, where the party escalated into a musical extravaganza. As you can see from this picture of Jackie busting a move on the dance floor...


...and getting a well-deserved spanking for forgetting his socks.


Lili partied with the Raiders...


While Jackie and his friends provided non-stop entertainment.


Without a doubt, the wedding of Jack & Lili will go down in history as the most wacky and joyful knot-tying ceremony ever committed.

To say their first year has been anything less than a walk on the wild side would be a lie. But from the outside looking in, it has been awe-inspiring to watch these two carve a life out of their love. To discover that two are stronger than one. To realize that a cord of three strands (Lili, Jack and God) is not easily broken.

I count it nothing but joy to see a man in his sixth decade of life - a man I love as a brother - come to truly appreciate that there is more to life than diminished ninths and harmonics...

To gain a sister-in-love and marvel at her strength and generosity...

To discover the flattering effect of Turtle Face picture poses...


I can only pray God continues to shower His blessings and applause upon the union that is Jack and Lili. I pray He does so for many, many years to come.

And I wish for them, as they continue on this roller coaster of their life, that they would remember to "scream from the peaks, hold hands through the dips, laugh through the loop the loops, and enjoy every twist and turn".

Happy Anniversary Lilipootin and Jaco. 1-4-3, for eternity.

LESSONS MY DADDY TAUGHT ME (or) Red M&M's and Right Hooks

We stood quietly in the corner of the room, listening to the beep-beep-beeping of the monitors, unable to tear our eyes away from the resting form of my Daddy. He lay dark and still in the ICU hospital bed, a confusion of tubes and lines running in and out of his rapidly failing body. He had grown progressively disoriented throughout the day.

When he finally opened his eyes, my sister-in-law began talking sweetly to him, but it was obvious Dad did not recognize her. Filled with panic, I leaned over his bed and said, “Hey, handsome…do you know who I am?” He looked into my eyes – so like his own - and the confusion on his face was replaced by a beautific smile.

“Well, of course I know who you are...I would never forget my Rob-bob-bobbin.”

Those were the last words I would ever hear him say. Four days later, he found his way to heaven.

For those of us without a Dad around to open our brightly colored envelope and read our carefully chosen card, Father’s Day is not always a Hallmark moment. Instead, it becomes one of those ‘signpost’ days that serve as markers of time.

This is my 13th Father’s Day without my Daddy. Sometimes it feels like forever. Some days it feels like it was only last week. But most days, I’m good with it. Because, not only do I believe in heaven with a childlike faith and intensity, I also have no doubt my Daddy is Up There helping God run the place. Or at least directing the goings on within the vicinity of his little cabin. His little cabin in the corner, directly adjacent to the Glory Land Golf Course, of course. When he’s not singing gospel with his Dad & six brothers, I would wager plenty that you could find him on the golf course with Jesus - keeping score.

Imagining my Daddy as happy and whole makes me smile all over. I can’t be selfish enough to want him here more than I want him in heaven...even though it is far away above the clouds, above the moon, above the sun. I know heaven must be UP there, somewhere, because I have a deep and abiding faith that there will be M&M’s in heaven – mostly red peanut M&M’s – the streets of gold will be lined with buckets of the delicious chocolate bits. Therefore, it stands to reason that heaven would need to be a good distance from the sun so that the M&M’s wouldn’t melt. But I digress…

What I’m trying to say is this: the best way I know to honor my Dad on Father’s Day is to walk about with a heart filled with gratitude to God for allowing me the privilege of being the daughter of this oh so unique and special man. To celebrate a life well-lived. To remember with joy all the ways he filled my life, all the wonderful lessons he taught me. Lessons I carry with me today, such as:

HOW TO TIE SHOES. Daddy taught me the Bunny Method. Something about making two bunny ears and jumping into a hole and coming out the other side. I don’t remember the verse, but I remember watching his big hands patiently guiding my small ones through the multi-stepped process. And I remember his smile when I finally got it right.

HOW TO LOVE. He was the charmed seventh son of eight siblings…the satellite around which everyone in his world orbited. He was the first person we all called for help, the last one to leave someone in need. Through my Daddy I learned that every soul I meet is a child of God who deserves to be valued. And that nothing on this earth is more important than family.

HOW TO MAKE HOMEMADE ICE CREAM. Or rather, how to keep the freezer in place while hand-cranking. I was always the one chosen to sit atop the ice cream maker while Daddy turned the handle. I thought it was because I was his favorite. I later realized it was only because my butt was *ahem* more insulated than my brothers' boney butts, and therefore more tolerant to prolonged ice sitting. Wusses.

HOW TO DANCE. I remember dancing with my Daddy while standing on top of his shoes, my hands gripping onto his for dear life, my head tilted all the way back as we moved in laughing unison to the songs on the radio. When I was a wee bit older, he taught me how to twist along with him and Chubby Checker, using these cues: pretend you’re holding a towel behind you and drying off your hiney, while using your toes to stub out a cigarette. Round and around and up and down we go…

HOW TO BE A NINJA. Well, sorta. I never quite figured out how he could be snoring soundly on the couch, yet spring to full wakefulness the very second I worked up enough nerve to change the TV channel. I finally got smart enough to send my baby brother into the room to change it for me. The closest I ever came to developing such covert skills was growing eyes in the back of my head after becoming a Mom.

HOW TO BE STRONG. Daddy was a Golden Gloves amateur boxer. He taught me at a very young age how to keep my guard up while throwing a mean right hook. And to aim at the chin for a TKO. More importantly, he taught me to be strong of character as well. And to never, ever give up. Cancer never got the best of Dad. He gave his best to us.

HOW TO BE CONFIDENT. He loved to dress in bright colors – the brighter the better. The only problem was that he was more than a little bit color blind. Dad thought nothing of wearing a pink golf shirt with purple pants and fuchsia socks. One might think that walking into a room full of manly men in such a get-up would require a monumental amount of courage. Not so for my Dad. He thought he was pretty, and convinced everybody around him it was so. And so it was.

HOW TO CULTIVATE A SWEET TOOTH. I would spend literally all day baking tiny cakes in my Easy Bake Oven under a 60-watt light bulb and watch with no small amount of discouragement as my Daddy would devour the iced offerings in three bites. He always had a special drawer that he kept stocked with M&M's, coconut haystacks and candy corn. Once, he decided to back off the sugar and went on a Slim Fast diet for a week. He gained two pounds because he kept adding a scoop of vanilla ice cream to his Slim Fast shakes. Diet Fail.

HOW TO BE A GOOD SCOUT. Dad was an incredible scout leader. He often let me tag along with the boys and in doing so I learned to be: Trustworthy, Loyal, Helpful, Friendly, Courteous, Kind, Obedient, Cheerful, Thrifty, Brave, Clean and Reverent. Okay, so I didn’t excel in obedience and reverence. But on my honor, I did my best.

HOW TO LIE TO CHILDREN. He loved nothing more than Christmas Eve with his seven grandsons. He called them his Magnificent Seven and every year he would come up with a creative new way to whip those small boys into a frenzy of anticipation. My favorite was when he hung up the phone after a call from Santa and reported to seven pairs of rounded eyes that Rudolph the Reindeer had suffered a broken leg and gift delivery would be ‘iffy’.

(Don’t even get me started on Raw Hide and Bloody Bones!)

HOW TO BE A GOOD PARENT. No one ever made me feel as protected…whether from an imagined boogeyman or a mostly harmless boyfriend. On my wedding day, my Daddy and I stood at the end of the aisle with our arms linked together, fighting back tears. He squeezed my hand, tilted his head towards mine and whispered “You know it’s not too late to back out. We can turn around and walk right out that door over there, if you’re not ready.” I never loved him more than at that moment.

HOW TO APPRECIATE MUSIC. Dad loved music. He not only had the most beautiful deep bass voice, he was also an accomplished saxophone player. He loved to sit his grandsons on his knee and sing them his over-the-top version of Old Shep. I never rode in his car without hearing the gospel harmony of the Blackwood Brothers or The Gaithers filling the air. And I will never hear “I’ll Fly Away” without missing my Daddy.

HOW TO BE CREATIVE. My Daddy’s hands were large and calloused with fat, stubby fingers…not the hands of a mere mortal…and not what you would imagine the hands of an artist to be. But those talented hands and fingers could do the most amazingly intricate work. He put them to the test over the years with his many and varied hobbies: jewelry making, silverwork, beading, leatherwork, woodburning, designing model airplanes, repairing golf clubs…to name a few.

HOW TO PLAY. He lived to golf. So much so that when he was diagnosed with inoperable lung cancer, the first question he asked the doctor was, “How long have I got to play?” From that day forward, each day was measured by whether or not it was a Good Golf Day. He taught me to live for today, that tomorrow usually takes care of itself.

HOW TO SAY GOODBYE.
I never saw him leave the house without kissing my Mom goodbye. Even when he was angry with her. If I was in the room, he would always blow me kisses on his way out the door. Even when he fell into a coma and we moved him to hospice, I swear he blew me kisses when I bent down to hug him.

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From dancing on his toes to wrapping him around my little finger…I will never forget my Daddy and all that he taught me. It wasn’t so much that he made a point of telling me how to live right and be a good person; it was simply that he was a good man who lived a good life… and I learned from watching.

And though I can no longer touch him, I often feel him near. I’ll get a whiff of Old Spice and expect to see him walk around the corner in his purple golf cap. Other moments I feel him looking over my shoulder, and I will hold myself very still so as not to disturb the rarified air. I see him in my sons’ smiles, I hear him in my brother’s voice. I marvel at the tiny hands of my grandsons that are shaped just like his.

And then there are those times when I catch my own reflection in a mirror, and see his eyes looking back at me...

Wherever you are, my Daddy, whether golfing with Jesus or singing with the saints, I promise to remember you with joy on Father’s Day. I hope you smile when you think of me, too.

And I really hope you're not eating up all the red M&M’s. Save some for me...your Rob-bob-bobbin.

Just like a sappy Shania song...

Today marks the thirty-fourth anniversary of the day I willingly – and cluelessly – sashayed up the church aisle and plighted my troth to Dickie Haney.

********************

The first time I ever gazed into the shockingly blue eyes of my future husband, I was 11 years old. He was 13, spending his summer working the concession stand at the pony league ballpark. I was hanging out with my uber cool and beautious cousin Tanya, who introduced me to Dickie. I remember stupidly asking him if his eyes were really THAT blue, or if he wore contacts. In true Dickman fashion, he leaned out from the concession stand to push his face closer to mine and said, “What do you think?”.

What I thought was that I was suddenly having trouble breathing, you blue-eyed bad boy. That’s what I thought.

(It took me years to notice Dickie's big ol' zit in this picture.)

When I was 14, we ran into each other again at Bulldog Stadium during a summer track meet . He was decked out in a pair of dangerously brief running shorts, and was still sporting those ridiculously blue eyes. I had on a Mickey Mouse tee shirt, and was now sporting some pretty decent ta-tas. He took one look at Mickey’s ears and made a beeline for me. Charmed, I was.

A friendship began to blossom via my pretty pink princess phone. Knowing I wasn’t allowed to date, he settled for asking me to sit with him at church. As nonchalantly as possible, we met in the middle of an uncomfortable pew and sat shoulder to shoulder, eyes straight ahead. I crossed my arms, he crossed his, our fingers touched and secretly linked together. My Mom, sitting a few rows behind us, was neither fooled nor amused. She took one look and said to herself, “that boy is gonna be trouble”. Trouble, he was.

One of my earliest memories of our 'courting' takes me back to a day when he and I were sitting on my bedroom floor (with the door WIDE OPEN, Mom!!!) just hanging out and being silly. In between the silliness, he would try to steal kisses and I would make half-hearted attempts to keep him away. All of a sudden I began to flail my arms in the air - like Will Robinson’s robot on Lost in Space - shouting “Danger! Warning!” over and over. Dickie’s eyes popped out of his face in panic and he jumped away from me as if I had shot him with a taser. I quickly dropped my flailing arms and asked him what was wrong.

“Shhhh! You can’t say that…you’re gonna get me killed!” he told me.

“Say what?!” I asked.

“Dang you're horny!...you can’t say that to me with your Mom right outside the door!”

I was never able to watch Will Robinson and his robot again without giggling.

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In spite of such humble beginnings, still I found myself excitedly tugging my hesitant Daddy up the church aisle towards the Dickman.

In spite of the fact that my Daddy had spent the previous evening monitoring his police scanner for updates on the colorful bachelor party Jackie hosted for his baby brother, up the aisle I did walk.

In spite of the fact that my groom was sporting a bright red sunburn because his future father-in-law had kept his hungover a$$ out on the golf course all day...dispensing hours of marital advice while wielding a 9 iron…I virtually floated up that aisle.

Right up the aisle I headed, straight into the tacky blue-tuxedoed arms of my Best Friend. And with endless rivers of Big Lash Very Black Mascara streaming down my face, with a voice all whispery and trembling, I spoke words of love and promise to that blue-eyed sunburned man of mine.

At the ripe old, un-cynical age of 20, I took my wedding vows at face value.


Three decades later…those promises take on an entirely different meaning:

WHAT I PROMISED: I, Robin, take you Dickman...
WHAT IT MEANT: Thereby giving up all hope of ever hooking up with Robert Redford.

WHAT I PROMISED: To be my LAWFULLY wedded husband.
WHAT IT MEANT: Some days, I will need to drop the ‘L’.

WHAT I PROMISED: To have and to hold…
WHAT IT MEANT: Even when my boobs were leaking, or my ratty ol' t-shirt was covered with baby boy spit-up and/or popcorn grease.

WHAT I PROMISED: From this day forward…
WHAT IT MEANT: No refunds. No returns. No going back.

WHAT I PROMISED: For better, for worse...
WHAT IT MEANT: Drudging through endless hours of folding tube socks and cleaning toilet seats before finally embracing the bitter truth: I will never be Martha freaking Stewart.

WHAT I PROMISED: For richer or poorer…
WHAT IT MEANT: Days of having to choose between buying him a new 8-track Crystal Gayle tape or buying me my favorite breakfast cereal. Choices that made my brown eyes blue.

WHAT I PROMISED: In sickness and in health…
WHAT IT MEANT: Chronic sinus inflammation and insomnia from sleeping with a cover hog. A cover hog who measures 5.0 on the Richter scale of snoring.

WHAT I PROMISED: To love and to cherish…
WHAT IT MEANT: Even when romance becomes reduced to “Hurry, I think we have time!” as he swipes all the clutter off the bed.

WHAT I PROMISED: Til death us do part.
WHAT IT MEANT: Preferably due to natural causes. Preferably on the very same day.

********************

Seems I’ve loved you forever, Dickie Haney. And in the words of your beloved Shania Twain:

You're still the one I run to
The one that I belong to
You're still the one I want for life
You're still the one that I love
The only one I dream of
You're still the one I kiss good night

You’re still the one.

SHMILY

I slowly backed out of the driveway, every fiber of my being dreading the drive to Lubbock on that rainy Monday evening in May of 1998. My car was filled to overflowing with everything a 41-year old graduate student might possibly need to survive a summer semester. Everything but that handsome gray-haired guy sadly waving goodbye from the driveway.

As I watched the blurry, fading form of my husband through the rear view mirror, I could not believe that I was leaving my family at a time when all I wanted to do – needed to do - was pull them close and hold them tight.

Just two days prior, I had buried my Daddy. My husband had lost not only his father-in-law, but his surrogate Dad. My sons had said goodbye to the only grandfather they had ever known.

When I realized our battle with Dad’s cancer was nearing the end, I surrendered all intentions of going ahead with grad school. I felt that I needed to be with my family, to grieve with them. Besides, I couldn’t imagine how this heart of mine could endure losing a parent AND pump enough blood to my brain to learn new concepts. The three-year masters program that had once seemed exciting, now loomed ahead like an insurmountable mountain. At least from my forlorn perspective.

Not so much from my family's perspective. Nobody would listen to my sound reasoning for dropping out. All of my excuses were blasted to smithereens. At one point I was even told: “Your Dad would have wanted you to go.” Nah. My Dad never wanted me to do anything that I didn’t want to do. Nevertheless, there I was - driving off in the rain - completely sure I was doing the wrong thing. Or maybe it was the right thing, but definitely the wrong time.

I thought there would be plenty of time to prepare my bachelors-to-be for the separation. Instead of cooking and laundry lessons, our last few weeks had been spent in hospital and hospice rooms. I found myself leaving behind a trio of ill-prepared knuckleheads: The Dickman, who had never done a load of laundry in his life (and considered Campbell’s soup home cooking); 17-year old Lucas, blinded by visions of his senior year; and 14-year old JP, my sensitive one who hated changes and separation. Instead of culinary lessons, I had no other option than to leave handwritten instructions for my hapless guys.

And instructions I did leave. The house was plastered with them: hanging in the laundry room with instructions to NEVER wash colors with whites; taped to the kitchen cabinets outlining recipes for one-skillet meals; notes on the desk listing phone numbers and contact info. Everything my husband and sons needed to know about running our household had been quickly reduced to notes – designed for them, but in reality written to make me feel better. Because even though I was only driving 120 miles away, even though I would be seeing them again in 5 days, we all knew I was going somewhere that would change our lives. I was taking a solitary trip that would impact us all. I remember wishing I loved them less, so leaving them would not have been so painful.

The gloomy weather matched my mood. I soon gave over to it and cried all the way to Lubbock. Not the sweet, silently tragic tears that you see in the movies. I wailed and sobbed and wiped copious amounts of snot away until my nose was nigh to bleeding and my eyes were puffy slits. The only bright spot was that by leaving home at the very last minute, I arrived in the darkness of night. I pulled up to a silent dorm parking lot, praying my secret superhero power of invisibility wouldn't fail me now. I loaded my arms with everything I could carry in one trip. As I ran through the rain towards the girls' dorm (kill me now, Baby Jesus) my pillow fell into a puddle of mud. I kicked that blasted pillow – hard! – stomped it once for good measure, and left it to rot forever in the muck and mire. Finally I made my way into the sanctuary of my tiny dorm room, quietly closed the door…and slumped down on the floor in my own puddle of muck and mire.

**********

This year marks the 10th anniversary of my graduation as a physical therapist. I will forever look back upon those 'school days' as some of the best and worst years of my life. Although I gained a career that I passionately love, and am blessed to have patients that remind me that I am indeed doing exactly what I was born to do...I’m still amazed that we all survived those hard years.

Undoubtedly, the credit goes to my spectacular wealth of family and friends…the ones who lifted me up with their prayers, held me together with their hugs, cheered me on with their love. My three guys who did indeed learn to do laundry without ever reading my notes. Who learned to cook at least well enough to sustain their bodily functions. Who hopefully learned to never ever give up.

It was a collective effort of sacrifice and love and commitment. That is why it was important to find a way to express my love and gratitude when it finally came time to walk across the stage at commencement. I wanted to make a statement...but how?

The evening before the graduation ceremony we were required to attend a meeting on ‘how to graduate’. When I heard the speaker tell us that we were in NO WAY allowed to write anything on our graduation caps…that decorating mortarboards was HIGH SCHOOL TACKY and beneath the DIGNITY befitting a college commencement…my plan was clear.

As the oldest graduate in the TTUHSC PT Class of 2001, I was gonna break the rules and spell out my love in bright red TACKY glitter on the mortarboard of my hat for everyone to see. Dignity be danged. I wanted my message to glitter loud and clear, a message my family would recognize at once: S.H.M.I.L.Y.

♥ SEE HOW MUCH I LOVE YOU ♥

ACID ROCK to ACID REFLUX

Just last week I was somewhere on an Indian reservation in New Mexico shaking my Money Maker at a Paul Revere and the Raiders concert, reliving the music of my youth. And as any Baby Boomer worth his/her salt knows: there is nothing like the music of your youth to make you feel young again…to transport you back to a time when the Realm of Possibilities was not yet a barren wasteland.

I tend to forget on a regular basis just how depleted my Realm has become. I forget I have more years behind me than ahead of me. And I seem to have a hard time remembering I am no longer thirty-something but am *gulp* Over Fifty. With all that forgetfulness, imagine the shock to my psyche whenever I pass by a mirror and catch a startling glimpse of someone older, heavier - yet vaguely familiar – who is wearing my clothes. Imagine how unsettling it is to open my mail and read notices about joint replacement recalls or discounts on burial plots. It’s traumatic enough that for the first time in my life I am older than the POTUS, but even worse…I no longer recognize a single performer on the MTV Music Awards.

Yet, I do not despair. Because I, Rockin Robin of the 70’s, have stumbled upon the secret to everlasting youth: Oldies Concerts.

That’s right. Cheaper than botox, less painful than a facelift and comes with an added bonus: at the innocent age of 54, I’m usually one of the youngest groupies at an Oldies Concert geared to Baby Boomers.

Ahh, Baby Boomers. No other generation has ever been so defined and thoroughly united by their music. Collectively, sometimes painfully, we’ve made the trip from Acid Rock to Acid Reflux (thanks for the line, Mr. Revere). These are my peeps, whose nostalgia for our music knows no bounds.

This was the seventh Oldies Concert I had attended this year…and I could barely contain my excitement. I settled in to my assigned seat and as always, the shock of sitting amid an auditorium full of old people smacked that thirty-something in me right upside the head. I looked around and saw men and women in various stages of aging…wearing thick glasses...sporting receding gray hairlines...sporting no hairlines. To get a better look, I dug into my purse (the Black Hole) for my glasses and caught a glimpse of the Dickman out of the corner of my eye. Reality clicked back into place as I remembered, oh yeah…WE are also gray-headed and WE also wear glasses. Therefore WE belong.

Just about the time the seat beside me filled with a noisy little old lady parking her squeaky walker in the aisle, the theatre lights dimmed, the stage curtain floated up and there they were...a bunch of...uhh...middle-aged guys dressed in spandex and top coats. Led by 73-year old Paul Revere standing tall front and center - masterfully in control of his musical mustang.

When I first heard the Raiders a few years ago, I had the same response I’ve had at every other Oldies Concert. Seeing the senior versions of the rock icons of my youth, the teenager inside my soul could not subdue the knee-jerk reaction of "How dare they get older?!”. But not so anymore. Now I just smile and drink in their beautiousness like a baby waiting to be soothed with a pacifier. I love these guys. They hold in their magically talented hands the very instruments that unleash the fountain of my youth. With the first note of the first chord I am instantly transported through time.

The backbeat of the drums pound through me like some kind of primordial déjà-vu. Almost four decades are peeled away and I swear – if anyone dared to tell me that I was anything but 16 again - I would demand nothing short of carbon dating for proof. As I look around, I realize I am not the only Boomer experiencing de-fossilization. I look at my fellow concert goers and no longer see the receding hairlines and expanded waistlines. Instead, I see a room filled with fellow time travelers enjoying revitalized bodies and kick-started hearts partying their socks off. Even the REALLY old ones wearing support socks! They may dance a bit slower – but with no less commitment.

We’re out of our seats, dancing in the aisles, singing at the top of our lungs to anthems that evoke memories of a simpler time. We’re singing the songs that once blared from the 8-track tape players in our Daddy’s gas-guzzling sedans as we dragged the streets of our hometowns. With the same brain that can’t remember my own cell phone number, I’m recalling every word of the decades-old songs. (Could it be that the reason I can’t remember the important stuff is because I have 54 years of rock lyrics stuck in my head?)

I count it nothing but honor to grow old alongside these proudly aging groupies. Even though we may not be so well preserved, thankfully our music has been. And the old musicians can still rock and roll with all the energy and conviction of their youth.

Act my age? No Way. It’s: Damn the decades and full speed ahead! This wild and crazy hippie chick will keep right on rocking through the years…even when I’m in my rocking chair instead of dancing in the aisles.

Riding on the GETTING OLD Train

Being the realistic idealist that I am, it is not a surprise to discover this new train I'm riding on the way to Getting Old is barreling down dichotomous tracks. While I certainly miss my old brain...I have a growing appreciation for the moments of hilarity that happen along the journey to Getting Old. Seldom a day goes by without an opportunity to laugh at myself. Or even better, to poke fun at the Dickman.

I think it is fair to say that our new favorite recreational activity is to catch each other in the act of Getting Old. I also think it's fair to say I am losing. But only because I prefer quality over quantity.

Last week, I made plans to meet a friend for lunch in Borger. This was a friend that I had not seen since our high school days, but had enjoyed reconnecting with on Facebook. As I was running amok in an effort to get ready, she texted to ask if I would pick her up at the Borger library. I texted back and told her "No problem".

It really would not have been a problem 10 years ago. But because I am Getting Old, I couldn't find my shoes. Clearly, somebody had taken my shoes. With my butt up in the air and my head stuck under my bed, I found myself cursing "whoever took my shoes" with increasing volume. As I ran through the kitchen to answer the phone, I spied my shoes sitting by the back door - exactly where I had left them. Since I was now running late, I hurriedly put on my shoes, jumped in the car and started backing out of the garage...when I realized I didn't have my phone. I had to pull into the garage and go back inside to begin another search.

After spending five minutes tearing my house apart, I gave up and called my cell from the house phone. With great relief, I heard the faint sounds of Gloria Gaynor belting out "I Will Survive" (my ringtone) coming from the garage. I returned to the car and dug my cell phone from the depths of the Black Hole of my purse just as Gloria shouted out her last, "hey, hey".

Finally. I was on my way.

Here is where the dichotomy comes in: while the idealistic side of me wanted to be pleased about finding my lost items and glad I wouldn't have to murder whoever took them, the realistic side of me was frustrated about being an absentminded putz that can NEVER manage to get anywhere on time with everything intact. As I pulled into Borger both selves suddenly realized --- not only was I fifteen minutes late, but I didn't have a clue about how to get to the library. Once again, I dug my cell phone out of the Black Hole and called the Dickman.

I swear this was our exact conversation:

ME: WHERE in Borger is the library?

DICK: (silence--loooong silence)

ME: Is it on Weatherly Street? WHERE in Borger is Weatherly Street?

DICK: Shoot, Robin. I was in the 3rd grade the last time I set foot in that library. I remember, because I checked out "The Adventures of Tom Sawyer" and never returned the book. So even if I did know where the library is, I could never go back there. I'm a wanted man with a bazillion dollar library fine.

ME: How can it be that we grew up in Borger, graduated from Borger High, were married and had two sons in Borger, and neither of us know where the freaking library is? That is SO embarrassing. I CAN'T tell my friend I don't know how to get to the Borger library. I haven't seen her since high school. I don't want her to know how stoopid I really am.

DICK: I've got it! You can call OnStar and ask for directions. They already know how stoopid you are. And hey - make sure you don't tell anybody at the library where to find me.

***
I only had to wait a few days until an opportunity to get even with him presented itself. And of course, I took it.

***
We arrived in Ruidosa on Saturday with barely enough time to check in at the hotel and get Dickie to the golf course for his tee time. The Dickman - who is never late - was flustered and rushed. He unloaded his golf clubs and frantically began searching through the pockets of his golf bag.

"Whaddya looking for?" I asked.

"My good pair of sunglasses...I don't like the ones I'm wearing. Oh well."

I took one good look at him and said, "Uh...I know you're in a hurry, but I really want to take a golfing picture before you go."

I knew his harried self would oblige. The Dickman loves having his picture taken...

"My memory’s not as sharp as it used to be. Also, my memory’s not as sharp as it used to be."










`

...if you're YOUNG AT HEART

Don’t get me wrong…I’m a total sucker for a good love story. But with all the sadness going on in the world, I just couldn’t seem to stir up any enthusiasm for The Royal Wedding. Oh, sure, I wished nothing but happiness for the handsome young prince and his beautiful bride-to-be, but only in a benevolently offhanded kind of way. And I wasn’t alone. I found my sense of apathy to be widely shared by most other members of my generation.

It’s not surprising that we had all grown a bit cynical since the last time the royals threw a wedding. In 1981, I didn’t miss a single moment of the pomp and circumstance that heralded the nuptials of Prince Charles and Lady Diana. My eyes came near to popping out of my rose-colored glasses as I watched the lovely Lady become a beautiful Princess. But in the intervening years since that ill-fated union, my rose-colored glasses had been misplaced. I had, in fact, come to the same conclusion as every other starry-eyed young lady of my generation:

Fairytale weddings might be real, but there is no such thing as a fairytale marriage.

Try telling that to young hearts; nah, you can't tell them anything. They don't listen to reason. And young hearts won't be bothered with worries about the infinite obstacles waiting to trip them up along the path to ‘happily ever after’...not when they are focused on fluffy white dresses and fondant covered cakes. There has never been a blushing bride who could possibly imagine how much there is to be done after she says ‘I do’. But indeed, life does happen. And much too soon after the top comes off the wedding cake, the fairy tale bride and her tuxedoed groom are forced to return to flesh and blood mortals. And we all know how messy mere mortals can be.

We quickly learn that wedded bliss hardly ever begins in a mortgage-free castle, but instead resides in a drafty apartment or a house filled with dust balls and a toilet that requires constant handle-jiggling. Before we know it, we find ourselves painfully giving birth to stretch marks and squealing babies who poop in their diapers, never sleep when we want them to, and generally wreak havoc on our routines. It’s all we can do to keep up...as those babies become children who pick their noses, skin their knees and bring notes home from school informing you of their bad behavior. Behavior obviously inherited from their Dad, the Handsome Prince. Who - by the way - now snores like a buzz saw, steals the covers and squeezes toothpaste from the wrong end of the tube. Hurrumph...

We no more begin adjusting to these annoyances before we start to wonder if our belief in ‘happily ever after’ has become nothing more than a lovely idea that has somehow been tossed into the same box as our fancy lingerie. The box that is awaiting donation to a women’s shelter.

The point is...even though your prince may have lost some of his charm, you still love him madly. Even so, you can’t help but wonder how your fairy tale wedding morphed into a marriage that has now become a crazed dance of coming together and pulling apart and twirling around and stepping on toes in a flurry of frenzy and breathless emotion all intertwined with love. The only constant through all the years is love.

So, there I was Friday morning…stumbling out of bed, donning my robe of diminished expectations as I begrudgingly tuned in to The Wedding. And there they were…smiling out at me in all their regal glory. The oh-so-handsome prince and his newly wedded bride. My heart began to melt as I saw Prince William now standing on the very same balcony where his mother had stood thirty years ago. The royal progeny of a marriage that had begun as a fairy tale and ended in such tragedy, stood smiling on that balcony with his heart every bit as full of hope, his eyes shining just as brightly with love. And as I watched him lean down to kiss his shiny new duchess, I couldn’t help but smile at the scene before me, once more filled with inspiration to believe in fairy tale endings.

Because what is more inspiring than a young couple in love? And what emotional act of faith is greater than pledging your life to another till death do you part? In a world full of tragedy and sorrow…what better reminder of what we were put here for - to love each other in spite of our differences; in spite of the pain our selfishness causes one another; in spite of those times when staying together seems more an act of willpower than of love. To hold fast to the promise to love each other no matter what.To always remember to stay young at heart and to never ever give up on a happily ever after…