I have tried for at least three days to complete this blog post. When I realized I would not get it done Saturday, I resigned myself to being alright with spending Sunday morning with my pen to paper. That didn’t happy either and I became pretty aggravated. Before feeling like a complete failure, I thought about why I missed the proverbial mark over the weekend. This weekend, like a number of weekends in recent months, tested my ability to be flexible, to become comfortable with discomfort, to be more aware of the sheer exhaustion of life learning, and to embrace change.

My adult life never mirrored the lives of the villagers who raised me. My village was filled with people who grew up within thirty miles of their homes and who for the most part worked the same jobs for thirty or more years. I moved away from the village in my early twenties and never returned for more than short visits. As a result, one would think that I grew up comfortable with change. The truth was I learned to accept some changes like moving from one city to another. I think that I only got somewhat comfortable because my foundation remained fixed. In my opinion, God placed more dependent variables in my life than controlled variables. Every time I thought I knew what I was supposed to learn I felt like God changed the hypothesis then started a new experiment.

This week the frustrating narrative of the failed lab experiment entered my mind. However, this time I flipped the interpretation of the data because I could not and would not give energy to negativity this holiday season. I understood that even though I reluctantly made changes to my writing schedule and some of my Christmas traditions, my foundation remained intact. I still held on to the fundamental values and practices established by the village. Thankfully, the reminder that Christmas traditions were less about Mama’s lanterns lining the walkway and her multicolored spinning wheel at the base of the tree and more about the warmth she created through the season of joy and giving. Christmas was not about cooking the same dishes every year, but more about the memories created through the process from planning to plating. Christmas was not about the gifts under the tree as much as it was about the time we spent window shopping and laughing.

On the other hand, Christmas has always been about the wrapping of things I believed could generate smiles, ooh’s, and ah’s. Wrapping gifts has always been an experience for me. I loved selecting the paper that fit the personalities or interests of each family member. I held the title of chief gift wrapper and Santa’s most reliable helper. Since I was old enough to independently use scissors and fold a crisp edge with the wrapping paper, my family has counted on me to add to the holiday cheer with well-placed gift wrapped packages around the tree. I designated Christmas eve as the appropriate night to wrap gifts primarily because I could watch Christmas movies. By the time my children came along, there were Christmas movie marathons. My favorite was and is “A Christmas Story.”

I still don’t know why that movie tickles me so, but it does. Ralphie, the mouthy boy at the playground with his tongue stuck to the metal pole, and that bar of soap his mother believed would wash away profanity crack me up every time. I love watching the scene with the santa who treats the children like he missed lunch and his smoke break. This santa makes himself a nominee for the prize for least caring santa yet most practical santa when he says, “You’ll shoot your eye out, kid!” And then there’s the famous leg lamp that arrived in a huge, wooden crate with the word fragile on the side which the dad pronounced “far-gee-lay.” A couple of weeks ago I went to a friend’s house for an ugly sweater dinner gathering and there stood the leg lamp from “A Christmas Story.” In the process of accepting new holiday challenges, I found comfort in seeing a reminder of that feeling I get when I think about years of wrapping gifts for my family while watching one of my favorite Christmas movies. I laughed out loud and so did my friend. My friends didn’t know it, but they were helping me find the goodness in changes to my Christmas traditions that have come with the loss of my mother, my brother, and reality of my children being grown. I hope that if your family dynamic has changed or if you have had to start new traditions for the holidays that you have some reminders that it will be alright. I hope that you find quirky friends who laugh are as easily entertained by simple things as you are and that you can laugh out loud together.

About six months ago, I made a decision to work on reconnecting with family and a few old friends.  When I was a child, I planned my own pay dates with my friends without help from my parents.  It wasn’t a complicated process.  It generally involved a call or knock on a door to ask “What are you doing?” or ” Can you come out to play?”  It was my childhood experience that I didn’t have to plan time with family either because it was understood that my mom’s family would have Sunday dinner together every week at Mama Love’s house.  I also knew that whenever a family member came within a sixty or seventy mile radius Daddy would pack up the car and drive to “see” family.

By the time I had children of my own, play date customs were different.  Play date culture required me to talk to other parents before scheduling times for my children and their children to play together.  The reality of relationship building in the context of family dinners and get togethers probably didn’t change for everyone, but it became clear to me that someone had to put in some work to create those opportunities for the family to connect.  Why did it become necessary that children have people arrange their play time?  Why did the family get togethers end?

Today, I spent time talking to one of my cousins who I haven’t seen since I was a child.  He asked me if I could remember how we ever came to communicate via email about a year or two ago.  I reminded him that his mother inadvertently included me in an email thread and he emailed to ask if I was Kim, the daughter of Aunt Lola.  He also wanted to know where he read about Mama’s hat.  We laughed as I told him the story of Aunt Pinkie making her famous pound cake and Mama demanding that we take the cake on the plane concealed in her beautiful hat box.  As the story went, we accidentally left the beautiful hat box on the plane.  The hat box took a journey to Ft. Lauderdale before making its way back to me in Tampa.

It has been too long since we have gotten together as a family.  There are a host of nieces and nephews who I have never met or seen.  We agreed that it had been too long since our families had any sort of reunion.  The last reunion was in Alabama about seven or eight years ago.  My cousin and I tried to think of all of the reasons why we stopped communicating with one another?

My cousin and I agreed that each of us had become so busy doing our thing that we sacrificed family gatherings for work.  We agreed to maintain our relationship with each other and to challenge other family members to reacquaint themselves with family members.  I am sure we can’t be the only family with this type of disconnect.  I hope that other families will follow our lead.  As a adult, connecting with other folks takes intention, planning, and flexibility and a willingness to engage in the process and be forgiving of missteps, and welcoming of uniquenesses that make your family and your friend circle a melting pot of personalities.

• If you haven’t maintained relationships with friends or family, start calling and visiting with one another.
• Ask questions about your life experiences since the last time your spoke.
• Find a point person willing to set the date for the gathering.
• Enjoy the time with family and/or friends
• Build your family tree complete with names
• Share all that you know with the children

The royal wedding of  Prince Harry and Meghan Markle, the Duke and Duchess of Sussex, brought back memories of the day Princess Diana married Prince Charles.  My mother loved pomp and circumstance.  Emily Post’s book of etiquette and Robert’s Rules of Order ranked just below the Holy Bible for Mama.  So, any wedding peaked her interest, especially one of the royal nature.

Mama loved to dress up and I don’t mean that she played dress up.  Mama loved gowns with lace and sequins.  Mama loved long gloves, fur on her collars, suits, pantyhose, hats,  shoes with heels, and coordinated accessories.  She loved all of those things and some version of each of those things lived nestled in a space in her closet.  Pageantry made her soul sing.  For weeks before Prince Charles and Lady Diana married, Mama talked the coming nuptials.  Her speculation and anticipation about the gown Princess Diana would wear was just one indicator of her level of interest in the royal wedding.

Once Princess Diana’s wedding date was announced, Mama chatted on the phone with her sisters and her friends about the upcoming nuptials.  As the wedding day drew closer, Mama developed the details of her viewer party.  Like a person who simply loved the beauty of a ceremony, she kept herself focused on the only thing that mattered – her having a space and means to watch the big event.  If recorded television had been available at that time, she would have recorded it while she watched it live.

The day before the royal wedding of Lady Diana and Prince Charles Mama, with an excited voice, reminded me of the early morning wedding.  As I recall, the wedding would be televised live at about 2am in Alabama.  Mama asked me if I “wanted” to get up early to watch the wedding with her.  She “asked” with tone and inflections that expected me to say “Of course!”  I disappointed her when I asked, “Can’t we just watch it later.  I am sure it will be shown again at a later time.”

I bet Mama thought it blasphemous for me not to ache to see a royal wedding live.  I knew that there was no way she should have forgotten that I was the daughter who hated lacy skirts, pantyhose, heels, and dressing up. She had to know her persuasive power would be necessary to entice me to sacrifice sleep for a real life fairytale wedding of royal subjects I would never meet.  Heck, I thought weddings in my own neighborhood involved too much time, money, and pretentiousness.  Hence, why would attending a two person viewer party in the middle of the night ever be prioritized ahead of sleep?  The answer was I would and I did because Mama wanted me to be present for that historical moment.

I recalled that piped organ music and the very long aisle in the cathedral worked against me in the battle I fought to stay awake and present.  Although I fought to stay awake and present, I noted that Mama’s expectation that Diana would be a beautiful bride was spot on.  I agreed with Mama that Lady Diana’s demeanor and history as a working class member of her community made the world adore her.  Many around the globe, including me soon found her worthy of placement on a pedestal.  If I had not given in to Mama’s wishes and attended the royal wedding viewing party in our den, I don’t believe I would have become attached to Lady Diana as she became a princess.  Princess Diana and royal family news sparked my interest from that day forward.

Because of Mama, I watched the wedding in real time.  Because of her I watched and I fell in love with Princess Diana.  I paid attention whenever her face appeared in American news.  Because of Mama I fell in love with Prince William and Prince Harry.  I wanted them to be like their mom – gorgeous, generous, hospitable, kind, and approachable.  Because of Mama, I found myself talking to my daughter about developing a plan to watch the royal wedding of the Duke and the Duchess of Sussex.  She and I talked about whether we would be able to stay awake or wake up to watch the wedding if we went to sleep.  I wondered whether the announcers speaking at a whisper and the organist playing soothing melodies from the piped organ would put me to sleep if I woke up.   After attending two commencement exercises in twenty-four hours on opposite coasts to support my children, I succumbed to sleep monster.  I had to settle for my daughter’s enthusiastic version of an instant replay when I woke up.  I offered a little chastisement because she blurted out details about the wedding without any type of spoiler alert.  When I told her that a spoiler alert should have been offered, she basically ignored my statement and continued to tell me everything that I missed.  In addition, she used her cell phone to provide me video footage to support her account of the wedding.  I immediately thought about the irony.  It was ironic that today I regretted missing the broadcast of the wedding in real time when years ago I definitely desired sleep over seeing the live event.  Today, I also realized that because of Mama’s influence I really did want to know details about the wedding.  Moreover, I wished that I could have had my daughter’s testimony: “The Lord woke me up!” I guess the Lord knew I needed rest in order to make it through the second commencement exercise today.  I learned to be careful what I wish for because I got it: Sleep over live television with the benefit of the capability to record the royal wedding. Praise ye the Lord!

My family medical history really sucks!  There is just no nice way to express my frustration with this gift that keeps on giving. I have written about it previously and my most recent doctor visits influenced my decision to write about my health journey again.

Preventative health care was simply something I did when I was younger because people said I should.  I think I followed directives in my youth because I was young and I felt invincible or maybe because I had no concern about the medical findings or recommendations.  At this stage in my life, “white coats” make me apprehensive.  I put “white coats” in quotes because my doctors don’t wear coats.  I have the hippest, coolest medical team.  They are kind, compassionate, and experts in their respective fields.  My dentist, my gynecologist, and my family medicine team encourage my twisted humor, my thoughtful presentation of my decision history, and my awareness of my present life condition.  Over the last few years, two of them have empathized with me because of the major life shifts I have endured.  I honestly think they were shocked that my body came up from the ashes yet again.  They knew the historical family dynamics that lived with me and they knew the I had survived several major life changes.  Their body language always seemed to bear the weight of my heavy life burdens.  I appreciated their concern and help because my life shifts came in bundles of at least three heavy weights at a time.

In their efforts to keep the temple solid, they monitored my blood pressure.  This task has been assigned to a doctor for at least fifteen years.  Everyone in my immediate family fought that good fight for many years.  I have been told that retention of salt was necessary in order to survite Middle Passage.  While many campfires welcomed death-by-sea on this involuntary journey to America, my ancestors survived and so did high blood pressure. Hence, I, too, fight the good fight.

Some time in the spring of last year, my doctor approved a comfort dog after learning that my brother died and that my support system was minimal.  He seemed quite sad actually.  He also ordered more blood work in order to further investigate my cholesterol numbers.  He said, “things change as we get older.” I wrote a blog about that visit because he also told me to “eat less meat and exercise more” which to me was code for you are fat and need to lose weight.  So, I went back to the doctor a few weeks ago to hear about the recheck of the cholesterol since that visit.  I was expecting to hear “you are still fat and you still need to walk more.”  Instead I learned I was down two pounds, my blood pressure readings was great, and my cholesterol numbers, good and bad, were much better.  For a few seconds I was super excited and proud of myself.  Then, the physician assistant said some other number was low and they wanted to explore it further.  My thought bubble read, “You gotta be kidding me! Do you just need to find something wrong with me?”  I told her that her particular concern was not a new medial findings.  I tried to convince her that my normal number for this test always hovered just below the “normal” range.

Once again the hella bad family history guided her next decision.  She ordered more blood work.  She didn’t just order a recheck of that one test, she ordered every freakin’ test known to humankind.  She tested me for every blood disorder and disease for which there was a blood test.  Within the following two weeks, I had to get to a lab.  Two arms and three pricks later they had all of the genetic information they needed to assess my medical status.  I was glad to learn that most of the test were negative and that eating more bananas and avocados could possible remedy the low potassium issue.

Doctor visits never ranked high on my to do list, but I still believe that it is better to know than not to know.  I believe that it is better to know sooner than later.  I believe in advocating for preventive health care and I hope that those in positions of power will work to ensure that everyone can access excellent preventive care.  Prevention leads to early and more effective medical care.  Preventive health care can also lead to a better quality of life and who doesn’t aspire to that end?  Go to the doctor and take a friend or family member if the idea frightens you.  Take a friend or family member if you want to enrich your life and theirs.  Read my other blog post about my awful family history if you need encouragement.  Use my stories to motivate you and to reassure you that you are not in this thing alone.

I just realized that my subscribers will receive a notification of my most recent post on Christmas eve. For some reason that idea made me really excited. Those who know me well know that I love to laugh and, in general, it doesn’t take much of an attempt at comedy to get a giggle out of me. The truth is that my insides sometimes overflow with laughter even when I must maintain a straight face to figuratively save face or to respect the space. I can usually find humor in most situations and only those who can interpret my facial expressions have a clue that behind the strained stoic expression sits a laugh waiting for the opportune time to populate the room.

I have been dismissed by some over the years because of my childish, immature approach to life. Most often the dismissals come from those who choose conformity to the societal norms that tend to suppress the life out of your bones in search of a formal, exact, and perfectly imperfect you. Well, that is not and has never been me. Even the traditions of a regal Christmas season could not steal my childish joy.

As I reflect on my most fond Christmas memories, the ritual of gift wrapping stands out. I had the reputation in the family of being the best gift wrapper. Eventually, I believed I was the best because my wrapped packages had crisp corners, invisible tape, varied types of ribbons, and a bountiful assortment of paper colors and patterns. As much as my family tried to convince me that gift wrapping was one of the spiritual gifts, I knew that my role as a God-fearing child subject to parental instruction was really the basis of me as a gift wrapping child prodigy. Like any other child prodigy, I practiced, practiced, and practiced until I became infamous for my craft.

Keeping in mind all that I have revealed thus far, it shouldn’t surprise anyone that I found a way to repay my family for the esteemed title of best gift wrapper. Reverse psychology at the hands of skilled educators deserved to be repaid by their most prized pupil. After the first gratuitous installment, they all expected that someone each year would be the recipient of a twisted Christmas surprise courtesy of the famed gift wrapper – me. Most often the victim of my ingenious plans was my brother, Butch. He was the oldest. He didn’t live at home with me. And he had a sense of humor that rivaled mine. So, he was the perfect educator in the family to be pranked.

The first year that I recall pranking him I must have been about twelve or thirteen. In addition to being a high school band director at Autaugaville High School, he drove the school bus. Because he travelled thirty to forty miles to work, one-way, he left home very early in order to pick up students on the rural bus route. During the winter months, the Alabama darkness chilled him to the degree that he told Mama how much he would appreciate a nice pair of gloves for Christmas. Apparently, the steering wheel and gear shift on the bus shocked his gloveless hands sending waves of frigid cold through his body. Mama loved Butch and she was proud of the work he did as an educator. Anything Mama could do to enhance his teaching experience made her beam with pleasure. I was with her when she selected the nice pair of black leather gloves for him. I think the gloves had some sort of furry lining making them perfect cover for his bare hands on a chilly morning. The retailer was kind enough to leave the gloves boxed. I appreciated the gesture as would any excellent gift wrapper in search of the perfect box (since gift bags were not a thing at that time).

Proud Mama bought the gloves and decided to surprise him with a hat. He didn’t ask for a hat because he probably already had one, but Mama knew his propensity to lose hats and gloves so the hat was a perfect bonus gift. I also knew what nobody was saying out loud: Butch’s scalp was becoming more visible behind the cowlicks and the overall changes in his hairline. I thought Mama’s subtle move was quietly motivated by the mother hen urge to care for her baby boy whose head was showing signs of maturity.

All the fuss over selecting the perfect gloves and matching hat created a conversation topic all the way home from the mall. Mama loved finding the perfect gift and I loved helping her shop. We were a perfect little elf team. The problem for him and for Mama was that I was not his Mama. I was his baby sister with a gift of menacing tendencies aimed at disturbing his normal. Mama’s aura of warmth screeched to a halt when I sat down to wrap the gifts. Much like the twinkle in the eyes of the Grinch when he had the magnificent idea to challenge a Christmas tradition, I had a mischievous idea to shock the socks off of Mama and Butch in order to generate a hearty laugh for me (and hopefully the rest of them at some point).

I removed the gloves from the perfect box and replaced them with the matching hat. I told nobody and followed my normal routine for gift wrapping, labeling, and placement of gifts under the tree. Butch had a wife and child so they celebrated together before coming over to open gifts with us. I could not wait for him to arrive. Of course, Mama wanted nothing more than to see his expression when he opened the glove box. What she didn’t know was that expression from him would be my second favorite expression on his face Christmas morning. My first favorite expression would be the one when he realized the perfect glove box contained a hat (that he didn’t request from Santa.)

Keeping a secret challenged Mama so she appeared more anxious than normal as she anticipated him unwrapping the perfectly wrapped glove box. Her pleasant smile, tilted head, and baited breath said it all. Daddy, on the other hand, honestly could care less about what was under the tree as long as everybody got something they liked so he just sat contently taking in the moment.

Butch took off the paper and gave a huge smile. He smiled and rocked back and forth while exclaiming something like, “Oh wow! This is just what I needed!” I was thinking, “No duh because that’s the only thing you asked for Big Brother.” Then, he opened the box and pulled out the hat. The flush of excitement drained from his face. Mama’s smile flipped to a face of confusion. Heads rotated. All eyes looked at me with suspicious curiosity. I could contain my grin no more. Out came the smile as I sang the words “Merry Christmas” through my snickers. Mama probably thought I disposed of the gloves and Butch didn’t seem to know what to think. He had to resume that thankful spirited exhibition for Mama’s sake (and his pride) which gave me more reason to giggle. No one else shared the rise of laughter building inside of me until he opened another gift and discovered the black leather gloves. From that day forward, there were years of gift pranking between Butch and me.

This is my first Christmas without him, the third without Mama, and the twentieth anniversary of Daddy’s absence from Christmas gift opening. I miss them sorely and often wish for one more talk or gift exchange with them. Since we can do neither, I am thankful for the shared memories that survived their deaths. I am thankful that they indulged my comedic, youthful spirit and lovingly encouraged me to engage life using laughter as a tool. Laughter tolerates ignorance. Laughter sustains me when I need to persevere. Laughter is a tool for survival and healing. Humor eases the pain of loss. Humor promotes the goodness of life.

If you believe that Christmas or your season of remembrance and celebration embodies the spirit of rebirth, regeneration, and rejoicing, then set aside any thoughts or feelings to the contrary during this holiday season. Be about the fullness of the spirited season. Embrace the spirit of life, the spirit of love, and the spirit of giving laughter!

Ever been in the middle of something and think of something else completely unrelated? Today, I thought about my brother and my dad while I enjoyed my version of “College Game Day.” My version kept the noise of a game in the background most of the day as some other activity served as my primary focus until Alabama’s game started.  Alabama football absorbed my brother’s attention during spring ball and every week they played.  I counted on him to update me on the new signees, the depth chart for the upcoming season, and the go.  Now, as I watch Alabama play, I think of my brother and I chuckle because I miss him texting me throughout the games and calling me at halftime or after the game to debrief.

My siblings and I grew up watching sports and attending sporting events with daddy.  Daddy played baseball in college, but he loved other sports too.  After he graduated from college, he spent some time coaching high school basketball, football, and track and field.  I enjoyed watching games with daddy in person and on television.  Initially, it just meant that we were hanging out together.  It was also very likely that I was having fun too because daddy was a funny man and it was often a good time whenever he was around.  My thoughts about daddy started, not because he used to be a coach, but because he loved technology.

Daddy loved technology and he loved being the first one to have the latest gadget.  I think he loved that moment when he realized that he was first to tell someone about a new gadget.  Daddy was an amateur radio operator who loved all things ham radio.  He shopped for the latest equipment in catalogs and at ham radio equipment fairs.  He anticipated travel to these fairs like my mother looked forward to trips to the mall.  He was the only one who enjoyed looking at equipment for an entire weekend.  I went along because I had to go.  I was too young to stay home alone all weekend.  My mother went along because she had become friends with the wives of my dad’s ham radio friends.  The women spent their time enjoying each others company.  They shopped at the two or three vendor booths that didn’t have radio equipment, but sold other odd items for people like us who were not drawn to radios, radio parts, or radio accessories, or talk about either of those things.  I often wondered why mama didn’t take the car keys and disappear from what daddy and his friends called a “ham fest.”  It didn’t resemble any festival I ever attended or wanted to attend.

Whenever we watched a game with daddy, he coached from the stands and took time to teach me about whatever we were watching.  If we watched on television, he talked to the players and coaches from his special chair.  Like our attendance at the events, we were a captive audience for him in the den at our house and he espoused his sports genius on us and anyone else who happened to be present.  Daddy was to the coaches what a backseat driver is to the driver behind the wheel of the car.  He was sometimes loud and always confident that his opinions and expertise would make the teams more successful.  It was entertaining to watch him work to get the attention of the coaches who he believed could benefit from his recommendations.  If the coaches wouldn’t stop what they were doing to listen to him, he would work to get the attention of one of the players.  I guess the coach in him didn’t stop coaching even when he reportedly hung up his whistle.

Daddy passed about twenty years ago.  After he died, my brother and I used to talk about how weird it was to say, “remember when daddy used to say” this or that?  We recalled daddy ism’s for the fun times, the frustrating times, and the challenging times.  My brother said that his band students had a section in their band notebooks of “Things My Daddy Used To Say.”  I wish one of his band students would share that section of the notebook with me now that my brother is gone and I can’t count on him for the quotes.  We could only imagine what Daddy would have thought about the progression of computers and cell phones.  We were certain that he would have sucked all of the life out his batteries if he could have owned a car with an outlet inside of it.  I am sure he would have found a way to have his voice installed on his phone to answer questions and give directions whenever he needed help or used the app for maps.

I started this post intending to write about the “smooth” young quarterback for Alabama who listens to Frankie Beverly and Maze, The Isley Brothers, and Al Green while he cleans his apartment.  Alabama football made me think of my family because we watched a lot of games together over the years.  I also thought of my father because good music was always a part of any discussion with him.  Al Green songs and stories were common as were songs by blues artist like B.B. King and Z.Z. Hill.  Daddy would often say, “That’s a ba’ad tune!”  I loved it when the “ba’ad tune” was on the radio or playing on his 8-track tape player and he would hold out his hand inviting me to join him on the always ready made dance floor.

Whenever something makes you remember someone or something you love a lot, take the time to enjoy the thoughts.  Give yourself permission to digress and be grateful for the special memories.

To say that I have been a little distracted this week would be an understatement.    I spent the week coming to terms with my new normal without my brother and preparing myself, my family, and my staff for my trip to Alabama to pay my respects to him.  Shopping for a few last minute clothing items was moved to the bottom of the to-do list.  I decided that I would have plenty of time to shop after I got to Alabama.  Well, I forgot about the good southern folks and their Easter traditions.

My sister-in-law wanted us to wear black, gold, and white on the day of the funeral so I went on a mission to find gold accessories like scarves, ties, and handkerchiefs.  As I walked in and out of stores in a shopping plaza and then a number of stores in the mall, I became aware of the freshly done hair dos and the Easter egg colored nail polish on the freshly manicured hands of most of the ladies.  I was reminded that it was Easter weekend and remembered the pomp and circumstance that comes with the Resurrection Sunday celebrations in the south.  We used to joke that people who never go to church during the year making their was to church for Easter.  I think that was true because everybody’s mama expected to have the whole family in church with her to display to the church family Easter Sunday.

After entering the third men’s department store looking for gold ties and hankerchiefs, I gave in and asked a saleswoman if there was anything gold in the store or in the mall.  We walked through the department looking at one display after another trying to find gold ties.  All of the accessories were more yellow than gold or perfect colors for prom attire.  The nice lady directed me to a men’s store where I found myself in line for assistance behind a woman digging through a couple of baskets looking for a bow tie in a very special shade of salmon pink.  Since I had to wait, I thought that I would join the hunt and engage them in conversation about the hunt.  I said, “Are you shopping for a prom?”  (Once again, I forgot about the holiday weekend.)  She said, “Oh no.  I am trying to find a tie for my husband.”  My thought bubble read, “Oh really?!  Who knew that couples dressed alike for Easter?”  I wondered why they were dressing alike.  As I sorted out the who and the why she was busy chatting and explaining how something happened to her dress or suit and she had to make new plans for their coordinated Easter outfits.  I missed a lot of what she said because I was too busy trying to figure out whose idea it was to have a coordinated Easter presence.  Does anyone know the history of this Easter tradition that requires folks to dress up even more special than what my mom used to call “Sunday go to meeting clothes?”

This whole ordeal brought to mind my mother’s love of dressing me up for Easter each year.  I decided that reposting the blog entry  entitled, “Lola’s Easter Princess” was in order.  Enjoy!

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