Category Archives: memories

I Want to Be A………..

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My co-worker and I were talking today about what it must be like to have a job that you just love—a job that you couldn’t wait to wake up to each day, a job that made you look forward to Mondays when you could get back to it. Both of us really like our current jobs, feel lucky to be employed at our present company and really enjoy working with our co-workers and team members, but neither of us would say that we are fulfilling our life’s purpose. At least, I wouldn’t say that.

Admittedly, I haven’t met many people that are employed in either (1) the job of their dreams or (2) in the job that they absolutely love, whether it was what they always wanted to do or not. Most people that I know ended up in their job almost by accident or by default.  They graduated from school, went looking for a job, found one (that they probably thought would be temporary until they figured out what they wanted “to do with their live”), developed skills in that industry, and then stuck to jobs in that industry.  My mom never planned on being a social worker, but when she was looking for a job, a friend helped her get one in the county department of social services, probably she thought until she could find something else, but ended up retiring from the State after 25+ years in the social work business.

When I was little, I wanted to be a famous actress and singer. I knew that I would be loved and adored. I even remember riding in the car with my mom and my sister one night, home from school, wondering how my mom felt about “just being a normal person” and not being a celebrity. At the time, I couldn’t understand how she bore the weight of disappointment that her anonymity must bring (seriously).

Now, of course, I realize the naivety of that dream. Mainly, I was naive to think that I could be a famous actress and singer when I don’t have any talent, especially in the vocal department. But, in all fairness, Barbie never worked for a major home improvement retailer when I dressed her up and made up stories about her, either. There was no Barbie cubicle, complete with overstuffed in-box, whiteboard and coffee ring stains.  There were, however, Barbie stages, Barbie microphones, and lots of Barbie gowns.  The dreams of the young as molded by Mattel….

I think asking young adults to decide what they want to do with their lives at the age of 19 or 20 is ridiculous.  How do they know what they want to do with the next 30 or more years when most young adults haven’t even had to do their own laundry?  And we want them to pick a career?  I think that you shouldn’t have to pick your career until you are around 40.  By then, you’ve (more than likely) grown out of the party non-stop phase, so getting to work at 8 am no longer seems like an impossible feat.  You have learned about yourself during your 30s, coming to understand your skills, likes, dislikes, etc.  Around the age of 40 is when you can wisely make a decision about what to do.  Until this point, everything should all be considered “paying research” to help get to that decision.

If I could choose my career now, I would be one of 4 things:

  1. A soap opera actress (emote a lot and hold a puzzled/mad look for 3 seconds until the camera pans away)
  2. A counselor (though Matt swears that I would get fired the first time that someone didn’t take my advice and I told them how stupid they were being, i.e. “I told you what to do, and if you’re not going to listen, then I’m wasting my time.”  I think he’s being a tad harsh.)
  3. A song lyricist, writing Christian rock songs
  4. A book reviewer (though, being an “instant gratification” kinda girl, I always read the last couple of pages first, so I never have any surprise)

Apparently, I have a little creative streak that I would like to get out.  Luckily, I do have outlets, albeit non-paying ones.  No one sings louder with Third Day in their car then I do.  I seem to be a pretty good listener because I often have people drop by my cube for advice or just to talk.  I am constantly critiquing emails.  There are some days when I act up a storm, i.e. “I believe that is a really great, original idea” or “It’s no one’s fault.”  Gotta sell it when you tell it.

I guess that somehow I have ended up expressing myself, in the smallest ways, doing things that I love.  God is good that way.  But if a television studio ever opens in Statesville, looking for soap opera actresses, I’m all over it.

A New Year

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We’re halfway into a new year and I have spent a long time thinking about the year that has just passed. What makes a year a “good year” or a “bad year”? Wines have good years, i.e. “Oh, the ’92 pinot was outstanding”, but I think there might actually be criteria used to in bestowing that label. How do you decide if it was a year that you are glad to see end? Can a year be full of fun trips, time spent with family and friends, quality interaction with your spouse, etc. and still be a bad year because of one large devastating event?

I spent the last five months of 2009 just wishing to get to the end of the year. After my dad passed away in August, the year became a “bad” year, perhaps one of, if not the, worst of my life. But up to the point, eight months had passed with what I would have judged to be great events: I sold my house, Matt and I finally were able to live together, we started remodeling our house, we took a great vacation to Playa del Carma in February, and neither of us lost our jobs in the middle of the economic downturn. We were blessed and felt blessed.

One phone call changed that stable feeling for me. One call that informed me that my dad was gone. And with that, eight months (actually 39 years and 3 months) of being Cristy disappeared. What was left was Cristy, but one that was different than before, and 2009 changed thenceforth.

So, I looked forward to 2010 with great anticipation, expecting to feel somehow fresh and new on January 1, maybe not as heavy. The truth was that I didn’t feel much different than I did on the day before, or that I did two weeks before. I have decided that 2009 was a life-altering year. There were good things that happened to me and mine in 2009–Matt and I made our marriage “official” by finally being able to live together (and living together is certainly life-altering!) and I moved to a new town to do so. I also lost a parent in 2009, and nothing can prepare you for the change that takes place from that event. I will never be the same person I was because he is gone — I do not have a earthly father anymore and as such, I am altered irrevocably.

Was it a bad year? No, it wasn’t a bad year, but it will forever be linked in my mind with my dad’s death. As such, it will always be remembered as a bad year because I was forced to face the reality of losing someone I love. I am surviving, though, so I will continue to have hope and faith for the new year.

When It’s Gone

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I just learned that Santa Claus isn’t real. Ok, that’s really a metaphor, but I have had a fundamental shift in my beliefs, so I’m comparing it to learning that Santa doesn’t exist. For the first time in my 30s, I read Gone With the Wind, and I realized that it’s not my favorite book any more and I don’t like Scarlett O’Hara.

For anyone who hasn’t known me since I was a pre-teen, this probably doesn’t sound like foundation shifting news, but if you have known me since I was 13 or so, this is big news. For the last 25 years, when asked what my favorite book is, I have easily, without hesitating, answered Gone With the Wind. Now, I’m questioning why and how I could have obsessed over this book.

I fell in love with this book after falling in love with the movie. It was my version of Twilight or Harry Potter. I soaked up the words and the stories, fell for the characters and the sweeping dramas. I pestered every teacher (History, English, Social Studies) to let us watch the movie, hoping to infuse my fellow students with my love. I collected anything that I could afford that was about the 40+ year book and movie — movie posters and postcards, autobiographies about Margaret Mitchell, Vivien Leigh, documentaries on making the movie, collector’s plates, dolls. If I had had money, I would have had the most extensive GWTW collection possible. My mom named our cat “Scarlett” in honor of my obsession.

My first day as a freshman in college, I was hanging one of my GWTW posters in my dorm room, when my new roommate said that the girl two doors down also had a GWTW poster on her wall. Expecting a “wanna-be” fan, I stopped by to see for myself the inhabitant who also liked my Scarlett. I then met the girl that would be my roommate for the next 3 years, but only after we circled each other like lionesses, throwing out GWTW questions, sniffing each other for weakness and blood. Only when Betsy and I were both satisfied that we were equally devoted (and knowledgeable) about GWTW did we realize that we each had found a friend for life.

So, this is why it is so hard to accept that, after deciding that it was time to reread the book, I don’t like Scarlett, and that I am offended by some parts of the book. Scarlett isn’t heroic, she’s selfish, two-dimensional, unimaginative and hard. The love of money, the absolute hunger for money, gives her the justification to turn her back on her God, her family, and her morals.

She is a survivor, however, and I can understand how her story would be so compelling when it was published during the middle of the Great Depression. The story is, in essence, one of surviving after the world in which you know is completely turned upside down. I have thought several times while reading it recently that this story has become relevant again during our current ecomonic and financial breakdown, war, massive lay offs, etc. Thousands are people are dealing with the same issues that these characters dealt with — how do you live you life when your life doesn’t resemble anything that you’re used to?

I don’t want to deal like Scarlett did. I don’t want to become hard or focused only on money, with no thought to how my actions impact others, or with only “me” in the middle of my actions. Here is my lesson — not how to survive, but how not to survive.

I’m looking for a new favorite book. Betsy, if you read this, I don’t know if you are saddened, indifferent or surprised that it took me so long to come to this realization. But, I’ll always be glad that Scarlett introduced me to you.

Sundays

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In 1771, British essayist Joseph Addison wrote “Sunday clears away the rust of the whole week.” I have to respectfully disagree with J-Add. At this point in my life, Sunday is not one of my favorite days. I am afraid that I spend too much time fretting about Monday, the week to come, and the weekend past to “clear the rust” from the past week. Logically, I can admit that it is a waste to chew over the last 6 days while also worrying about the next 6, but I can’t seem to help myself. It’s an illness.
I haven’t always felt this way about Sundays. When I was younger, Sundays were great days. They followed a certain pattern, changed only by the weather, holidays or birthdays. My mom, sister and I went to church each Sunday morning, after which we headed to my grandparents house. The memories made at my grandparents’ home are some of the strongest ones of my childhood.
Sundays at Mamaw’s and Papaw’s meant many things: good food, playing with my cousins, listening to my aunt’s talk about how much we were all growing, visiting with my grandparents’ brothers and sisters, and hearing stories about the “good ‘ole days.” Mamaw was such a good cook — beans and biscuits, cabbage and corn, pintos and potatoes and all other kinds of good food. The table would be full of bowls of food, and yet it seemed that she just threw it all together, kinda nonchalantly.
Even though I saw most of my aunts every Sunday, my sister and I and my cousins went through a weekly “interrogation” — school, boyfriends / girlfriends, extracurricular activities. The older we got, the more intrusive some of the questions could become (i.e. “Are you kissing any boys? With tongue?”) And my aunts (and my mom with my cousins) were especially interested in how we girls were growing / developing, i.e. were we getting boobs? I don’t know if this interest was born of the fact that most of them were not well-endowed or what, but I’ve told people before that the first time that anyone ever “felt me up” was in my Mamaw’s kitchen when one of my aunts was checking to see how big my boobs were getting. To us, this behavior was normal (and I don’t think any of us have been scarred by it).
But the best part of Sundays was playing with my cousins. If it was warm outside, we would play in the yard, playing Red Rover, or climbing trees, or running as fast as we could. When my cousins, Wendi and JJ, and I became cheerleaders, we spent a lot of time cheering in the front yard. Sometimes we would just swing on the porch, telling each other secrets and stories.

If it were cold (which it often was in the mountains), we would sit in the living room, looking at old photo albums. Sometimes we would go into one of the back bedrooms and whisper and talk. Sometimes we would even cheer in the living room. Papaw would sit in his chair, reading his Bible or doing his crossword puzzle, and never say a word about how loud we were.

Sundays when I was a kid were days to create memories. I can remember like it was yesterday the sound of Mamaw and Papaw’s front door opening and closing. I can remember the sound of Papaw’s voice as he said the blessing before each Sunday lunch. I can remember the smell and the sounds and the events. And in this remembrance of the Sundays past I have finally been able to clear away my rust.

Cooking With Idiots

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Matt and I had a great Saturday yesterday. His schedule for the past week had been such that he and I had spent no time together. So, we went out for breakfast, took a nap, watched one of our favorite movies (“The Bourne Identity”) and did a little Christmas shopping (for ourselves). Matt also planned dinner by preparing a stew in the crock pot — it simmered all day, filling the house with great smells.

The stew was really good. We, like most families, especially two-member families, often find it easier to grab a bowl of cereal, a sandwich, etc., then to go to the trouble of cooking a full meal. Thus, when one of us do cook, it is a special treat.

The only small complaint that we both had about the stew was that there was too much garlic in it. Garlic is like a lot of things in life — a little bit is good, a lot of it is deadly. And there is a thin line between “right amount” and “too much”. This is true for M&Ms, vodka, ice cream, and “Beverly Hills 90210” reruns. First-hand experience with garlic is essential when cooking.

I will never forget my first real cooking experience with garlic. Like many people, it was only after graduating from college that I was forced to cook for myself (or others). I discovered recipes — what a great invention — a how-to for creating a dish. Cooking wasn’t that hard — why did people complain?? Get your ingredients, add this, stir in that, bake at this temperature, et voila. Supper.

Thus, I decided to try lasagna. Since I had been so successful with earlier recipes, I wanted to try a complicated lasagna dish, or at least more complicated recipe than what I had grown up with — hamburger, noodles, ricotta cheese, spaghetti sauce. I picked out a recipe that called for Italian sausage, where the sauce wasn’t from a jar but made from scratch, where there were three or four different kinds of cheese. I was ready to turn it on for the lasagna.

Everything seemed to be going well until it came time to add the minced garlic. The recipe called for 3 cloves of minced garlic (I remember the exact amount 15 years later). I had purchased the prepackaged jars of minced garlic instead of mincing my own (I may have wanted to try something more complicated, but I didn’t want to do more work than absolutely necessary). I added the required amount of garlic. Five minutes later, I thought the wallpaper was going to start peeling off the walls.

Through the tears streaming down my eyes, I tried to discover why the fumes were almost visible in the house. Rereading the recipe and then the jars of garlic, I realized my error. One clove of garlic was equal to 1/2 tablespoon of the minced garlic from the jar. I had misread the jar and thought that 1 clove of garlic was equal to 1 jar. So, three jars of minced garlic had gone into my lasagna. I estimate it to be about 167 cloves of garlic.

We did not eat lasagna that night. We could barely live in the house for the next week. I learned to read, reread and often have someone else read the “this amount equals this amount” directions on any jar of ingredients. And I don’t eat anything that makes my eyes water (or repels vampires, zombies, inferior friends).

Best Gifts

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My co-worker went to his 5-year old’s Christmas pageant today. When he returned to work, he regaled us all with stories of how Donovan and his fellow kindergartner students performed. The students decided that, like the Magi, they would give Jesus presents and were instructed to give Jesus the things that they love the best. They drew pictures of their gifts and told the audience what they were giving to Jesus. Many gave their favorite dolls, their Wiis, their plasma TVs, even their little sister — because those are the things that they love best.
I had to laugh at the student that gave his little sister. I would have given up my little sister, as well, when I was in kindergarten, but not because she was the thing that I loved best, but because she was disrupting my world. Until Ashleigh was born, I was queen of the world, top of the heap, the cat’s meow — you get the picture. And suddenly, I was sharing the spot-light. The applause wasn’t just for me any more.
I would like to say that I quickly got over my sibling jealousy and embraced my new sister. But, I didn’t. For most of my young life, I struggled with my need to be the family “It Girl”. Luckily, I took a big dose of the antidote known as time and maturity. By my late teens, I had learned what a treasure I have in my sister.
Ashleigh is someone that I love beyond words. She has grown up to be an amazing mother and a tremendous woman. She exhibits strength, confidence and a serenity that I have always admired (and often envied). When I observe her with her children, I am moved by her wisdom and her patience. She is a woman that I am proud to know — and I am lucky enough to be her sister.
I applaud the young kindergarten student who gave Jesus his little sister — sounds like he learned much earlier than I did to cherish his sister. Hope that he continues to cherish his sister, because sisters are treasures, better than any gold, frankincense and myrrh.

Where Did That Red Hair Come From?

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I have suffered from headaches for as long as I can remember. In an attempt to control them, I have been going to physical therapy recently to relieve the tension in my neck and shoulders. While I was at the physical therapist office the other day (which is really one big room where several people are doing exercises), an elderly lady was working on her hips and knees. It was her first visit, and she was struggling with her exercises. As she was finishing up, the therapist told her that after she came in the next time, they would give her “homework” that she could get her children or “…her 100 grandchildren” to help her with. The lady laughed and replied, “Don’t give me any more than I already have. I only have 45 grandchildren.”

I almost fell off the table. Forty-five grandchildren!! Wow! Did she remember all their names? Did all the cousins know each other? Did they get together at Christmas? What about Sundays?

I grew up in a family where my mama’s side of the family ate lunch at my grandparent’s house every Sunday after church. I saw my maternal cousins almost every Sunday. On my father’s side, I didn’t see my grandparent’s nearly as often, but we spent at least one week each summer with them in their RV while they were camping at in Boone, and they always came to spend some time with us at Christmas and several other times during the year.

What would it be like to have 40+ first cousins? I couldn’t imagine. And then I think of my parents. Both of them come from families where they had many more first cousins than my sister and I. I don’t think that either one of them had 40+, but there were a lot. They kept their families together by family reunions.

One of my favorite memories growing up is the Baker family reunion. Every year at Thanksgiving, my fraternal grandmother’s family would get together at Ocean Isle, NC. All of Grandma’s brothers and sisters, their kids and their grand kids. We would leave out early every Thanksgiving morning (hardly any traffic on Thanksgiving Day), arrive in Ocean Isle around 1 pm, and stay until Sunday. This was the one time during the year that I would see my cousins, John, Jr. and Jason, my cousin, Leal, my cousins, Michelle and Mitch. These weren’t my first cousins that I knew so well, but my “mysterious” second and third cousins that lived in exotic places like Roanoke, VA, and Columbia, SC. John, Jr., was so cute and played the guitar. I knew that he would fall in love with me one day and we would move to a place where cousins could legally marry (by the way, when applying for mine and Matt’s marriage license, I discovered that John, Jr. and I could have married here in NC, but the desire to marry him was, alas, gone).

Those trips to Ocean Isle each year were gifts that my grandmother and her siblings gave to me and my cousins because they allowed us to meet family that we probably never would have ever known. As my grandmother’s generation has passed on (only my grandmother and one brother are now still with us), the reunions ended. Now there are great-grandchildren (even some great-great-grandchildren), but I don’t think that these Baker descendants will ever know each other except maybe in stories.

That is too bad. Because they may never know that the Bakers were tall, had red hair and liked to laugh. And if one of the descendants suddenly has a tall, red-headed, funny child, they won’t know that’s “the Baker in him coming out.” And Baker is a pretty good thing to be.

Swimming Lessons and Such

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My mountain home was calling my name, as well as the fact that Matt and I received an invitation to join some friends at their mountain cabin for a float down the river and some ribs on the grill. As a result, we had a quick trip to the mountains this weekend, including an exciting trip down the New River in the middle of a thunderstorm and some of the best ribs that we’ve ever had.

The canoe trip wasn’t what everyone expected it to be, though I believe that we all still had a lot of fun. It had been many years since I had spent any time on the New River, but I was glad to see that it was as bucolic as ever. Only our hosts were master canoeists, so there were many trips into the river by the rest of us. Luckily, the river was low, so no swimming experience was necessary to save one’s self from the “mighty waters”.

If someone had needed water rescue, however, then they were lucky that I was there. Thanks to years of swimming lessons when I was growing up, I’m sure that I could have provided some aid. My dad was and is a strong swimmer, acting as a life guard during summer breaks. My mama’s family, on the other hand, was not a family of strong swimmers. Swimming was just not a pastime that they pursued while growing up in the mountains. Mama says that she and all her sisters were warned constantly to stay away from water, that they would surely drown if they went any where near it. The threats worked since I don’t believe that any of my maternal aunts can swim. When they started having children of their own, they determined that they wanted their children (me and my cousins) to be raised without fear of water and with the ability to swim.

Thank goodness for my Aunt Mary June, also known as Aunt Mur (or Mur). Aunt Mur worked for the school system, so in the summers, she became the taxi driver for us. Years before anyone had ever coined the phrase “soccer mom” and years before the release of the minivan, Aunt Mur was showing soccer moms and their vans how to do it. She drove the original minivan, the station wagon, a wonderful car that had seats in the rear that faced backward, so you could see where you had been! (This was also before I suffered from car sickness.)

When my sister and I, plus my cousins Wendi and Matt (Aunt Mur’s kids) and Tina had swimming lessons, we would pile in Aunt Mur’s station wagon, and she would burn up the road to get us there (we were usually running a little late). The station wagon also had an 8-track tape player and a Kenny Rogers’ Greatest Hits 8-track, and we sang “The Gambler”, “Lucille”, “Ruby, Don’t Take Your Love to Town” and “Coward of the County”. Even now, 25 years later, I think of Aunt Mur whenever I hear Kenny Rogers.

Those two weeks of swimming lessons every summer were always so much fun. Mary June would laugh with us kids as we told each other silly jokes and we girls giggled over boys, she sang with us in the car, and she would often stop by the Dairy House after our lessons and let us get some ice cream (and extra special treat!). Driving us to a hot swimming pool to sit for 2 or 3 hours every day for two weeks never seemed like a chore for her but the best part of her summer, as well.

Because of her I learned how to do the side-stroke, how to sing the lyrics to “She Believes in Me”, and how to give with a cheerful heart. Next time I’m home, I think I’ll take my Aunt Murto get some ice cream and see if we can find some Kenny on the radio.

How We Became the Griswolds

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Matt and I went out to eat tonight at one of my favorite restaurants. On our way home, we drove over one of the many bridges that span the lake. It was a great day for the boat owners to get out with their “toys”. We saw lots of families out on their boats or wave runners, enjoying the last few hours of sun before the new work week begins.

Living in a town dominated by a lake is an experience. Everyone seems perpetually tan. The second question (after “What do you do?”) that most people ask upon meeting you is “Do you own a boat?” The attraction of spending hours cruising the lake appears to most as impossible to resist.
Matt and I do not own a boat, but I have spent my fair share on the water. For most of my life, my father, Tom, has owned a boat of some variety. Sometimes it was a fishing boat, sometimes a ski boat. Once it was a little jet boat. He has even owned a cabin cruiser upon which he and his girlfriend lived for several years. He has kept his boats on lakes, on the Intracoastal Waterway, and even on the Sea of Cortez in Mexico, where he currently resides. The type of boat may have changed, but I don’t think that he would ever be comfortable without ready access to the water.
With so much experience on boats, in different types of environments, most would assume that a trip with Tom would be fairly routine. This would be an incorrect assumption — something always seems to go wrong. The engine blows, or the plug is missing (I swear that happened, like the stopper was gone), or there is water in the line. It is always an adventure just to get started on a boating trip with Tom.
My favorite and most memorable trip with Tom, however, began before we even got in the water. Sometime late in my teens, we decided to go and visit my Aunt Linda and Uncle Philip in Charleston, SC. As part of the trip, we would haul the boat to the Intracoastal Waterway near Myrtle Beach, SC, load up and cruise the waterway south to Charleston. The journey would as much fun as the destination.
The trip to Myrtle Beach was routine until we hit the small town of Conway, SC. As we were driving through the town, the engine on our Ford Bronco died. Tom was able to coast into the parking lot of an Amoco gas station and assess the situation. It should come as no surprise that Tom’s luck with boat engines carried over to car engines; something was always dying, breaking, blowing up, smoking or doing other things equally as expensive.
Tom had a plan. He knew a local that could help us. His name was “Spanky”. Spanky would know who to call to get us out of this jam and back on our way. First thing Spanky was going to do was call the Ford dealership to get help for us with the Bronco. They would come, tow the Bronco, quickly get it fixed and we would be on our way in no time.
As the minutes progressed into hours, we had no choice but to make the best of the situation. Stuck in a parking lot, in the middle of summer in South Carolina, sitting in our broken down car wasn’t an option. Sitting on the boat, still on its trailer, was a much better option. Ashleigh had on her headphones, listening to her music, sun-bathing, pretty much ignoring the rest of us. Mom sat in the co-captain’s chair, sun-bathing, reading her book. I tried to lie down on one of the bow seats, keeping my head low from the people who continued to drive by and shout directions to the water, while Tom sat on the dive platform, drinking beer, swinging his feet back and forth, waving at all the passersby.
For four hours, we sat in our boat, in the parking lot of the gas station, enjoying our vacation. We even sat there for a while without the Bronco after the dealership tow truck came and towed it away and before Spanky could come with his truck to hook up the boat. At least we had access to the gas station’s restrooms, but it definitely felt like a “Griswold” vacation.
The dealership had to order a part in order to fix the Bronco, and by that time it was too late to put into the water. We did not spend the night on the boat in the parking lot of the gas station, but slept in a hotel. We cast off the next day for Charleston, leaving the truck behind for repairs until we returned. I remember my Aunt Linda and Uncle Philip getting a good laugh out of that story.
Over the years, we have also laughed at this memory, at how silly a family of four must of looked sitting in a gas station parking lot, in a boat, on a trailer, doing the things that you do when you’re on the water. Of course, with gas prices as high as they are now, I’m surprised that I don’t see more families enjoying their boats in their driveways (or a gas station) instead of the water. I did learn that day that the water isn’t what makes a boat fun — the people in the boat are the reason that boating is fun.

My Favorite Couch

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Today has been another Saturday completing tasks necessary to sell my house. If I were an overly analytical person, I would question how long it is taking to even get my house on the market; one might think that Matt is not chomping at the bit to have us living in one house. Yet, we are slowly making progress.

After painting the trim work in the bathroom earlier today, I took a break on the couch to watch a movie. I hate this couch. I have told Matt on many occasions that we can leave this couch behind when we move to his house. You can’t take a good nap on it, two people can not lie down on it very comfortably, it is not somewhere you can sit for a few hours and watch TV without getting a crick in your neck or, in my case, a headache.

Not so my favorite couch. My favorite couch has been a part of my life since I was born. It is a traditional couch, three cushions, low arms, with a skirt. My parents bought it and a matching chair and ottoman for their living room before I was born. I remember what it originally looked like: white (or cream) with large yellow flowers (it was the seventies). When they built our house in the mountains, the living room had beautiful yellow carpet to highlight the yellow flowers on the upholstery.

About the time that I was eleven or twelve, we got new furniture for the living room. We were all very excited as new furniture was very unusual in our house since money was so tight. Mama was “green” before it was a concept and had our yellow floral furniture reupholstered to use in the den, recycling it for continued use. Now, instead of yellow flowers, it was much more conservative, upholstered in a dark blue fabric, that was so soft to the touch, but still durable.

Now in the den, the couch that once was used so rarely (as living room furniture often is) was used daily. Suddenly, we discovered what a gem of a couch we owned. It was long–Tom could stretch out comfortably on it, without feeling cramped. It was wide–Ashleigh and I could both lie on it, heads at opposite ends, without deteriorating into the inevitable “She’s touching me!” arguments. It was comfortable–the back of the couch was supportive, without being too soft or too firm. We loved our couch!

As the years passed, the couch became so much more than a place to sit. Ashleigh spent a lot of time there while healing from surgery to her knee. We both spent time on that couch, sitting next to this or that young man, trying to be cool in front of Mama, watching a movie on the VCR. Saturday nights for years were spent on that couch watching “Saturday Night Live” with our cousins, JJ, Wendi and Matt, as well as friends. After the prom, everyone came back to our house, and we all gathered in the den (20 to 30 of us), watching movies, eating, and laughing all night long. One of my favorite pictures from this era is a picture of me and my prom date sitting on that couch looking at our year book. Some of my most in-depth and important talks with my mama took place on that couch, with my head in her lap.

Not all of my memories of MFC (my favorite couch) are happy ones. When my first real boyfriend broke up with me during my junior year of high school, I spent way too many hours on the couch crying, in what my mama dubbed “the fetal position.” I would assume that position many more times in the future as, during my 20s, I dated someone for 10 years (my Starter Relationship). As we broke up time and again over those 10 years, MFC became my refuge. I could lose myself in a movie, in a book, or simply in thought. Or I would curl into the fetal position.

I know that MFC is also my mama’s favorite couch, as well. She spent a lot of time on that couch, never in the fetal position, but working through her own dreams, ideas, issues, etc. And sometimes she was just working. She worked from home her last several years of outside employment, and MFC was her favorite place from which to work. She tells a story of working all day on the couch, and at 5 p.m., she put away her work and began to clean house. As she vacuumed, she lifted the cushions on MFC, and as she lifted the cushion on which she had been sitting all day, a squirrel flew out and ran out of the room. She had been sitting on the squirrel all day and did not know it. I am quite sure that they don’t make couches like that anymore.

When I got my first apartment, Mama sent MFC with me. When I bought my first house, it came with me. As I struggled with depression as an adult, there were times when MFC continued to support me as I found that there were days that the only place that I found relief was on that couch.

A couple of years ago, I was finally able and ready to pass MFC on to someone else. Even though the couch was at the time nearly 38 years old, structurally, it was still better built than most brand new couches. Mama and my stepfather, Jim, came and picked up the couch to deliver to one of my cousins. As we loaded it, Mama and I commeted on the fact that it was the best couch ever.

In retrospect, I can see that my timing in letting the couch go coincides with the time in my life where I became the most mentally healthy that I had ever been. So, maybe it is good that I don’t have MFC; I don’t have the option to ball into the fetal position anymore. I have learned to deal with my stresses and problems in much more effective ways. I still miss MFC, though.

And I still hate the couch I have now.