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...where you will find all previously shared articles and poems.
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by Mary Lilley-Thompson If children were flowers, then Jessica, my only child, would be lilacs. She was born a few days after Mother’s Day, when the lilacs were in full bloom. Thanks to our many hospital visitors, lilacs surrounded us. If I could put a scent to the miracle of birth, it would be the fragrance of lilacs. Each year, as Jessica grew, having lilacs in our home for a week in May, became a ritual for me. We were too poor to buy lilacs and had no yard to plant a bush. But there were lovely lilac bushes behind our building across the alley. I would sneak out at dawn when the dew was still on the flowers and Jessica was still sleeping. I’d hurry so no one would see me cutting the few branches that were drooping into the alley. I considered these part of the public domain -- anyone could help themselves. Even after I bought my house and could have planted a lilac bush, I still cut alley lilacs. When Jessica reached the age when most teenagers are embarrassed about everything their parents do, she was mortified when I got caught by a man who threatened to call the police. Intimidation and embarrassment stood in my way of helping myself to lilacs for a couple of years. I mourned their loss. When Jessica left home to be on her own, I needed my lilac ‘fix’ more than ever. Jessica knew me well. She knew the alleys even better. Little did I know that she had been scouting them for years. So instead, Jessica, who is not a morning person, shifted the ritual clipping to late night, and the sins of the mother continued. Five years ago, the ritual changed dramatically. It was Mother’s Day and the lilacs were in full bloom. Jessica invited me to her apartment for the afternoon. I was certain my Mother’s Day Gift that day would be a big bouquet of lilacs that she’d cut the night before. As I entered her apartment, there, in the middle of her living room, was the most incredibly beautiful lilac bush I had ever seen, roots and all. Several cards were among the branches. I stood in the doorway and cried. This was, by far, the most precious Mother’s Day gift ever -- a permanent symbol of her birth. Later that day, we planted it in a corner of my yard so that I could always see it from my kitchen window. Jessica is moving away. Today my lilac bush is laden with blossoms. The fragrance is heady. I’ve not pruned the alley-side of my bush, so that passers-by will be able to easily help themselves to their share of my treasured gift. I carefully clip several blossoms to take inside. I bury my face in one of the blooms. If I drink in enough of the sweet scent, I’ll be able to remember the miracle of Jessica even after she and the blossoms are gone. ©Copyright May 15, 1999 By Mary Lilley-Thompson
I loved Mom’s purse. It was the essence of her and she trusted me, at age five, to occasionally go into that magic place to get 50¢ to buy milk and bread at the store around the corner. Mother‘s elegance and style were in her purse.
Perfume. She always carried a handkerchief that somehow smelled of the perfume she wore -- I think it was Chanel No. 5 or WindSong. The hankies were hand embroidered or crocheted lovelies which had been given to her by friends over the years. They were used only once, then washed and always ironed.
Peppermint. It was, and still is, the only flavor of gum and mints that Mother really likes. She ALWAYS had gum or peppermints. You chewed gum to make your breath fresh while you were on your way to a PTA meeting, a tea, a concert, choir practice or to play bridge. You never chewed with your mouth open and you spit the gum out in the original gum wrapper just before you arrived at the event.
Cigarettes. In the 40's and 50's, when it was a most sophisticated thing to do, Mom smoked unfiltered Chesterfields. She wore red nail polish and often would have to carefully pick a tiny piece of tobacco from the tip of her tongue. Unlike Dad, Mother never spit.
Red lipstick. Always red. It had the scent of wax and cherries -- or at least I thought it did. She would encourage my sister and me to play ‘dress up’ and wear her lipstick, which I couldn’t ever quite keep inside the lines.
It’s 45 years later and Mom is now legally blind. I’m helping her write checks. She hands me her purse to find her Security Blue card. I open her purse and all these childhood memories wash over me even though only two scents remain: peppermint and old perfume.
I look at Mother and am flooded with emotions about all the lessons she taught me from her purse:
I’m abruptly brought back to reality when Mom says, "While you’re looking for the card, would you please get me a peppermint?" I give her a mint and a hug and say, "Thanks for all the lessons you taught me, Mom!" She smiles and says, "I’m not sure where that came from, but ...you’re welcome."
A postscript. I gave this to Mother for Mother’s Day this year. She was just horrified. When she read the ‘Cigarettes’ entry, her first thought was, ‘I never smoked!’ Then she realized that she’d been in total denial about ever smoking. Mom’s never dwelled on the negative. She’d smoked for over 25 years. "I was so ashamed that I’d smoked – such a filthy habit and what an awful example for you kids," she moaned. When I told her that I was going to publish this on my website, she was mortified. I told her I’d write this postscript to announce her shame. She said that would be good.
©Copyright May 2000
by Mary Starshine ....an enlightenupper™
We women realize that we Disguise, despise, ostracize our hips and thighs. (too many pot pies)
We women sympathize, yet we Scrutinize, patronize, traumatize our hips and thighs. (too many pizza pies)
We women know how to Analyze, rationalize, intellectualize our hips and thighs (too many pecan pies)
We women always Apologize, agonize, victimize our hips and thighs (too many shoo fly pies)
We women think that exercise will Synchronize, glamorize our hips and thighs. (too many shepherd’s pies)
Now I challenge us women to conceptualize a new exercise. Hypothesize, fanticisize, immortalize our hips and thighs. (Eat some fries.)
We women need to realize our inner beauty is the prize. Liberalize, energize, eulogize our hips and thighs. (Eat that key lime pie.)
Come on now, women. Verbalize, improvise, rhapsodize our hips and thighs. (Eat the chocolate that satisfies.)
It doesn’t matter to your levis. Romanticize, sensualize, mesmerize your hips and thighs. (Eat whatever and don’t apologize.)
Love yourself no matter what your size. Queen size, plus size, pint size ...our hips and thighs. (I am so wise and I tell no lies.) Now I’m a plus, plus size and I love my thighs. They’re part of the prize that satisfies. (Maybe I’ll tattoo my hips and thighs ...just to personalize!) Copyright ©1998
A Father's Day Story By Mary Lilley-Thompson August 1947 - the Ellenwood Avenue house I can hear Daddy pushing the lawn mower out back. It's very hot. The back screen door slams shut (Mommy doesn ’t like that.) and he says, "Time for a beer." He goes to the fridge and takes out a brown bottle. He sighs as he sits down at the kitchen table and pries off the bottle cap. Some of the white frothy stuff comes out of the top. He slurps it just in time. "Now that sure tastes great, Miss Mary."Daddy smells like freshly cut green grass. He winks at me. "May I please have a sip?" I ask. "Sure can." It tastes fizzy and silly and yukky all at the same time. I liked that Daddy shared it with me. I love being with my Daddy. I love it when he calls me "Miss Mary."
July, 1955 - the Sharon-Mercer Road house It's 95 degrees outside and Mom says, as she pries open the bottle, "Please take this beer out to your Dad. I'm sure he'll appreciate the break." I run outside with the bottle and shout to Daddy, but he's mowing way out by the road and can't hear me. Our front yard is an acre. I hop on my 3-speed bike with the hand brakes and ride down the driveway, holding on to the sweating bottle with my left hand, and waving to get Daddy's attention with my right. My front wheel catches a piece of slag. My front tire slides to the right and I fly off the left of the bike, still with the bottle in my left hand. Daddy sees this and runs to me just to be sure that I'm okay. The bottle was frothing and he grabbed it to catch the cold foam just in time. My knee is skinned and I hold back the tears to be brave. I feel proud that I lost only a couple of ounces of beer. He winks at me and asks if I want a sip. I wipe the gravel off the lip of the bottle and sip. It tastes cold, wet and yukky. He wipes my knee off with his old sweaty towel. Then he kisses my knee and says it will be fine. He downs the beer and thanks me as he hands me the empty bottle. He pulls the rope starter and swears when he can't get the mower going. "Dagnamit!" he shouts after the 3rd try. On the fourth pull, it starts and he winks at me again. I take the empty bottle back to the house in the basket on my bike. I work up real tears for Mom. I think she's going to put iodine on my knee. But she will blow on it. This summer, I'm 11-1/2 years old. It's the best summer ever. I spend my time practicing cartwheels, playing jacks, twirling a baton, playing with my little brother, Billy, building a hide-away with my best friend, Terry, and riding my bike. I am the only person I know who has a 3-speed bike with hand brakes. My Daddy taught me how to ride a bike and how to swim. I feel free when I'm in the water and on my bike. My Daddy gives me wings. The world is mine. May 2000 - Presbyterian Senior Care, Woodside Place It's an unusually warm day for May. Dad sits in his wheelchair and looks out the window of his room at Woodside, the Alzheimer's/Demetia Unit. He's watching a guy on a riding mower cutting the grass at the 4th tee of the Oakmont Country Club. He looks up at me and starts to say, "You know …," then stops. He forgets. He looks back outside and smiles. I ask him, "How about you and I go for a ride in the Green car? "He brightens and says, "That'd be great." I say, "How about we go get a burger and fries?" He says, "And a brewsky, too!" and winks at me. I learn from the nurse that you can buy beer on draft 'to go'. Kewl. This is more than Dad has said in weeks. We head over Coxcomb Hill, past the townhouse developments and the fancy-dancy retirement community, and the view of the Allegheny River. Dad reads most of the signs. And says, "Wow, that's the river." We pull up to the beer/burger joint. As I watch this guy put ice cold draft beer in a squatty quart-sized plastic jug and seal it, I'm wondering just how we're going to handle this in the car -- illegal and all. I carry the jug to the car and as I get in, I hold it up to Dad and say, "Brewsky!" He just laughs and makes a yuk face. He thinks it's urine, I think. Looks like urine. Anyway, I rummage through my back seat stuff and find a huge 32-ounce plastic 'glass'. I open the jug and pour the beer perfectly into the glass so nothing spills and the 'head' isn't too thick. I hand Dad the glass and he looks at me as if I'm crazy. I say, "Drink up." I'm still wondering about how we're going to drive off with this opened thing of beer in the car. He takes the glass and takes a sip. Hmmmmmmmm, good, is the expression on his face. He raises his eyebrows and smacks his lips. Our burgers and fries are delivered to the car. I decide to bite the bullet and start the car. I sit the jug under my left leg and hope it doesn't roll around too much. Dad just smiles and keeps sipping. It's hot, so I tell him that we're going to find a cool spot where we can eat our lunch. I'm not sure where that will be, but know I'll find something. We come to one of those developments. It's got a lovely tree-lined entrance. I drive in and Dad says, "Where are we going?" I say that I'm not sure but it's okay. He keeps sipping …and smiling. I wind around the development and find a townhouse whose parking place is shaded by a lovely maple tree. I pull in to the spot. Dad says, "Whose …" He forgets, but I know what he wants to know. I say, "I don't know who lives here, but they sure have a pretty tree and this is where we're going to eat lunch." I turn off the engine, but leave the battery running so that we can listen to Poulenc's Clarinet Sonata. Dad devours his hamburger and sips some more brewsky. He looks at me and asks, "Do you …", as he holds the glass over to me. I say, "No thanks, Dad, that's your brewsky. And besides, I don't even like beer. The last beer I had was the sip you gave me when I skinned my knee at the Sharon-Mercer Road house." He has no idea what I am talking about, and just nods his head with a half smile. I pour him some more beer after he finishes his burger. It is good to see him eat. He weighs only 149 lbs. So here we are. Illegally parked (probably), illegally driving with an open container of brewsky, listening to Poulenc and a distant lawn mower, and watching the lilacs. And there's Dad, just smiling. A perfect moment in time. On the way back to Woodside, we stop at my daughter's house so that he can see his great granddaughter, Kate. I bring her out to the car and hand her to Dad. There they are -- Great Grand Pop and Kate. He is smiling and Kate is smiling back. He says, "She's a fine baby." And, of course, I'm crying. When I try to help Dad transfer from the Green car to his wheelchair, he's so looped that I can't stand him up. It takes two of us to get him out of the car. He's still smiling, but looking rather sleepy. I'm sure he'll sleep well. I kiss him goodbye and he looks at me wondering I know I know you, but I'm not sure why you're here. I tell him I love him and he says, "Thanks, Miss Mary." Then he winks. I love being with my Dad. I love his essence. He taught me how to be silly and how to play. He gave me my wings and now he's the wind beneath them. I love you, Dad. Happy Father's Day. ©Copyright June 7, 2000
Silly feels light. Silly feels right. Silly feels childlike.
Silly feels fun. Silly is a pun. Silly is pink bubblegum.
Silly feels free. Silly feels tickly. Silly feels breezy.
Silly feels good. Silly is junk food. Silly is a puppy brood.
Silly feels healthy. Silly feels happy. Silly makes your hands clappy.
Mary Starshine …an enlightenupper™
©Copyright 2000 ™ Seven Favorite Holiday De-stressors
©Copyright 1998
Permission to Reprint Articles and Poetry Permission is hereby granted to reprint articles by Mary Lilley-Thompson and Mary Starshine …an enlightenupper™ at no charge, with the agreement that the bio information below be included following each article used and that one copy of the publication in which the article is published be provided to Mary Lilley-Thompson. A fee of $300 per article will be expected for articles published without the biographical information and contact information. Permission is granted for reasonable editing, including article title change and industry specific examples. Please feel free to contact me for assistance in editing. For information on articles customized for your specific publication or industry segment, please contact me. I will be happy to work with you. Requested Closing Bio for Articles Mary Lilley-Thompson is a nationally known humorist, conference keynote speaker, and corporate trainer. She gives her audiences permission to laugh and cry. Her persona of "Mary Starshine ...an enlightenupper"Ō, leaves a trail of light, laughter and tears. Mary can be reached at 1-877-837-SHINE (7446) or at laugh@marystarshine.com. Mailing address is: 3140-B Tilghman Street, #111, Allentown, PA 18104-4268.
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