It’s Mother’s Day

And why do I honor this woman who gave birth to me?  Because she is my mother and that is what society dictates to us or do I honor her for who I have become?  For being there to guide me on this journey of life?  Or do I honor her because I want to celebrate us being women for her passing on her love and friendship to me so I can continue this cycle to my own daughter?

Growing up our house was the house that everyone hung out at especially when we were young.  My mom was able to stay home with us until I was 12 then she went to work to help pay for us to go to parochial schools.  But up to that time our house was THE house to hang out at.  Now I never really knew why, growing up I thought my mom was a royal meanie, until I had met up with friends at the funeral of a mutual classmate.  While we were reminiscing about growing up and living in a small town I asked why did we all hang out at our house and I was stunned by what I heard:

          “Your mom was the best.  She always made home made cookies for us.”  Didn’t every mom?

          “ Your dad would actually play with us – remember when he put the basketball hoop up and your mom and dad would stay out with us as long as our parents would let us and actually played the game with us.”  I thought they just wanted to make sure we didn’t get too rowdy and start goofing off.

          “Your mom actually listened to me when I had a problem.  She didn’t judge me.  She didn’t preach to me.  She didn’t tell me what to do.”  That’s because you weren’t her child.

          “Your mom taught me how to swim.”

          “Your mom was the funniest mom.  Remember when I came over for dinner and your dad wasn’t home, your mom made hot dogs.  I asked her to please pass the buns and she threw them over the chandelier to me and laughed at my startled face.  It was always fun at your house.”

          “Your mom knew how to do crafts and would play games with you.  You were really lucky.”

I stood there as story after story was told and I could feel the wave of love and admiration for my mom wash over me.  I felt proud and lucky that so many of this group felt touched by my mom.  I was lucky to have the kind of mom who did bake cookies, listened to what I had to say, wanted to know where I was, with whom and that I was to be home by a certain time.  A mom who drilled times tables into my head through all my pitching a fit and fighting with her.  A mom who had an endless supply of Band-Aids, Kool-Aid, squirt guns (still has these), tissues, laughs, a set of UNO cards and most importantly enough love for her own kids and those who needed her.

It is Mother’s Day and I honor my mom for all that she is to me but most importantly for all that she has done for me and those around me who have enriched my life as friends.  Happy Mother’s Day to my mom, my best friend.

Submitted by Mary Kay

Today is Mother’s Day. Right now I feel how lonely single does on Valentines Day. There is nothing like being left out of a holiday to get your spirits down. I know at one point in my life I did not have someone special when lover’s day came around. I was probably little, and at that time boys had cooties and were to be avoided at all costs. I remember some of the girls, though. They wouldn’t wear pink or red. They came to school as if it was any other day. They would accept valentines from others, but they were not interested in giving out any cards or candy. Attitudes grew as they did. Soon, Valentine’s Day was a day like any other day. It was spent with all of your single friends who could care less about what holiday it may be. 

I am not admitting that I wanted a family with a little boy and a little girl. I have not secretly picked out names for these unborn children. I do not have my baby things stashed away in hopes of passing them down one day. I do not sit in my guest bedroom imagining it as a nursery. So, why am I feeling so lonely today?

My maternity clock began ticking at my bridal shower. At the time, I was a young woman in the midst of all of my mother-in-law’s older friends. They could all be my mother. I would begin to open a gift, and I had to be sure to not tear the ribbon, or they said I would get pregnant on my honeymoon. I was careful with each package and preserved each ribbon from every gift. I made a big show about laying all of the un-torn ribbon at my feet making my point clear to them. They all began chatting about grandbabies, as many of the women already had them. My mother-in-law had a look on her face that day that tells me she will get her grandbaby. If not from this son’s union, surly her daughter or her oldest son would bless her with a grandbaby. 

I am the last of all of my married friends to be childless. There is even a couple that was married after we were, and she is due in December. Some of them have already had baby number two. I have many excuses. Right now my favorite is, “I am still finishing school.”

I fear that will not last much longer. I only have a few more months, and then every one will be on the belly watch. Many men do not know what this is, but women do. When we suspect a woman is pregnant, we will constantly but very inconspicuously watch that woman’s belly. We look for any hump, bump, or lump that will tell us if that woman is expecting a child. It is silly really. When that person is ready, they will tell you. Either way, you will know, for there is no way to hide a nine month old fetus growing under your shirt.

So, I am still sitting here feeling left out. You have not asked why I feel left out. For everything I have told you says that I am glad that I am not a mother. I told you that I am not ready, and I don’t know if or when I will ever be ready. Well, I sit here with news that will change my life forever. I am supposed to be happy about it. This is something I have joked about many times before. I have always thought knowing I could never have a baby would be a blessing to me! No more worries about having that oops baby. But, instead I sit here knowing Mother’s Day will never be a day that I will be a participant in. My body will never know what it is like to hold a baby in its womb. I sit here and mourn the loss of a baby who was never even conceived. There could have been two, or even three later down the road. But, now there is not even one. I can only sit here and think back to my bridal shower. I was so sure of what I wanted. I wonder what would have happened if I had ripped open a package and carelessly torn that ribbon in half.

Submitted by freckledSasha

It’s Mother’s Day.  Alice Cook lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling, it’s surface stained with years of smoking. A cigarette lay smoldering in the ashtray next to her bed.  She rolled over toward the bedside table, pushed past last night’s glass of vodka and grabbed the telephone. Alice checked to see if the ringer was off and then set it back down in its cradle.  She didn’t like taking phone calls.

Alice didn’t really care that it was Mother’s Day. It had been several years since she had cared. Several years since she received a phone call, several years since a card was left in the mailbox by the postman. It was an annoyance, really. To be burdened with the holiday, the expectations.  Who cares about flowers, anyway?  They looked pretty for two days and then wilt and die. What was the point? 

Alice’s daughter moved out of the house 10 years ago. That was the last time she had spoken to her.  Alice’s last words to Jackie were, “I hope you fail.  Just like your father.  You’ll be a failure!”  She had stood there on the front porch, arms crossed in defiance and contempt in her eyes as she watched her 17 year old daughter climb into a cab, armed with a small suitcase.  She saw her daughter’s picture on the front page of the paper some years later in one of those “local girl makes good” stories.  Alice didn’t read it. She balled it up and threw it into the fireplace.

She sat up in bed and took a deep breath. This prompted a series of coughing fits, and Alice grabbed for the vodka to quell it. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she got out of bed and shuffled out to the kitchen.  The coffee, set up the night before, smelled strong.  Breathing it in cleared her mind.  That could be a bad thing. Alice considered adding a dash of scotch to keep a slight haze in her head.

Heading out to the driveway for the paper, she stopped along the walkway to inspect her tulips. They were perhaps the only things she took pride in. At least these ones stayed alive with minimal attention. Her kind of offspring. 

Back in the kitchen Alice set the newspaper on the table. It was folded into thirds, and printed in pink scripted letters were the words “Happy Mother’s Day!” cheerfully on display.  Alice glanced at it and snorted. She raised her cup of coffee, laced with scotch, toward the paper. “It’s shaping up to be”, she mused.

She knocked back the cup of coffee. What was the sense in letting it get cold, after all?  Helping herself to another blend of caffeine and scotch, Alice breathed it in with relish. She settled into her chair and unfolded the paper. It was full of the usual Mother’s Day drivel. There was a story about one mother’s quest to keep her son’s memory alive by planting a memory garden. There was another story about a mom’s award for her volunteer services to a local orphanage.  A waste of time, Alice thought.

Opening up the newspaper she caught sight of the headline on page 3. “Acclaimed author Jacqueline Cook dead at 27”.  Her daughter’s picture, taken from the jacket cover of her latest novel, stared back at Alice. Jackie was beautiful and laughing, with a light in her eyes that Alice vaguely remembered from her childhood. Alice felt strangely numb as she read the article, eyes darting over the details of Jackie’s life as though she were a stranger and not her daughter’s mother.  How had she not known about this? Cold began to spread through her belly like ice and she started to shake.

Alice Cook set her cup down.  

Submitted by Elizabeth

"Do you have the phone number for the Charter Academy?"

Sara was running late to an appointment to a small school. Thank God for cell phones.  Sara realized that this was her last hope of contacting the school in any way that would be considered timely. She was definitely going to be late to her appointment with Emmy, and unfortunately she hadn't had the foresight to get the number from her office before she had left.

"Oh my God," the operator nearly squealed into the phone. "My daughter is going to school there this coming fall. Do you think it is going to be a good school?"

Sara couldn't help but smile as this woman's enthusiasm resounded in her ear. The Charter Academy was a new charter school opening for the very first time in just a few weeks.  There was a lot of “talk” in the community about this school since it was the first one being founded by the business community.  Sara had worked with a lot of new schools during their start up phase; she knew the Charter Academy had the potential to be one of the best in the state, maybe even the country. She told the other woman as much and then requested the phone number once again.

"Forgive me, I was momentarily lost in my excitement," the operator said.  "Let me get the phone number for you."

Sara's day had not started off well. She had woken up late and had been scrambling all morning to catch up. On her way out the door she had snapped at her kids. She had silently cussed several other drivers and even the train engineer, as she ran into one delay after another. Thank goodness for Operators and Information.

"I can't believe the number is not in here," the woman said. "Let me check one other database."

Sara sighed; this was just not her day.

"I know," the woman exclaimed, "I have this number at home. Let me call my daughter. She can get us the number. Can you hold the line for another moment?"

Amazed that this woman was willing to go through so much trouble to help her, Sara simply nodded. And then she started to laugh as she said "Yes, of course, I can hold," into the phone.

Sara could hear the phone ringing at the home of the operator. A sleepy voice answered.

"Hello"

"Mishka, honey, can you wake up please?  I need you do something for me." the operator said to her daughter in her mom voice.

"Okay Mom"

"Are you still there Miss,” the operator asked Sara, "I think she is still sleeping," she added after a brief pause.

"That's okay," Sara said, feeling guilty for putting this mother and daughter through all of this, and knowing that she certainly didn't deserve this kindness after the way she had treated her own children that very same morning. "Let her sleep, really, its okay."

The operator laughed lightly into the phone. "Just wait one more minute. I am sure we can get it."

And sure enough, Mishka came back to the phone and rattled off a phone number to her mom. Sara listened as the two talked for a few seconds.

"Mom," Sara heard Mishka addressing her mother, "Happy Birthday. I love you. I'll see you when you get home."

Sara heard the click as Mishka hung up.

"Let me try to connect you," the operator said. "I hope we have the right number."

Sure enough, the phone rang and on the other end, Sara heard a woman say, "Charter Academy."

"Please stay on the line, I have a call for this number," the operator told the receptionist. "There you go, Miss. We have a connection."

"Thank you and Happy Birthday," Sara said, realizing that the phone connection was only a small part of the connection she had made that day.

Submitted by Serenity

He was beautiful. Head bent over a book, his hair was a mass of glossy chestnut. It was perfectly tousled and mussed but he didn’t look the type to have done it on purpose. I think it was a byproduct of leaving the house in a hurry. 

He looked up from his book and reached for another. Soft green eyes scanned the library briefly before settling into the new read. Across the table I sat, watching him over the rim of my glasses. I wondered what he was studying. His books didn’t look familiar.

As I was trying to melt into my chair and be as unobtrusive as possible I noticed that a piece of hair had fallen into his face. It just hung there, waiting to be swept back into place. It was just long enough to be hanging in front of his eyes but it didn’t seem to bother him. He went on reading as if he didn’t even notice it.

I had one of those crazy impulses to reach out and put it back into place.  The impulse was so strong that for a moment I thought I was going to do it. I didn’t even know him!  For that split second though it didn’t matter. I just wanted to put that bit of hair back in place, feel it’s softness and run my fingers through the rest of it. I realized that my fixation was starting to sound bizarre and I capped that thought before I ended up acting on it. What was wrong with me?

I tried to turn my attention back to physics.  No matter how hard I tried I just couldn’t focus on Newton and his three laws. Ok, the First Law of Motion, I thought. An object at rest tends to stay at rest and an object in motion tends to stay in motion with the same speed and in the same direction unless acted upon by an unbalanced force. Well that’s a fact, isn’t it? Here I was sitting mere feet from this beautiful creature and I couldn’t even act.  And unbalanced? Definitely.

The Second Law of Motion. The acceleration of an object as produced by a net force is directly proportional to the magnitude of the net force, blah blah blah. Simply, a force causes an object to accelerate. The force that was causing my heart rate to accelerate looked up again, this time toward the door. I wondered if he was waiting for someone. That hair was still out of place.

I chewed on my pencil and tasted wood. The Third Law of Motion. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. What would be the equal and opposite reaction if I leaned across the table and kissed him? His lips were full and looked soft. Wow, I needed to get out of here. This was getting out of hand.

I collected up my books and notes and started shoving everything into my backpack, not bothering to tidy up and organize my work. Across from me, the object of my mini obsession looked up briefly and smiled at me. There went that Second Law again.

I slung my backpack over my shoulder and started towards the door. I had taken three steps when I suddenly stopped.  What the hell. I turned back around and walked over to him. I don’t remember my heart beating.

“Excuse me?”  He looked up at me and I gently brushed the hair out of his face. “That’s better”, I told him. I caught his smile as I turned and walked away.

I will not hate. I will not hate. I will not hate.

She wants me to hate her. She wants me down on her level. I will not succumb, for I finally realized it is not her.

It is the Dark One. The one who has invaded my dreams. The one who has let me slip from his clutches. He ignored me when he had me, much like a cellular provider. He felt I would go nowhere as long as I was filled with drink and drug.

He was right.

But I had a vision. An “in the flesh” vision. I saw a person who was not there. No lights were on. The house was empty. By all technical and mechanical means he was alive. No other definition, however, would pass muster. And though he was not me, it was like looking in a mirror. There was something worse than death.

I woke up. Not from sleep, per se, but from addiction. The Dark One had spent a few years trying to entice me back into the fold and he succeeded. Wide and gaping was the hole in my old sober life; he was able to drag down more than I. Her, for instance.

She is stuck. She wants me “back.” Not for her, but for him. He whose name need not be mentioned.

I see now. I understand now. I know why the hurt is not healed now.

It goes beyond worldly issues. I have re-teamed with my Father, almost like never before. This enrages the Dark One. The stories and Gospels are not merely parables and lessons. They are Truths. Universal Truths, also found on other Paths.

Am I overstating a common “dysfunctional family” issue? Perhaps. Yet this explanation makes so much more sense than anything scientific or material. It gives logic to illogical situations. It gives reason to unreasonable scenarios.

It makes sense of the massive and continuing “collateral damage,” first from me, now from her. It brings light to punishment that long outlives any and all crimes.

This is how he works. As the Shepherd chases after the wayward lamb, so does the bringer of night try to swallow up the finder of a candle.

Where do you think the phone companies learned it from?

I will not hate. I will not hate. I will not hate.

Help me see the Big Picture and the Truth.

I will not hate. Not her. Not him. Not anyone.

Submitted by David Black

I still laugh when I think about it, though it is not really funny. I think that when people face a horrible tragedy, we rely on humor to keep us grounded and be able to make it through the day. It was only after a year had passed that I was able to look back and think of anything other than the searing pain deep in my heart. After those twelve months, I gained the courage to go through those damn boxes in the attic. I don’t know what made me go up there, but one Saturday afternoon I had the sudden urge to reconnect with my wife.

     One foot in front of the other, I made my way up the squeaking attic stairs. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust, and as they did, I slowly took in the space in front of me. When I moved into the new place, I had some family members take the boxes up there for me. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. So, when I decided to start going through her things, I didn’t know where to begin.

     The first box I opened took my breath away. All of her clothes were neatly folded as she had them in her dresser. I pushed the box away as I felt my head become light. I tried another one that was shallow with a gift box lid. The silver frame inside held a picture of the both of us on our Honeymoon. She had wanted to go to the Bahamas, but our tight budget would only allow for the Florida Keys. We drove there one Sunday morning, and it was the best trip we ever made up to that time. As I picked up the picture frame, a stack of loose photos were revealed.

     I had bought a waterproof camera for the snorkeling we would be doing on the trip. As I flipped through those photos, I soon found myself smiling. She was scared to go into the water. She was convinced there would be a shark that would eat her up. I had to physically pull her off of the tour boat. We made a huge splash, and for a moment she was so shocked she could only hit me in the shoulder and call me names. After a minute of that, she soon realized there was no shark lurking in the water waiting for her. We got horrible sunburns on our backs from the hours of snorkeling we did over those four wonderful days.

     The day that would change my life started out great. I got up for work, and beat the early morning traffic. Once there, I glanced at the clock and wondered if she had dragged herself out of bed yet. She had an impossible time getting up and getting ready. She was always late, and it used to infuriate me. I think of all of the grief I gave her for the dozens of occasions we either completely missed, or when we were thirty minutes fashionably late. I always asked her, “Would it kill you to be on time for once?” She gave me a look melted my heart and won me over again and again.

     That night we had dinner reservations at our favorite hotel restaurant for our eighth anniversary. I had planned for a 6:30 pm dinner, and I arrived separately coming right from work. As 7:00 pm came and went without so much as a word from her, I called her cell phone but was sent to her voice mail. Half joking I asked in my usual way, “Come on, Sarah, would it kill you? Just this one time is all I was asking for.”

     Turns out she had left work early and was headed for the restaurant when she was involved in a head-on accident. She had made every attempt to be there on time for me, and it actually did kill her. It isn’t really funny, but looking through all of those pictures reminded me of all of the great times we had together, even if we were late for all of them. I still laugh when I think of me leaving that message on her voice mail. I can just see her looking down on me saying something like, “See? I tried to tell you.” She has that look on her face, and all I can do is smile. It is the only way I can make it through the day.

Submitted by freckledSasha

I still laugh when I think about it.  If I didn’t laugh, I would most surely be an emotional quivering mass on the floor.  Laughter is the only thing that keeps me going these days.  I had loved Justin more than anyone in my life and gave myself to him selflessly.  He was the perfect example of everything a man should be; charming, intelligent, caring and most of all, loving.  It’s amazing how quickly it all changes when life throws you a fast ball.

We were in the car, traveling to see his mother.  When I had first met her, she was markedly distant, although polite and courteous during our stay.  She had warmed up over the five years we had been together and I had become her friend and confidante.  Since the trip was over five hours one way, he and I would usually try to play games to pass the time. 

The first two hours of the journey had gone by remarkably fast considering traffic wasn’t overly cooperative and we had been singing along to the radio and talking about our future.  We wanted to buy a house and have kids; but the debate seemed to be around which should come first.  He felt we should just start trying for a baby since we had already been together so long.  I felt we should be traditional and get married first.  We talked about the pros and cons of both sides, but couldn’t seem to agree on a plan of action.  We decided we should let the subject alone for a while and play a game instead.

Justin’s favorite car game was “I Spy” and he was quite good at it.  Of course this was the game he wanted to play and I readily agreed.  We started out with some easy ones to get warmed up before trying to make them more difficult.

“I spy with my little eye, something that is black,” Justin grinned at me with that mischievous look on his face. 

“But half the WORLD is black!” I whined.

“C’mon, now, be a good sport, Tasha,” he chastised me gently.

I grumbled and began to name everything I could see that was black.  After about fifteen straight minutes of this, I was getting frustrated because I just could NOT guess what he was thinking of.

“How about a hint, honey?” I finally asked him.

“A hint?  I NEVER give you hints!” he exclaimed.  “Why don’t you just keep guessing?”

“Please, Justin!” I begged.  “Just one hint and I won’t ask for another.”

“Well, alright,” he obliged.  “Look on the floor by your feet.”

I gave him an incredulous look and did as he asked.

I was later told that was what had saved my life.

Submitted by Alicia

I still laugh when I think about it.

A rumble of thunder met me as I walked out the door to have a cigarette before I started my busy day at work.  I pulled my jacket collar up around my neck as a slight gust of wind reminded that it was cooler than usual outside today.  As I turned my back to shield the lighter from the breeze, a flash of lightening followed by a roll of thunder made me jump slightly.  It was like someone sneaking up behind you and taking your picture unexpectedly.....then laughing because the image of you they caught on film was akin to the look of a deer in the headlights.

Then came the rain, beating down on the metal awning covering the walkway like those proverbial pennies from heaven.  I backed closer to the door to get away from the rain that was misting around me.  With my cup of coffee in one hand and my cigarette in the other hand, I watched people running toward the building as if they were dodging the raindrops, but not really succeeding.  It seems no one is ever prepared for the rain...even though they have an umbrella....somewhere.

Usually, when I have my morning smoke, I'm greeted by the sunrise...a sky full of orange and purple and pink and blue and gray.  But this morning was different, and sometimes, different is good.  Sometimes it's nice to start the day with something other than orange and purple and pink and blue and gray.  And I watched my different day unfold in between the drops of rain and the noise and flashes of light that accompanied it.  And it felt good.  It felt good to be different.

I inhaled the last pull from cigarette and let the smoke out slowly, savoring it and watching my exhale drift off with the breeze of a stormy morning.  As I walked back inside the building, leaving the wind and rain and noise outside, I wished, for just one second, that I could stay out there just a little bit longer.  But instead, I walked back to my office and looked at the stack of files on my desk that needed, no, screamed for my attention.

I took off my jacket, placed it on the back of my desk chair, looked at the files on my desk, then walked past them.  I walked back out of my office door, down the hallway and out the door from which I had just returned.  The large awning that had just been my protector from the inclement weather was now nothing more than a piece of metal meant for others to stay dry.  I didn't need it's protection.....I needed different, today.

As I walked in the grass, I stepped in puddles that were forming in the hollowed-out places in the lawn and laughed as they splashed up on my pant legs.  I raised my head upward.....facing the source of all this morning mayhem....and I stuck out my tongue to catch droplets of water that tasted as pure as spring water.

For a few minutes....I was Andy Dufresne and this was my Shawshank Redemption.  Free at last....free at last....thank God Almighty I was free at last.  I stretched out my arms and let the spring rain soak me to my very bones.  And I remembered how good it felt as a child, playing in the rain, uninhibited, carefree, naughty, reckless.....and different.

Different is good.  And at that moment, I knew my life was going to be different....because I made it that way.

Submitted by Cindy

I still laugh when I think about it. I was drying the water from my face when my mother came into the bathroom, slightly out of breath from climbing the stairs. “What did Jim want?” I asked, wiping a bit of soap from my ear.

“A pair of tweezers,” she replied as she steadied herself with a hand on the doorknob.

“What did he need a pair of tweezers for?” I wondered out loud as I reached for my makeup bag.  Surely if one of my girls had managed to get a splinter in a finger I would have heard a war cry by now.

My mother shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe he’s going to shape his eyebrows?”  We both giggled as she left the bathroom.

I tried to imagine my husband shaping his brows. That would be very metro-sexual of him, wouldn’t it?  I giggled some more, thinking that perhaps he might schedule himself a manicure and a waxing next. I stifled a guffaw to keep my hand steady as I drew the black lines over my eyelids.  A poke in the eye at this point would be very troubling, indeed.

I checked the clock. In order to be at the Young Authors conference on time we would need to leave in 20 minutes.  Mentally I scrolled down the checklist of things to do, figuring that so long as nothing cropped up, we should be able to leave without delay.

My mother came back to the bathroom to kick me out. “I need to pee!”

“Well you could have told me that before I set up shop!” I was nearly done anyway. One more swipe of mascara and I should be all set.

“I didn’t know I had to go until just now. Out!” she ordered.  Just then I heard Jim coming up the stairs. He rounded the corner and stood in the doorway, blocking me in.  “Are you about ready to go?” he asked me.  I had a certain issue with time management so I forgave him for asking.

“Just about,” I replied. “Hey, what did you need those tweezers for?”

“I had this crazy eyebrow! It was longer than the rest of them so I had to pull it out.  It wasn’t there yesterday!”

My mom and I began laughing while Jim stood there befuddled.  When we didn’t stop Jim assumed an explanation was in order.  “I didn’t want to look like one of those old men with caterpillars eyebrows.”

Now my mother and I were howling. I looked over at her and saw that her face was turning bright red.  She was doubled over, hovering above the toilet. Gasping for breath, she farted.  “Oh, God!” she cried. “I still need to pee! Get out!”

I could feel the tears spilling from my eyes. A glance in the mirror showed black tracks down my cheeks, my mascara destroyed.  I practically crawled out of the bathroom, leaving my mother to her…business.

We left 5 minutes late.

Submitted by Elizabeth

"I still laugh when I think about it; yet at the time I was terribly
embarrassed."  I smilingly replied to Samantha's query about my first
swimsuit, as I settled comfortably on the couch, whilst Sam lounging at my
feet, her bony elbows resting on skinny scruffy jean-clad knees, waited
impatiently.

"Please Nana," she begged, "What was it like?"

"Sam, the first swimsuit I remember was the most wonderful ripe cherry red
in colour, made by a family friend who kindly invited me to stay at her
beach-front holiday home when I was eleven.

Myra, kept abreast of the latest fashion trends.  I adored it when she
visited.  She had more shoes than I imagined anyone could ever own, and she
dressed up to go down town on a Friday; shoes to match her outfit that
usually consisted of a dress and jacket and an elaborately concocted hat
resting on her tightly permed blue-rinsed curls.  Myra's hats could have a
jaunty feather perched at a ridiculous angle from an upturned brim, or
perhaps a breathtakingly ostentatious brooch pinned rakishly on an otherwise
modest beret.  Yes Sam, Myra had style!

She was a dressmaker and had fashioned herself a sky blue swimsuit into
which she had inserted a bra shelf.  Sam!  Please don't look like that!  Bra
shelves may be all the rage today, but in my younger days they were unheard
of.  Myra was a little vain you see.  She had a tiny bust and contrived to
design clothes to hide, what she considered was, a major figure deficiency. 
I'll let you into a secret Sam. Myra wore falsies!  No, not false teeth,
though she had them as well, but padded inserts for her bra, carefully
constructed to give balance to her shape.

I quickly accepted her invitation to spend a week at the beach, but pleaded
a case of poverty on behalf of my parents, as until then I had worn hand-me
down swimming togs.  Myra, who was held in high regard as a seamstress, and
who had contacts with commercial fabric outlets, generously offered to sew a
swimsuit using the latest wool-jersey fabric.  Many of my friends had
elasticised swimsuits that clung to figures burgeoning into womanhood, but I
knew my conservative parents put those suits into the category of belonging
to a brazen hussy; a label I was encouraged to avoid.  I decided on red, a
colour my Dad frowned upon, but Sam, there are some little battles every
girl must win.  If I couldn't have an off-the-peg elasticised model I
certainly intended wearing red.  She measured me and within days I was the
proud possessor of a designer swimsuit.

Early the next week, after travelling a dusty winding road to the little
wooden beach house, we unpacked our food and clothes, and hurried onto the
sand that was golden and warm.  I ran towards the waves.  The tide had
turned and was coming in, the breakers riding higher and higher towards the
sand dunes as they broke in curling white crescents.  It was a glorious day.
  The sun shone brightly from a cloudless sky and I looked forward, with
anticipation, to spending endless happy hours swimming, building
sandcastles, and adding to my collection of shells.  I wore my brand new red
swimsuit.  Myra had thoughtfully provided a white rubber cap to protect my
long hair from the ravages of sun and surf.

Cautiously I tested the water.  It was almost warm!  I paddled into the
breakers and jumped as a wave tossed itself against my bare legs.  Venturing
out further the salty water was soon up to waist level.  I turned towards
the shore, dived into the surf and dog-paddled back to where Myra was
waiting with my towel.  As I waded out of the shallows my swimsuit felt
strange.  The weight of the water made it hang low; the crotch, full of
sand, anchored it around my knees like a peg securing a tent, and my budding
breasts peeked above the drooping neckline.  Yes Sam, you can laugh; I must
have looked a sight!"

Submitted my Meadow Lark