Friday - Rusty's Wise Ex Girlfriend
Jun. 6th, 2008 10:48 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ninanevermore.
.
.
Today on my drive into work, I was thinking about Mrs. Shepherd, my favorite of all my mother's friends when I was growing up. Like many of my mother's other friends, we knew her from church, but she was like no other lady at our church. A good decade younger than the other women my mother hung out with, Mrs. Shepherd was a tall, big-boned, bleach blond woman with a tattoo on her ankle who swore like a sailor. She said "sh*t" all the time, even at church, much to my mother's chagrin.
"I love that girl to death," my mother said more than once, "But sometimes I want to wash her mouth out with soap." My mother did not approve of swearing in general, especially not at church.
From the moment I met her, I was intrigued by Mrs. Shepherd's tattoo, which was a homemade one that said, "Rusty" in faded purplish-blue India ink. Mr. Shepherd's name was not Rusty. I asked my mother if I could ask Mrs. Shepherd who Rusty was, and she told me absolutely not, that it was none of my business.
Mrs. Shepherd was the second wife of Mr. Shepherd, who was a stocky, unassuming man with a receding hairline. He had grown children from his first marriage as well as two young children with his current Mrs. Shepherd. I'm not sure where he found her, but she was not from Texas. There is a breed of Texas woman who are bold and sassy, but Mrs. Shepherd was a more exotic brand of sass, without any of the addressing people as honey and sugar or excessive but sarcastic politeness that homegrown Texas sass would have exhibited. She talked loud, she laughed louder, and when she wanted her husband's attention she shouted, "Hey, Shepherd!" When she disagreed with anything he said, she would roll her eyes and say, "Sh*t!" I thought she was the coolest grownup I had ever met.
The memory of Mrs. Shepherd that stands most out in my mind happened in the springtime after my mother's death when I was 15. One Sunday morning, long after I thought I should have been past all of that, I slipped into a state of what is called "magical thinking." In the wake of grief, a person will become convinced at times that the loss never happened, that if they pretend it didn't, they can undo it. I was sitting alone in church that day; my father was an usher, my kid brother was sitting with his friends, and my best church buddy was on a trip with her family.
As the organ began to play and the choir prepared to walk down the church from the back up to the choir loft, I convinced myself that my mother would once again walk in with them, the way she had for my entire life up until she grew too ill. Maybe it was because of up the upcoming Mother's Day, or maybe it was because I had been watching other people interact with their mother's and it made me miss my own. Whatever the reason, I was certain I was going to see her, and I eagerly sat up and watched for her.
The organ played and the choir marched in and took their seats. Of course, my mother was not with them and I realized she would never be with them again. I felt tears begin to well in my eyes, so I slipped out the side of the church through the kitchen and out to the front porch, where I leaned my face against a brick pillar and began to sob.
A few moments later, I realized I had been followed. I looked up when I heard someone softly say my name, and Mrs. Shepherd pealed me off of the pillar and held me against her body, instead, where I proceeded to wet the front of her good Sunday dress with my tears. She didn't ask any questions, all she said was, "It's okay, sweetie. I know it's hard sometimes," as she held me tight.
After I stopped crying and composed myself, she made sure I was all right and we slipped back into the church to catch the tail end of the sermon. When the service was over she told my father that she and her husband were going to the medical center downtown to see his daughter's new baby that was born the day before, and she thought it would good if I went with them.
At the hospital, I remember being introduced to Mr. Shepherd's grown daughter, who I didn't know, and being shown the new baby. I had never touched a newborn before, and I was amazed at how soft her skin was; softer than down, softer than silk, softer than anything I had ever touched before in my life. I didn't know anything could feel that soft, much less human skin. Twenty years later, when I would first hold my own newborn son in my arms, I would not be as amazed at his softness as I was with Mrs. Shepherd's step-granddaughter when I traced my fingers over her tiny body as she lay sleeping in her bassinette. Something about touching that new human life that spring day filled me with enough amazement to ease my grief and lift me out of the depths of my melancholy.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
In my life, I have figured out a few things, but there are a lot of mysteries that still elude me. For example, I still don't know who Rusty was, and I still don't know how my mother's bold, brassy friend know that touching a new baby would help me realize that, in spite of all the hurt, life really does go on.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * # * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
.
.
Today on my drive into work, I was thinking about Mrs. Shepherd, my favorite of all my mother's friends when I was growing up. Like many of my mother's other friends, we knew her from church, but she was like no other lady at our church. A good decade younger than the other women my mother hung out with, Mrs. Shepherd was a tall, big-boned, bleach blond woman with a tattoo on her ankle who swore like a sailor. She said "sh*t" all the time, even at church, much to my mother's chagrin.
"I love that girl to death," my mother said more than once, "But sometimes I want to wash her mouth out with soap." My mother did not approve of swearing in general, especially not at church.
From the moment I met her, I was intrigued by Mrs. Shepherd's tattoo, which was a homemade one that said, "Rusty" in faded purplish-blue India ink. Mr. Shepherd's name was not Rusty. I asked my mother if I could ask Mrs. Shepherd who Rusty was, and she told me absolutely not, that it was none of my business.
Mrs. Shepherd was the second wife of Mr. Shepherd, who was a stocky, unassuming man with a receding hairline. He had grown children from his first marriage as well as two young children with his current Mrs. Shepherd. I'm not sure where he found her, but she was not from Texas. There is a breed of Texas woman who are bold and sassy, but Mrs. Shepherd was a more exotic brand of sass, without any of the addressing people as honey and sugar or excessive but sarcastic politeness that homegrown Texas sass would have exhibited. She talked loud, she laughed louder, and when she wanted her husband's attention she shouted, "Hey, Shepherd!" When she disagreed with anything he said, she would roll her eyes and say, "Sh*t!" I thought she was the coolest grownup I had ever met.
The memory of Mrs. Shepherd that stands most out in my mind happened in the springtime after my mother's death when I was 15. One Sunday morning, long after I thought I should have been past all of that, I slipped into a state of what is called "magical thinking." In the wake of grief, a person will become convinced at times that the loss never happened, that if they pretend it didn't, they can undo it. I was sitting alone in church that day; my father was an usher, my kid brother was sitting with his friends, and my best church buddy was on a trip with her family.
As the organ began to play and the choir prepared to walk down the church from the back up to the choir loft, I convinced myself that my mother would once again walk in with them, the way she had for my entire life up until she grew too ill. Maybe it was because of up the upcoming Mother's Day, or maybe it was because I had been watching other people interact with their mother's and it made me miss my own. Whatever the reason, I was certain I was going to see her, and I eagerly sat up and watched for her.
The organ played and the choir marched in and took their seats. Of course, my mother was not with them and I realized she would never be with them again. I felt tears begin to well in my eyes, so I slipped out the side of the church through the kitchen and out to the front porch, where I leaned my face against a brick pillar and began to sob.
A few moments later, I realized I had been followed. I looked up when I heard someone softly say my name, and Mrs. Shepherd pealed me off of the pillar and held me against her body, instead, where I proceeded to wet the front of her good Sunday dress with my tears. She didn't ask any questions, all she said was, "It's okay, sweetie. I know it's hard sometimes," as she held me tight.
After I stopped crying and composed myself, she made sure I was all right and we slipped back into the church to catch the tail end of the sermon. When the service was over she told my father that she and her husband were going to the medical center downtown to see his daughter's new baby that was born the day before, and she thought it would good if I went with them.
At the hospital, I remember being introduced to Mr. Shepherd's grown daughter, who I didn't know, and being shown the new baby. I had never touched a newborn before, and I was amazed at how soft her skin was; softer than down, softer than silk, softer than anything I had ever touched before in my life. I didn't know anything could feel that soft, much less human skin. Twenty years later, when I would first hold my own newborn son in my arms, I would not be as amazed at his softness as I was with Mrs. Shepherd's step-granddaughter when I traced my fingers over her tiny body as she lay sleeping in her bassinette. Something about touching that new human life that spring day filled me with enough amazement to ease my grief and lift me out of the depths of my melancholy.
In my life, I have figured out a few things, but there are a lot of mysteries that still elude me. For example, I still don't know who Rusty was, and I still don't know how my mother's bold, brassy friend know that touching a new baby would help me realize that, in spite of all the hurt, life really does go on.
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