storyscape

It took awhile, but they finally found each other. By the time Lendal and Betty met, he had been married five times and she had been married twice—not exactly the kind of circumstances that inspire hope for one more try.

And yet…

Something was different this time.

Yes, they learned a lot from their previous relationships and neither took for granted how wonderful it was to have a kind and generous soul to travel through life with. But that alone isn’t what’s sustained them. It’s about knowing who we are, they say, and having the humility to face the things that stealthily sabotage our ultimate happiness.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I’ve known these two for about 13 years, long enough to tell you that they’re not perfect. In fact, they’ll be the first ones to tell you they’re not. Like all couples, they have differences of opinion. Each has their own particular way of getting things done, and of course sometimes they drive each other crazy. But here’s what I’ve observed, the one thing that makes them superheroes in my book:

They show up.

They show up in practical ways, like Betty did when Lendal had hip replacement surgery a couple of years ago (we should all be so lucky to have a Betty in our lives!) They show up in spiritual ways, like Lendal does with his lavish admiration and appreciation for his wife. They show up when their relationship hits a bump or a pothole, each ready to honestly evaluate their own part and do whatever it takes to overcome anything that threatens their union. And (lucky for me) they show up together for their friends. I wish I could count all the times that their listening ears and abiding wisdom have gotten me through a rough patch. They are two of the most loving, accepting and kind people I know. And in today’s world, folks like that are hard to come by.

Lendal and Betty’s 23-year marriage has not only stood the test of time, but also has remained one of the single greatest sources of joy in their day to day lives. After we did this photo session it occurred to me that Lendal and Betty have always been who they are. My theory is that we’re all who we are—fundamentally—the minute we arrive on this planet. But sometimes we get loaded up with things that take us further away from ourselves, at least for a time. And for a fortunate few, somebody comes along to lead us back home. 

I noticed their hands wrapped around each other and Lendal told me “this is the way we always hold hands.”

On their 20th wedding anniversary, Lendal gave Betty this beautiful diamond she had mounted on her wedding band. She bought him a new diamond wedding ring. 

On one of their earliest dates, these two went to a comedy club only to find that their ticketed seats were one chair away from each other. They held hands over the empty seat through most of the night. But they eventually ended up side by side.

 On my first visit to their home, Lendal and Betty showed me two gorgeous photos that were taken of them when they were very young. I thought it’d be fun to recreate the pose as a sort of “before” and “after.” They don’t look all that different to me!After an evening of photos and reminiscing, Betty brought this music box out to show me right before I left. “I gave this to Lendal,” she says, “to remind us that if we had known each other when we were a whole lot younger, he would’ve been the guy behind me, pushing me on the swing.” In my estimation, even though they didn’t meet until later in life they’ve spent the last 23 years helping each other soar. And it doesn’t get much better than that.

The reminders keep popping up out of nowhere. I’ll be doing something completely routine and all of a sudden I’m face to face with my own mortality. Our mortality. For example, last week I attended events where legendary UT football coach Darrell Royal was being honored. He’s 87, suffering from dementia and has a sweet childlike look of wonder on his face most of the time. It seems like yesterday he was in his heyday, a mover and a shaker in both the athletic and music worlds. But his stint as the nucleus is now over and he’s been moving towards the perimeter for some time now. Whether we detect it or not, it’s happening to us all.

There are so many little reminders of how quickly time is passing. My mother died about 18 months ago and that alone has changed the way I see the world. My siblings and I visited her grave a few weeks ago and I couldn’t help but think about all the times my mother and I visited the same cemetery to put flowers on her mother’s grave. It haunts me, really. And now my sweet mom is right next to her mother. In the ground. And by all indications my generation is next, that is, unless the unthinkable happens and someone younger leaves us all too soon. 

Second, I have two granddaughters and they both remind me of how the days speed by. I was an eyewitness to their births. Each of them went through the colicky stage, the bobble head stage (where they couldn’t hold their heads up) the toddler stage, and now both are potty trained and racing toward kindergarten (currently ages three and four.) They can feed themselves. They can carry on conversations. Before you know it they’ll be losing teeth, doing book reports and getting training bras. When I ask Piper, the four year old, what her favorite number is and she replies, “W,” I find myself secretly relieved.  I don’t want her to know the difference yet because that’s another prominent milestone signaling the inevitable passage of time. I love hearing Haven sing off key because that means she’s still a tot. It won’t be long until she has an angelic voice like her mother, and while I’ll enjoy that it will be yet another stark reminder that my days are numbered.

But we leave pieces of ourselves behind. The other day I was going through old pictures and found one that shocked me. It was of my mom when she was a young girl, and it looked just like Piper (see below.) They even tilt their heads the same way (without any coaching) and part their hair on the same side (unintentional.) I’m amazed by the mysterious, grinding force of genetics; I get a little lift every time I catch a glimpse of my mother in the mirror, or in my children and grandchildren. When I showed this photo comparison to my daughter (Piper’s mother) she thought the one on the left (my mother) was me. It’s the genomic equivalent of a syllogism: If A = B, and B = C, then A = C. I am B, my mom was A, and Piper is C. There are alphabets and alphabets of people who came before us and will continue on after we’re gone. But we carry pieces of each other’s DNA. 

A few days ago Piper came over and helped us plant our spring garden. I couldn’t help but treasure how wonderfully eager she was to help because I know it won’t be long before she’ll consider spending an afternoon with her grandparents lame. She loved digging in the dirt with Happy and was totally on top of her watering duties. We talked about the sun and the rain and how they’re both necessary to help the seedlings mature into hearty, harvestable plants. I explained that on some plants a flower will appear, signaling that a piece of zucchini or a strawberry is on its way. When they mature we’ll pick and eat them, and in many cases the plants will continue to produce “fruit” until the heat exhausts them or winter puts them to sleep. It made me think about where we are in that cycle (cue Elton John’s “Circle of Life” for a schmaltzy effect.) Piper and Haven are tiny buds, little flowers that signal their impending contributions to the world. I, on the other hand, am still somewhat ahead of the wilting curve, but am also not quite as hearty as I used to be. 

We all have our moments in the sun; we also have to do our time in the shadows. I suppose when you add it all up it equals a life. Sort of reminds me of a song that was really popular when I was a preschooler (written by Pete Seeger but made famous by The Byrds) which is based on a passage in the book of Ecclesiastes:

To everything - turn, turn, turn

There is a season - turn, turn, turn

And a time for every purpose under heaven (Listen to “Turn, Turn, Turn” here.)

Meet “Starbeef,” Piper’s pet roly-poly.

She was funky before funky was hip. My Aunt Phyllis (left) had bejeweled wooden purses, wild, crazy glasses, and a house full of unusual things: a real jukebox, jazzy throw rugs, an upright piano painted like a can of Budweiser beer (which, if I remember correctly, my ridiculously talented cousin JoAnna painted.) Phyllis had cool knick-knacks galore, curios sitting in windowsills, on tabletops and adorning walls. I suspect each one held a place in her heart because she never seemed like the kind of person who would surround herself with random stuff just to dampen the echo. Though I couldn’t describe even one pair I know she had some flashy shoes, not the fashion-model type, but the happy kind: shiny, glittery or somehow colorful. I remember her friends being fabulously flamboyant, a cluster of like-minded women who loved to laugh, celebrate and grab life by the balls. They formed a coalition of feminine fun and appeared to love each other deeply. I made a mental note to assemble a similar group of friends when I grew up.

Phyllis’ favorite color was orange, and I suspect that says a whole lot about who she was. A quick search of what favorite colors say about a person confirms this. According to the psychology of color, a person who loves orange: 

• Is warm, optimistic, extroverted and often flamboyant.
• Is friendly, good-natured and a generally agreeable person.
• Thrives on human social contact and social gatherings, bringing all types together.
• Gets great satisfaction from helping others, who find them inspiring with their vitality and positive energy.
• Is tolerant and accepting of others just the way they are.
• Has a free spirit.
• Is loyal.
• Is attracted to adventure.

Though that may not cover it, it’s a pretty good start. I don’t know whether or not she was a true extrovert but I was drawn to her exuberance like a moth to the flame. Of course I didn’t realize it at the time but I was the only extrovert in my family, and I subconsciously treasured her zest and love of life.

Her kitchen was full of warmth, but I don’t remember her standing at the stove too terribly often. Aunt Phyllis was more of a kitchen table, cup of coffee, pull up a chair and tell me a story kind of girl. In a sea of adults she was the one most like a kid, the one you were most likely to gain an audience with, the grownup who would listen and then with one suggestion or observation make you feel like maybe the world wasn’t so bad after all. She had a lilting voice that sometimes sounded like a song, a very southern song. It was at her house that I learned the tune, “In heaven/there is no beer/that’s why we drink it here” – an anthem that surely fueled many a late night party. As a kid I spent quite a bit of time at her house, a sprawling two-story suburban manor that was in the same neighborhood as the one we called “The White House” (because to us it looked exactly like the one on Pennsylvania Avenue.) I remember lights hanging in the massive backyard, an in-ground swimming pool that seemed large at the time (but now I’d probably consider a wading pool) and their spectacular St. Bernard named Sally. Of course my uncle and four cousins lived there too, but I imagine that it was Phyllis’ love of literature, people, beauty and joy that subliminally animated that household and eventually infused her children and grandchildren with the same values and attributes.

I don’t mean to paint her as perfect; I’m pretty sure even she would scoff at that notion. Like the rest of us she had faults and shortcomings, though I can’t think of any off the top of my head. Perhaps my favorite thing about Phyllis was that she was safe. No matter what I did, I never once feared that she’d turn on me; I knew that come hell or high water she’d affirm my value and offer her love. There was the time I woke the dead (and everyone in her house) with my piercing screams, a reaction to seeing a gigantic flying cockroach when I got up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night.

I remember flipping out and causing another mid-night commotion when I was sleeping in her den and my cousin’s boyfriend knocked on the window in the pouring rain, because they had had an argument and he wanted to make it right. (I had no idea who it was and of course jumped to the worst possible conclusion: the boogey man had finally come to collect me.)

There was the time I committed a major faux pas during the Greek Funstival at her beloved St. Sophia Greek Orthodox Church, an annual celebration that featured exquisite food, live music, ethnic dancing and—if I remember correctly—sangria (I may or may not have snitched tiny sips from the grownups’ cups when they weren’t looking.) While the adults were busy reveling in the festivities I wandered into the church and noticed that there was a place where members could say a prayer and light a candle to symbolize the request. It was so beautiful, a mesmerizing stream of votives that cast shimmering light in the darkness, as though the gods were dancing in the shadows. There’s no telling what my eight year-old mind was thinking, but it may have been something akin to, “If a stream is good, a sea is better.” I picked up an unlit candle and held its wick to a flickering flame. And another. And then another. I have no idea how much time passed before someone discovered what I was doing (and I don’t remember whether or not it was she who stumbled upon my “project”) but I do know that the back of the church was a whole lot brighter when the jig was up. The specifics are fuzzy but I remember Aunt Phyllis being equal parts mortified and amused, laughing but also somehow cringing at my oblivious (unintentional) misapplication of her church’s sacred practice. Nevertheless, her demeanor toward me never changed.

The last time I saw her was a couple of years ago. I happened to be in San Antonio and my oldest daughter and I stopped by the house to pick up something for my dad. It was a quick stop, but she and my uncle sat down with us in their living room and we visited for a few minutes. It was apparent that her naturally bright orange soul had been eclipsed once again by the vicious blue that plagued her, but she showed up anyway and to the best of her ability extended the love and grace that were the hallmark of her heart. It pained me to see her struggle so. I finally remembered to ask her about her longtime pen pal, Thornton Wilder, and she told me about how they exchanged letters for quite some time, though now I can’t recall how in the world she became friends with a Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright. But it doesn’t surprise me at all. She was a magnet that effortlessly attracted those in her tribe. She seemed to be fiercely passionate but not in an “in your face” kind of way, because I never once sensed that she had anything to prove. Her way of life reminds me of the famous Yoda quote: “Do or do not. There is no try.”

It probably sounds like I knew her well, but I didn’t. And I regret that. My parents divorced when I was 12 and the family visits were never the same. She didn’t change but the situation did, and as adolescence got its claws in me I changed too. About five years ago my father was honored as a Distinguished Alum of Rice University. Phyllis and her husband attended the ceremony, as did Virginia (another wonderful aunt) and her husband. There we were in one of the most prestigious private universities of the south, men in their tuxes and women in their gowns, at an event where pomp and circumstance were the order of the day. I convinced the siblings to take a few pictures together and out of nowhere Phyllis’ playful nature reared its beautiful head. This is how I will remember her. Three days ago she was laid to rest after a service at St. Sophia, which was packed with people who loved her dearly and presided over by her beloved longtime friend, His Eminence the Biship Tarasios, who delivered one of the most delightful eulogies I’ve ever heard. There were tears, yes, but also lots of laughter, which I’m sure is how she would’ve wanted it. Rest in peace, sweet Phyllis; heaven doesn’t need any beer because you’re finally there.