The world is scary.

People are scattered.

Things seem a little crazed.

Anyone want to argue that? Anyone having a different experience? If you are, can I come to your house to stay? I’m a great houseguest and can make a decent meat loaf. Promise I won’t be any trouble. I’m not scary or crazed. Maybe a little scattered.

I’m rambling. Let me start again.

Has anyone seen the kid’s show The Incredibles? Remember the scene where the teenager daughter creates a safety bubble over her family? One minute, they are in danger and the next second they are all sheltered under an impenetrable force field. I love that scene. If someone showed up to offer me a super power I would take that one. Please. I don’t need to be super fast or super strong. I just want to protect my people.

Am I rambling again?

Probably.

There are a lot of things going on in my world right now that I don’t like.  They are happening to people I love. I’m trying to mitigate them and make them better and do what I can, but it’s not going so well. The middle of me is having to accept that there’s only one me. I can’t be everywhere. I can’t do everything. What’s a worrier to do? How do I accept that?

When you are a caretaker what happens when you can’t take on anymore care?

I can answer that.

You stumble. You falter. You fret.

On some days, you find playlists on Spotify that are full of melancholy and angst and you watch the trees sway, and the rain fall and you cry. But not always. That wouldn’t be productive.

So, you get up each morning and just bang on through everything that is happening and wear yourself out wondering if you are doing enough. If anything you are doing matters. If you, perhaps, are the least guardian of all the guardians.

Thankfully, sometimes, when you are in that spot life gives you a mint on your pillow. A little smiley face on your windshield. A glowing performance review from a boss that really matters.

Recently, I got just such a wink on a quiet morning. A morning that was spectacular because it was replete with normal.

How rare is that?

Our little guy had come to stay for a week. It was story books read at exactly 8:30 in the evening. Always a mad hunt for Daddy Bear when he was missing. Baseballs and red cars with their own keys. It was toothbrushing and time spent working in the yard with his granddad. It was a quick trip for an ice cream cone and finger-painting on the kitchen table. And then, on that Tuesday morning, it was him sitting quietly in his chair eating a bowl of cereal and me at the kitchen counter cutting strawberries because he wanted some. It was so quiet.

You know those mornings?

The clock is ticking and and there’s a fly buzzing on the window sill and, in the distant, there is the muted sound of a dog barking. It is just a morning. A morning we will probably all wish for when they are gone. And into that stillness my grandson dropped five words.

“Grandma, I’m happy with you.”

Matter of factly and without a pause in his chewing. Wasn’t a big moment on his side, but at the counter, his grandma stopped slicing strawberries. Felt tears gather in her eyes and her shoulders drop. She breathed that sentence into the parts of her that needed it.

Somehow, despite my fears, I was hanging in there as a guardian. I was force fielding this little man. He was at his grandma’s and he was happy. The world was right. Things were good.

He was free to eat his cereal and plan his day. He would ask for a grilled cheese later, with no crusts, and it would be made. For a walk to the park and it would happen. His little life, in that moment, was within the bubble of his grandma’s reach and we were both so, so glad.

I took another deep breath and resolved to keep on keeping on.

I can’t be everywhere. I can’t fix everything. I’m not a super hero. Still don’t have a forcefield at my fingertips. But, through my decisions and actions, I can create little moments for the people I love.

I can slice strawberries and send planners and make phone calls. I can give the code to my door and a bed with fresh sheets to someone who needs somewhere to be for a night. I can take phone calls even when I don’t really want to talk. I can smile in the grocery store and be kinder to rude people than they deserve.

And, when I can’t, I can take a day off.

On those days, someone I love will be a forcefield for me. The world will send me a lunch with a dear friend, my husband will make my plate of food and bring it to me with a napkin folded on the side, my daughter will call me with laughter in her voice to tell me something funny. My grandson will say,

“Grandma, I’m happy with you.”

And so later, when I’ve had a rest, I will put on my helmet and strap on my shield and venture out to do what I can.

The only other option is to find those of you whose life is always ok and offer you a meatloaf and my company.

If only.

I thought a lot about getting married when I was a little kid. It was always such a strange idea to me that I would grow up and live in a house with a person I didn’t even know yet. Would I really want to go with him to the annual Christmas parade instead of my parents? Would I wake him up at night when I felt sick? Would he buy my birthday presents or would my mom?

As I grew up, I started to understand a lot more about marriage and I still had questions. I started to think about what kind of man would I want to be “daddy” to my kids. I wondered if I could marry a Cowboy’s fan if I met one. I wondered what I would do if I happened to fall in love with a man that liked hunting and wanted to hang dead heads on my walls. I wondered if I could even love said man. I wondered if I could pull together an impressive dinner party for my future husband’s boss if an important deal hung in the balance. Could I make salmon croquettes? Ever?

However, the one thing I didn’t really do a lot of wondering about was my future husband’s family. Why would I? I was young and immature and had my own family. And, even though they were an odd bunch, I loved them. They were my family. I couldn’t imagine any other.

How silly was I?

It turned out when I did grow up and find my person he came with a whole host of people that would find little nooks and crannies of my heart to fill. I struck gold. Hit the jackpot when it came to my bonus family. I have spent hours with them laughing and vacationing and riding boats and eating queso and becoming family. I now know that one of the greatest gifts you’re given when you marry is your spouse’s family. Or at least it is if your new family is like my husband’s. And if one of those family members is Sharon.

Sharon is my husband’s first cousin. When I married him, I already had thirty first cousins of my own. Turned out I needed Sharon in that collection.

I’m sitting here with my fingers hovering over this keyboard trying to pluck the words out of whatever pool I draw from to help all of you understand what Sharon meant to me. But, bigger than that, to my husband. Have you ever had someone who just liked you? You were their favorite? The person they most wanted to see come through the door? That was my husband to Sharon. Every time we showed up anywhere she was a big deal was made. About him.

He’s not the kind of guy who invites that kind of attention or knows what to do when it happens. He’s just this quiet, steady man that doesn’t have a lot to say about himself. Now imagine that guy with an entire dinner prepared just for him. Or a huge silver tin full to the top with mint chocolate fudge–again prepared just for him. She never forgot his birthday. She never failed to come see him. She loved him. And, she showed it. I think that’s an anomaly in a lot of ways. Lots of people say they love us, but how many of them will melt chocolate and turn it into fudge every time we come to visit? How many people will make sure someone gives it to us after they leave so the fuss won’t be about them? Sharon’s kind of people. The best kind of people. And, I think, it’s a special kind of person that does that for someone who just needs it. Turns out quiet guys who don’t make a fuss about themselves really need that sometimes.

I’m stuck now. All of those words above go a little ways towards showing y’all Sharon, but they don’t quite do her justice. I need more. Maybe this will help.

Years ago, when my husband and I were a young couple, we threw a party. I think it was on the 4th of July. And, this wasn’t just any party. This was a perfect party. At least it was to us. We had just built a new redwood deck that we were beyond proud of. My husband’s band was there that day and there was the sound of guitars being tuned and drums being set up. It wasn’t too hot and our huge oak trees were shading the whole area. There were kids darting in and out eating cherry popsicles and challenging each other to tricks on the trampoline. There was lots of food and cold beer and every friend we had in a hundred mile radius. It was perfect. And then, Sharon showed up. She and her husband were on a trip and went out of their way to stop and see us. I remember standing on my deck watching everything go on around me with such a bubble of happiness inside my chest and then hearing someone call my name and turning to see Sharon walking down my driveway and feeling instantly and, crazily, infinitely happier. She just added happy to my happy to my happy. I screamed hello, jumped up and down a few times, and then quickly turned to find my husband. No way was I going to miss his extra happy.

And, that’s who she was. Through three decades of marriage she has consistently been someone who made us happier every time we saw her. Who always had time for us. Time to take us on drives to find every house my husband’s family had ever lived in, in the town they had all always lived in. That’s a lot of houses. Time to open her home to host a party to surprise family when our daughter got pregnant and our son got engaged. Time to sit out on a patio on a flowered lawn chair and talk about the old times. The family memories. The bits and pieces that matter. Time to make prune cakes.

What? I haven’t told you about the prune cake. Oh goodness. Guess there are more words to land here. More words about Sharon. I’m happy to do that.

Turns out when you’re a kid with thirty first cousins there’s not a lot of room to be a favorite. Or to have a fuss made about you. I think I was twelve years old before I remember having my own birthday party. My mom always just did mine with my sisters. We were all summer birthdays so it made sense. I feel you triplets. And, I think you just get used to things like that in your life and you don’t even take the time to realize that they bother you. Not a lot, but enough.

Sometimes, you don’t realize it until it’s the day after Thanksgiving and you’re on your way home from a visit to your bonus family. You’re looking at an eleven hour trip and your husband is tired and so you pull out the taped up brown sack that Sharon sent with strict instructions to open it on the road. You open it expecting to find a tin of mint chocolate fudge. And you do. But, at the bottom, you also find a prune cake wrapped in that waxy paper that just makes everything taste better. The kind your grandma always wrapped sandwiches in. You find that cake and you know that Sharon must have stayed up until the early morning hours baking it just for you after you raved about it the day before at dinner. Seriously, only she could have made a prune cake taste that amazing. You picture her standing at her stove after what was already a long day of pies and turkey and dishes and you feel what that cake means to your very middle.

I ate that cake with tears of exhaustion and gratefulness and with my husband watching me nervously from the driver’s seat. It had taken a lot to get my little family there that year. To find the money, the time and the energy. My mom had cancer and I was running on fumes. Sharon saw all of that and gave me my own special shout out. Raisins and cinnamon, prunes and love. It was, without a doubt, one of the kindest things anyone has ever done for me.

I feel like the words are done with me now. When I read this years from now, I will get a flash of Sharon. Short, curly hair and a wry smile. Not a hugger, but a cake baker and a fudge maker and a spotlight shiner. The real deal. One of the blessings of marriage and a bonus family that I never saw coming.

Double happy.

What a huge damn thing.

A lot of decades ago, I was a little girl. I had four siblings, goats, dogs, cats and a stuffed purple bull named Lucky that I loved.

And I had an aunt. My Aunt Dee. She wasn’t very tall and she gave the best hugs a kid could hope for. Full, warm, squeezy hugs that pressed my face into whatever shirt she was wearing. I would stand there breathing in the scent of laundry soap and food while she hugged me increasingly tighter and rubbed my back at the same time. Then, as quickly as it had started, it would end. She would release me and move onto whoever else was standing close. But, as she was hugging them, she would look over at me and smile so big I could see both her dimples. Shirley Temple dimples. On my aunt. I loved that. And, for added measure, she had the curls too. Pretty much, she was the best.

A trip to her house meant that I would be the star of the show. As soon as I got there, she would ask me what I wanted to eat. More than once this question caused my kid brain to shut down. I lived in a house of seven people and it wasn’t a typical occurrence that my desires were relevant. Like ever. So, if I asked my Aunt Dee for Neapolitan ice cream ( why isn’t this everyone’s favorite?) a bag of Doritos and two snickers bars they would appear in the middle of her bar later in the day. I always felt like I had just won a kid’s version of the lottery. It was at her house that I first tried onion dip. I couldn’t think of anything I wanted to try less, but she teased me until I did and I loved it. I still do to this day. I never open a container of it that I don’t think about her.

Her house was also where my cousin Susie lived. As much as I loved my Aunt Dee, I loved Susie more. She was fun and always had the best toys and shared them freely. She was my age and, most important, she wasn’t one of my siblings. She was the different I needed coming from my crowded home. I spent many hours with her under her bed, laying flat on our backs, and staring up at the Valentine she had tucked under her bed frame. It was from the boy she loved and we both thought it was the most beautiful thing in the world. We knew she would grow up and marry him. We knew her wedding would be absolutely beautiful and we knew I would be there. It would be a dazzling day of yellow and parasols and happiness. The only thing we didn’t know was that none of it would happen. My family moved away to Texas and our relationship became summer visits full of walks and bus rides and begged-for puppies.

Then, years later, when I was a young girl and at my Grandmother’s house the phone on the wall in the kitchen rang. It was a hot summer afternoon and someone answered it. Of course they did. Why wouldn’t someone answer a phone ringing on a Sunday afternoon? I was sitting at my Grandma’s peeling formica table when I heard my mom start screaming. There’s not really a reference point for your mom screaming when you are a kid. It’s just terrifying. It was that day too. What came next was worse. My cousin was gone. Susie. She was gone.

That’s what my mom kept saying over and over again. “It’s Susie. She’s gone.” At first, I thought she had run away, but I couldn’t imagine that I wouldn’t have heard about that. Surely she would have called me first.

The next thing I knew my Dad’s heavy hand was on my shoulder. “Jean Ann, go pack the suitcases. We have to go.”

I went to the dark air conditioned room where all of our stuff was scattered and tried to pack like a grown up. I couldn’t. My dad found me sitting in the middle of the floor crying with clothes covering my lap. He put his hand on the top of my head and left it there until I stopped crying.

After that, it was a long car trip with my mother sobbing softly in the front seat while I pushed my face as hard as I could into the hard window. So hard that my nose felt bruised by the time we pulled up to Susie’s familiar house.

I hung back as my parents went to the door. I didn’t know if this was a house for me anymore. Where would I go? Sit? Be? But then, my aunt met me on the sidewalk and I was smooshed into a blue plaid shirt. She held me forever. At least it felt that way. When she pulled back her dimples weren’t there, but her kind brown eyes were.

“Come in,” she said. “Come in and let’s find you something to eat. Are you hungry?”

I didn’t really think my answer mattered, so I just followed her and ate whatever she put in front of me. I ate and ate while the grownups cried. Eventually, I understood that my cousin had drowned. It was a freak accident on a camping trip and it was forever.

That was the part that I couldn’t figure out. The forever part. It seemed so unnecessary, I was willing to live this new life for a while if I had to, but forever? That was too big.

Eventually, one of the grown ups asked me if I wanted to go to Susie’s room. I did not. I wanted to do that less than I had ever wanted to do anything in my life. I couldn’t imagine that room without my cousin. Without us. I froze in the middle of my aunt’s kitchen with an empty paper plate in my hands. Froze. Couldn’t have moved for anything. My aunt swung around from the casserole dish she was serving and announced that there was no time right then to look at Susie’s room because I was going to the movies with my cousin David.

My cousin David looked at me and I looked at him. We really didn’t have a relationship. There was no need. He had my brother and I had Susie. But, my brother wasn’t there and Susie wasn’t either. So, I went in the bathroom and brushed my hair and got in the car with my cousin. An awkward car ride with him was better than opening that second doorway on the left. I knew that. We didn’t talk much, but we did stop and pick up his girlfriend and another friend. A boy.

This boy climbed in the back seat with me and I suddenly couldn’t breathe. How had I come to be in a back seat with a boy? My first thought was that I wanted to tell Susie. My second thought was that the world had gone crazy and I couldn’t tell Susie. So, we went to the movie.

It was E.T. I sat in that darkened theatre and watched Elliott and E.T. forge their relationship and, somewhere in the middle, that boy I was sitting next to held my hand. It was me. I was in a movie theatre holding someone’s hand and I was biting the inside of my cheek to keep from sobbing. Life is weird.

When we got back to my Aunt’s house she was there to greet me. Again. With a hug. She fed me more food and I still didn’t go to that second door on the left. I couldn’t.

Instead, I hung out in their family room and played with my little cousin Rona. I knew how much Susie loved her and and how glad she had been to finally be a big sister so I tried extra hard to take care of her. I played every game she wanted to play and sang every song. I helped her get things she couldn’t reach and basically made myself her chief care taker for the rest of the day. It was something to do while I processed that I was in my Aunt’s house without my cousin and that a boy had held my hand.

It was because of my helpfulness that I was given charge of my little cousin the next day at the cemetery. It was me holding her hand while her mom sobbed and threw herself on her daughter’s coffin. It was me showing her flowers while people led her mom to the car and it was me that played with her the rest of that day too. I just wanted to help my aunt. I wanted to make her smile. I wanted to see her dimples and her eyes light up. I didn’t want to lose my aunt and my cousin. I didn’t think I could handle that. I didn’t want to handle it.

Finally, on the day it was time for my family to go back to Texas, I walked down that hallway by myself. I walked into my cousin’s room and I dropped down and looked under her bed. The Valentine was still there. I whispered into the dusty emptiness and told her my last secret.

“Susie, I held a boy’s hand and I miss you so much.”

That was the last time I ever went in my cousin’s room. In fact, I buried all of these memories. Put them in a room in my brain and closed the door.

I still went back to visit my aunt and she still hugged me tighter than anyone and fed me as much as she could get me to eat, but our relationship was infected. It was infected with sadness and it made being together painful and jagged.

When I grew up and got married we exchanged Christmas cards every year and she always began them, “Dear one.” I loved that. It was how she made me feel. Like I was dear. How many people in life make you feel that way? But, sadly, because of moves and miles and a greater distance than either of us could really travel we didn’t get to see each other much.

Then, the other day, my phone rang again. Not on a kitchen wall, but the message was the same.

Loss.

My aunt was gone.

Gone from me, but reunited with Susie. I hope they are hugging. I hope Susie’s face is squeezed against her mom’s shirt and that they have days and years and an eternity to not let go.

And, I hope these words help me remember. Remember what it feels like when someone makes you feel dear. Remember that you can do that with something as simple as a tub of onion dip and a warm hug. Remember that awful and wonderful sometimes show up together. Remember that many decades ago I was a little girl. I had four siblings, goats, dogs, cats and a stuffed purple bull named Lucky that I loved.

Remember that forever is forever.

What do you get when an Italian couple, an art teacher, a hunter, a couple of musicians and two salt of the earth southerners walk into a pandemic together? Well, if you live on a certain street in Houston, you get neighbors.

Not that we weren’t all neighbors before. We were. Old timers in our subdivision. Seen people come and go. Knew who lived in such and thus house before the people with the loud car did. Knew which neighbors scooped the poop and which didn’t. Knew whose kids took a path through the grass and whose didn’t. Knew each other to wave and to borrow a ladder and to drop off a Christmas cup towel and some cookies at the holidays. But, that’s it. And it worked. My dad always used to say people have things the way they have them because that’s the way they want them. Of course, my dad never lived through a pandemic. A world pandemic. The kind where they tell you to stay in your house and not go anywhere.

Remember those days? When we had all watched everything there was to watch on Netflix and were starting to go a little crazy? Every messy cabinet we had been meaning to get to had been gotten to. Every outside chore had been done. We had tried our hand at making homemade bread and sat through every hour of Tiger King and walked away embarrassed that we had. Something had to happen. And, in our neighborhood, it did.

It started one afternoon with our neighbors across the street. We were out getting the mail and they yelled, “Happy hour tonight at six. Bring your own chairs. Sit in your driveway. It’s happening!” So, we did.

Please know that my husband and I are not these type of people. We are nice, but not exactly friendly. If you are the same way you understand.

But, that night, we pulled our camp chairs out of the garage, dusted them off and plopped them on either side of our mail box. Our neighbors across the street did the same. So did the folks next door. And, for the next few hours we just visited. I don’t remember what we talked about that first night, but I know we’ve covered a lot since then. Politics-we all have different opinions. Movies–we all have different opinions. Music–boy, do we all have different opinions. We’ve set lanterns on fire and watched them float up into the sky. We’ve thrown hundreds of popcorn bags into the fire and cheered as they burned (don’t ask–it’s a thing.) We’ve cooked food together and had too much to drink together and dutifully looked at pictures of each other’s grandkids and offered up words like “adorable” and “the cutest”. We’ve even sang together. Granted, some of us are better than others, but it’s ok. As long as someone can carry the tune the rest of us will follow. Heck, we will follow even if nobody is carrying the tune. It doesn’t really matter, because in those moments we are having fun.

Remember that? The act of doing something for the sheer enjoyment? That’s what those nights have become. Those nights with their starry skies and bloodthirsty mosquitoes and the sound of laughter echoing off the walls of our houses. They are fun. They remind us to be human. To connect. To enjoy each other. They make the news headlines and the trauma we’ve all endured these past few years go away. For about three or four hours every Friday night everything is all alright.

And, I am happy to say, the official end of the pandemic hasn’t changed that. When they lifted the stay six feet away rule we brought our chairs a little closer. Now, everyone is in one driveway and still meeting. Over a year and a half later every Friday night that little crew drags their chairs out and sits and enjoys each other. Some things have changed. We added a ton of new people. Holidays and birthday celebrations have been added. And, I’m very sorry to report, my husband and I up and moved. The neighbors helped us and promised not to like the new people more than us and promised we would always have a spot around the fire.

That means a lot to me.

Knowing that if I’m ever in my beloved Houston on a Friday night around six-thirty I can drive to the corner of that cul-de-sac and find my neighbors. Find a lively conversation about which decade produced the best music or the best movie ever made or whether or not clean energy is ever going to take off. Find my friends. With everything the pandemic took from us it gave us that little group of people and I don’t want to ever forget what those nights meant to all of us. What they still mean.

I guess that’s why I’m writing this. In fact, I should have added myself to that list above. What do you get when an Italian couple, an art teacher, a hunter, a couple of musicians, two salt of the earth southerners and a writer walk into a pandemic together? I’ll tell you. You get life long friendships and you get this blog.

Here’s to you happy hour crew.

And here’s to the humid, co-vid, laugh-filled nights that made us a thing.

I’m sitting here with some semi-disco music playing, the sun shining outside and Cia snoring at my feet. And, as real as all of those things are to me, you are too. In my heart, you made it. You are here safe. You are where I am.

You are running the halls of my little house with your brother. Y’all are screaming and chasing each other and every time you take that tight corner by my glass stoves I hold my breath hoping there isn’t a crash to follow. When one of you bumps the other, I am a referee to decide who needs a hug and who needs a gentle reminder to be careful. There are two solid little bodies to lift up to ring the bells and to count how many there are. Later, when I look out the window Pa-paw is bookended in the backyard–both of you looking up at him to see what he’s going to do next.

From the moment my phone dinged and I got the picture from your mom with E wearing a big brother shirt you were real to us. We traveled the road. We loved you.

There were Christmases, and birthday parties and two high school graduations. We made that Disney trip and bought two sets of mouse ears. There were bunk beds in my spare room. Your life happened. We saw it stretched out in front of us in an endless ribbon of jokes, and sunny mornings and family.

But there is another thing that is real too. Another thing I know. I know I answered my phone and your daddy was on the other end with his heart shattered. I know your Sassy bought the first plane ticket available and that your mommy cried enough tears to fill an ocean. I know that you and Miss will always share a birthday nobody expected. There are crumpled tissues, broken hearts and a nurse named Sunshine that bear witness to what happened. It’s a sadness deeper than we want to go.

But, the thing brave enough to pick up a chair and fight that sadness is those minutes. Those minutes we lived with you in our hearts. Every minute we thought we were promised. Every minute we counted on. The big ones I mentioned and a million small ones that meant just as much. The first time I kept you without your brother and realized I needed to know what your favorite snacks were. The time we were the first ones up on a Saturday and you helped me make coffee. The text messages you sent as I got older to remind me to take my vitamins. The catch I felt in my chest when you called to say you were going overseas for the first time.

It’s all real.

It’s as real as any memory I’ve ever had. The very minute we knew you were coming you were already here. We scooted over. We made room. We pulled another chair up to the table. We folded you into the mix that is us and nothing is ever going to change that. Nothing. You belong to us. You are a part of who we are. All of us. The grandparents, your big brother, the friend you would have found over animal crackers the first day of kindergarten. Your mommy and daddy. We have all loved you. Will always love you.

Just like there will always be a shadow sadness while we are packing suitcases and making doctor appointments and accepting birthday invitations there will also be a shadow happiness. An understanding that life with you is real. It’s real because we love you so much we made it real. Given the chance you would have been the second most loved little boy in the whole wide world. There would have been so many toys, and fishing trips and millions of happy squeals while your daddy let you walk on the ceiling. There would have been Harry Potter books with your mommy and digging in the mud with your brother. Tummy giggles and new cars.

This horrible thing that happened can’t stop any of it. It never could. It was a done deal from day one.

We are yours and you are ours.

Always.