favorite

Mother told me the day she was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer that I had been her favorite baby. Not favorite daughter. Favorite baby.

No kidding. My eldest sister was a war baby, her daddy overseas when she was born. My middle sister was a baby at war. Hers was a war my parents would never understand - bipolar. She has written a book, It's Not Your Mind-It's Your Brain. And I was the happy, nosy, fun-loving Fire Monkey. Who could have resisted my impish ways?

By the time I came along, Mother was 11 years into her second, very secure marriage. Most likely her heart was nearly healed from being a war widow and trying to raise the daughter from her childhood sweetheart on her own. She told me that painful day in the hospital that I was so cute I made her want to have another baby. Oh, how I wish she had.

Being the youngest had many advantages. Like, I seemed to be center stage most of the time. Everyone thought I was adorable and amusing. But I always wanted a younger sister. Honestly, being the youngest is often irritating. My sisters sometimes are compelled to give me unasked for advice and seem to think I don't have sense enough to come in out of the rain, so to speak. Here I am almost 50 and I would really like to be taken seriously once in a while.

I dream about being an older sister. You know, the calls late at night, "Hattigrace, I really need your advice about. . . " Or, what would it have been like to have a 6'3" strappingly handsome older brother throwing his arm around my shoulder, telling me what a good man I married and how he is like a brother?

The hardest part of losing my mother is how she respected me and listened to all my ideas. She never gave advice unless I asked for it. And she always encouraged me. She found something good about every harebrained idea I came up with. I forever have a new business idea that will make my next million! Of course, it is all talk, but sometimes it is fun to just talk these things out. She never belittled my oft silly ideas.

We would laugh about my childhood and all the fun times we had going to antique auctions out it the country side in Michigan, sewing, embroidering, knitting and watching our goofy dogs playing on our tire swing. We giggled the most over how much I loved bananas when I was very young. I would actually eat two or three a day.

See, I really am a Monkey!

age

Some say age is just a number. People older than I am have made that statement. They are also very wealthy. What does wealth have to do with age? They are not trying to secure their financial future.

I have this fear of getting old and washed up and no longer powerful in my industry. Never mind that every year, my hairdressing business grows and it appears I have still not topped out my potential. Never mind my clients adore me and get in a wad when I leave for vacation.

All indicators are that they respect and count on me. So, what is my problem?

Fear. I have often commented Fear is a lying counselor. So, why do I listen to him? I fight him every day. I count my facial lines like some people count their stock portfolio. I most likely will begin some sort of cosmetic surgery strategy soon. That is, once I sell my country "estate"!!

I actually lied about my age when I began this blog. I blanched when my blog said my Chinese astrological sign was the Rat. In fact, mine is the Monkey. Not just a Monkey, but the Fire Monkey. I like what he represents. Quick wits, mental dexterity, able to dance rings around everyone else, huge sense of fun, loves new experiences, delights in jokes, nosy (insatiable curiosity sounds better!), they have great imagination, intuition, full of goodwill, good at problem solving. . .

Okay, the Rat possesses wonderful characteristics, but I am a true Monkey. So, loyalty to my inner being compelled me to 'fess up that I am nearing the big 50.

"The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want, He maketh me to lie down in green pastures, He leadeth me beside the still waters. . . I will fear no evil. . surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life. . ."

So, WHAT am I worried about? I am going to listen to the confidences of my faith, my family and my peers and not heed the voice of Fear. I am sure he is no Fire Monkey anyway!

Biscuit

Cats. They are a world unto themselves. Sometimes playful, often snooty, can be very bad, and occasionally, whiny and needy.

My daughter loved them. But, she was horribly allergic to them. One night, she got into the car with her first husband and made a pronouncement to God.

"It is just not fair, " she began, "I love cats and am terribly allergic. Why did You give me this love and let me suffer these allergies? I want a grey and white striped female cat with a white belly and white boots and green eyes."

With that, they drove home. The following night, after a church service, she was waiting in the parking lot for her husband to get their car and into her arms jumping, purr and all, was the object of her prayer. She nuzzled and scratched the wayward kitty, let her down and looked for her car. Soon, the grey and white striped feline was back in her arms.

"Remember my prayer last night?", as she got into their car. "Well, here is my answer."

Prayer. Which came first? My daughter's mournful plea for a fuzzy companion or the cry of the owners of this teenage pregnant cat, wanting her to have a good home, but not willing to go through mothering a litter of kittens? At any rate, it would seem our gracious Father allowed everyone's needs to be met in the church parking lot.

Biscuit got her name because of her big purrrrr and her loving habit of "making biscuits" in my daughter's belly or hair. She has been part of the family for nine years.

Now divorced, our daughter is temporarily living with us. At one time, I too was very allergic to felines. And guess what, I don't sneeze around Biscuit either.

foreclosure

The "Country Estate" before her charcoal shutters or brick front steps!

It really hurt. Today was our first day working on our sweet country home since we foreclosed on our negligent purchasers. The whole place needs to be repainted. We may have to replace all the carpet and vinyl flooring. Yes, it is a doublewide. BUT, I always add, she has a built up tin roof, lovely front porch, complete with swing, screened in back porch and huge deck and she sits proudly on one-half acre.

Tell me, when did it become fashionable to decorate with stickers, pushpins and posters scotch taped to the walls and doors? And, so she did not love my aqua kitchen, but the pinkish beige shiny paint she "covered" it with might have been nicer if she actually finished the job. I guess she only had a roller, no brushes for cut in.

Between the limb Hurricane Dennis hurled through the roof and all the litter, we have a mess.

And this house was the one my mother died in after only being with us for one month. What an intense, love-filled thirty days. I paled as I discovered magic marker grade school graffiti in my mother's room. May she rest in peace.

My husband's square foot garden is a forest of weeds and debris. That is except for the spot that they put an above ground pool over the garden. WHAT?? On an entire half acre, why ruin the garden with their plastic paradise? Oi.

I think I must get much more emotionally attached to my residences than others. Maybe it is the hairdresser in me. . . I just want my home to feel appreciated for protecting me from the elements and hosting all my family events and parties. I like to keep her dressed up and feelin' special.

I think I heard our country home crying a bit today. Finally, someone was there to give her back her dignity.

career

I am a hairstylist. What a life. Clients come to me, so happy they are with me, because I will help them feel more beautiful. . . I am so glad I am not a dentist or an undertaker or a tax man. People are actually happy to have an appointment with me. It is a great life, bringing beauty and hope to wonderful women.