Still Not Getting It

When I was a child I joined Brownies. My father, having been forced into Hitler Youth, abhorred the concept of putting children in uniforms.

“This is what little girls do, Hans,” my mother told him. 

He adopted a stoic mien, but he never like it. 

So for a couple of years I endured the after-school meetings and the sniping mothers of my peers as we glued popsicle sticks together and performed tasks dictated by a book. At one point, searching for a higher meaning, I chose to attend the annual city-wide Girl Scout Tea. Though none of the other girls from my troop were going, and though I was only nine, I donned the uniform and had my mother drive me and drop me off. She was concerned about my not knowing anyone, but I was insistent. I can’t remember anything about the location. There were cookies. There came a time when girls gathered with their troops and filed into an auditorium. As my troop wasn’t present, I sat by myself at the back. The flag was presented, the pledge was said. Also, a prayer. Then a chubby loud woman talked for a long time about what a good organization Girls Scouts of America was. During the whole four hours I spoke to no one and no one spoke to me. I quit scouts soon after, not because of the isolation I felt at the tea, a situation of my own making, but because I came away from the experience thinking that the goal of GSA was to strengthen the organization, not to care for its members, or anyone else, really. 

A few years later, I was invited to join Rainbow Girls. Poor Daddy. While there was no uniform to wound his sensibilities, he and my mother were required to undergo an in-home interview to see if we were the “right” kind of people. He was a reserved person. Answering personal questions about religion and political leanings, and having people come into our house to assess his provision for his family must have been so difficult for him. Also, it hit him in the wallet. There was a relatively large fee for joining and we were expected to wear formals for every monthly meeting. Here, as with scouts, I thought I would find a comfortable place with like-minded young women. We would talk about issues and where we thought we belonged in the world, but that didn’t happen. There was, however, an intriguing clandestine element—a password known only to Rainbow Girls, and a secret gesture that would allow us to identify each other when we crossed paths in foreign lands. How absurd. Also, appallingly and pointlessly snooty. For God’s sake, it was a bunch of overweight teenaged girls from the panhandle wearing frilly dresses and saying mean things about one another. That lasted less than a year. Daddy never said a word about the wasted money.  

In college I pledged a sorority. The pledge semester was grounded in inexplicable hostility. The members bossed and berated us at every opportunity, exposing surprisingly sour personalities. On one particular night we were blind-folded and driven to a building in an unknown location. We could hear conversations, but we weren’t allowed to participate. We could smell food and hear the happy gulp of drinking, but nothing was offered to us. Six hours later we were returned to where we’d been picked up, still blind-folded, with no clue where we’d been taken or why. For this, I’d missed an evening out with friends and several hours of sleep. The eventual initiation occurred in near darkness in a parlor on campus. A loyalty statement was recited in unison; vows were made while candles flickered beneath our noses; and secret words were imparted—a phrase I assumed would help us recognize one another when touring Italy, a notion which inevitably led me to imagine Texas women rushing up to hug strangers while hissing code words into their ears. I went inactive the next semester. 

It was obviously not my thing, so why did I join in the first place? Because it’s wrong to judge if you don’t know what you’re judging. 

 As an adult, thanks to my inability to say no, I have joined and quit so many organizations that I lost track years ago. Thankfully, the unjoining has been made easier by our transient lifestyle. If I felt trapped by a club or organization all I had to do was wait a while and we’d move to another country. 

An example: while living in Houston, before we moved to Singapore, I was invited to join a women’s group called PEO. I was reluctant; but honestly, I was so fond of the sweet church women who asked me, and I felt helplessly unable to deny the great grandmothers who’d belonged to PEO for fifty years and were understandably desperate in their efforts to recruit a younger generation. With this organization, also, there was a secret word. Don’t get me started. The group met monthly for a lunch and a presentation, which always pertained to a women’s college that PEO supported—and in this, I’m happy to say, there was at least a worthy cause. But then I came to understand that I was expected to step up: I had been given the responsibility of assigning and overseeing the presentations for the upcoming year. 

“I feel caged by this thing,” I told David. “How do I get out of it?” 

“Sounds like it’s time for a move,” David said. And off we went. 

Here in Marble Falls I know many women who are in PEO. They become quite animated when they talk about hosting the gatherings, the meals, the socializing, and the programs. They’re dedicated in a way I never was and cannot comprehend. I keep my head down. 

I know someone who has recently been admitted to the DAR. She’s quite excited about it.

“We have meetings,” she tells me with enthusiasm.

“And what do you do at these meeting?”

“Oh, this and that,” she says, pressing her lips together and slanting her eyes away; her way of letting me know that these are private meetings concerned with private business. A joiner from way back, she’s comfortable with secrecy and exclusivity.  

As to the DAR, my familiar curiosity stirs. What do they do when they gather? What’s their purpose? Are meaningful issues discussed? Are problems solved? My aunt, deceased, went through the effort and expense of proving her ancestry so that she might be inducted into the DAR; so I suppose that I, too, could pursue it. Is there a hierarchy based on pedigrees? Do they have cloak-and-dagger code words and signals? I bet they do!

Most importantly, though, is that if I were to join another women’s organization, I’d eventually be forced to disentangle myself. And I’m rather fond of this part of Texas.  

This beauty, right in our backyard.

Why Stuff Matters More and More

When I came across Why Stuff Matters in an Austin library, I was gratified to see that a benevolent librarian had pulled a copy from the dense row of books and showcased it. It is, indeed, an attractive cover. But then reality reared its head—why is it on the shelf? Why isn’t it checked out? Why isn’t a reader right this minute coming to love Jess and Lizzie? Oh, frail ego, the ruin of my sanity!

Though it seems like I’ve been yammering on about Why Stuff Matters for years, in actuality, it was only released in the US this past summer. Because it’s relatively new on the market here, during the next week it will be introduced to the public through a tour of the Lonestar Literary Life bloggers, a group of knowledgeable reviewers who love books, especially books by Texas writers.  

So Why Stuff Matters is fixing to be set loose in all the media outlets. Reviews, author interviews, and guest postings will be included; so please like them, read them, and pass these bloggers’ blogs on. When it comes down to it, a book and an author only become known when positive comments are passed from one reader to the other. Each good review creates a new reader! So please view this endless publicity with tolerance and—dare I ask?—enthusiasm.

Thanks for reading,

Jen 

Adventures in Volunteerism

A local church group approaches my friend, Charlotte, and tells her that their chosen charity project for the Christmas season is to make adult bibs for a nearby old folks’ home; and, as none of their church members have sewing machines, they wonder if she’ll come help them with the sewing. She agrees to it and, thinking that two machines will be better than one, she asks me if I, too, will help out. While my rule is to keep my head down when people ask for volunteers, my most regrettable (and little-known) flaw is that when asked directly, I’m unable to say no. 

So, on the designated afternoon I show up at the small fellowship hall with my sewing machine and all the associated paraphernalia, which I tow behind me in a small rolling suitcase. A sewing machine is a hefty item and, though the burden is obvious, a dozen women seated around a couple of tables impassively observe as I prop the heavy door open with my hip and struggle to pull the suitcase through the narrow space. From the other end of the tables, Charlotte introduces me, and I return the hello nods with a nod of my own. Taking a quick scan, I determine where I’m supposed to be. A machine is already set up on a nearby table and I claim the adjacent space. 

Charlotte seems to be caught up in getting the work organized. She’s arranged five stations—ironing, cutting, pinning, sewing (that’s me), and turning—that’s when you turn the finished product right side out. Huh. I thought she’d be sewing, but instead she seems to be the project manager. I plug in and thread my machine as, behind me, she explains and demonstrates how the tasks are to be done. 

It’s not long before women start bringing me the bibs that are ready to be sewn. And it takes no time at all to see that not only do they not own machines, they don’t even understand the common-sense basics, like how the right sides of the fabric should face each other when you pin them together for sewing a seam; or how you should cut with the grain, not at any ole angle you please. And not only is the cutting jagged, how is it possible that two pieces of fabric, cut from the same pattern, are not the same size or shape? 

It falls to me to redo it all.   

As I’m facing the window, I’m not certain what’s going on behind me, but I hear. The mirth and teasing goes on and on, a soundtrack of never-ending laughter. From a central position, a woman feels compelled to belt out hymns of joy. No cutting or pinning for her; she’s moved by the spirit. At one point, men flow in, which sets the women aflutter. Listening to the ensuing exchange, which is loud and mostly foolishness, it strikes me how much these men think of themselves. God’s gifts. They settle their backsides into chairs, take no part in the work, and go to great lengths to distract the women. 

Meanwhile, with shoulders hunched, I repin, recut, and sew the bibs together. And as I do this, I ponder this mass ineptitude. My experiences tell me that it’s impossible for so many people to be so completely bad at something that’s so easy. What’s going on with these women? Is there some reason why they’re making no effort? Do they not care? Are they really this useless? No, it can’t be. Another possibility is that this incompetence is some sort of pretense, a deliberate ruse. But surely not. Why would someone want to be viewed in this way? I’m mystified.  

Charlotte settles behind her machine every once in a while, but only for a few minutes at a time because she’s constantly being called away to help with questions—how do you put more steam in the iron? Why is this pin not sharp enough to go through? Can stripes and polka dots go together? 

I listen to her as, patient and warm, she does for someone what they should be able to figure out for themselves. She possesses a forbearance that is beyond my comprehension. 

She approaches, puts a hand on my shoulder, and bends down to whisper into my ear.

“You might as well go ahead and turn these, too,” she says, placing a bundle of inside-out bibs beside my machine. “Would you mind?” 

Apparently turning bibs right-side-out is also beyond their abilities. I feel abused. My mood’s so foul that I’m unable to produce a civil reply, so I simply offer an affirmative jerk of my head. 

I work and work, never looking up. The singing woman continues to sing. People continue to chatter and laugh like they’re at a party. Mutilated and poorly pinned pieces of fabric continue to appear beside my machine. The reason for the men’s presence becomes clear when sandwiches and punch are brought out. The scrape of chairs is followed by a vocal migration to the other side of the room. No one offers me a sandwich. No one offers me punch. Repin, recut, sew, turn, set aside. Do it again. 

An hour-and-a-half later someone announces that it’s time to call it quits for the day. I begin gathering and packing my things. No one says good-bye. No one says thank-you.

“We made twenty-two bibs today,” one of the women declares. “Good for us!”

And I think, yeah, good for you, as I once again fight my way out the door. Dejectedly, I tromp to my car and load my stuff in the trunk. 

Whatever rant you imagine David being subjected to when I get home, multiply it by fifty and then add some. 

Two days later I help with the new community garden. Nine people show up. Ten tons of decomposed granite are spread. A pole barn is erected. Everybody works hard. The volunteers are respectful toward one another. There’s no singing or joking, just practical people content in their efficiency, satisfied by working toward a worthwhile goal. David is in charge of the project and, due to his dedication and organizational skills, it’s going to be a terrific source of nutrition for all the folks in the county who can’t always afford what’s on offer at the grocery store. I’m a hell of a lot prouder of the work I did for the garden than I am of the work I did on those bibs.  

We spread the decomposed granite which will make up the floor for the pole barn and the shed.

People cooperated and the work got done. Perhaps the tall people were of more use than the short people in certain areas.

Of course, there are always ladders.

The Dallas Trip

I should arrive at the Dallas Galleria around noon. I don’t have to be anywhere until tomorrow morning, which means my shopping will be relaxed. Though some think of malls as the bane of modern man, I went without them for so many years that I grew to appreciate the draped mannequins, the warm aroma wafting from the cookie place, the angled patterns of light, and the splishing fountains. And this time of year it’s all about Christmas, and who doesn’t enjoy that? This afternoon I will view and try on dresses for Sam and Julia’s upcoming wedding, which will take place in February on the property once owned by Stephen F. Austin, widely known as the Father of Texas. It’s an impressive location and they’ll say their vows surrounded by live oaks, pecan trees, and the snuffling and lowing of longhorns. 

David thinks I’m silly for dwelling on the dress: most men would think so. But there’s a hierarchy to be considered, a tradition voiced by no one and adhered to by women everywhere. 

The most prized tier belongs to the bride. This is her day and she has the final say in all decisions. Colors, flowers, food, location—all stand in evidence of her wisdom and good taste. Though she might disdain vanity and trends at other times, on this day she will be admired for her notable grace, charm, and, most importantly, unsurpassable beauty. This beauty is not to be challenged, and though Julia is gorgeous and not fearful of competition, there is still the everlasting law of the hierarchy that must not be tested; and to this end, while all other women in attendance should take care with their appearance, they should not take the utmost care. 

The second rung is taken up by the bridesmaids, in this case, ten of them. (Oh, Julia!) I know none of these young women, but I can imagine them—giddy, loyal, supportive, and, because Julia and Sam are who they are, representative of many cultures and nations. Indeed, they are flying to Texas from all reaches of the planet. These bridesmaids will apply their makeup and tame their hair in a modest fashion. If they are tempted to glow with happiness or excitement, they will respectfully subdue themselves. Under no circumstances is a bridesmaid to out glow the bride.

As to the mothers; third and fourth levels, respectively. The bride’s mother must present a more restrained countenance than the bridesmaids; and she must be slightly more lovely than the groom’s mother. Worth noting, though, is that on this third tier, the issue of color comes into play. The trim color Julia has chosen is dark green—pine, not Kelly or hunter. It’s a sagacious choice, right for the season and universally flattering. But what color does that leave for the mothers? What color will compliment both the wearer and the deep green?

“It’s just a dress.” David’s voice is in my head. “No one will be paying attention to you anyway.”

Oh, but they will be if I show up in a loud or clashing color.

Though Julia’s mom, Khim, is British, her heritage is Malaysian, which means dark hair and eyes. Her hair is short and her cheeks are soft pink. A retired midwife, she radiates calmness and contentment. She takes things in stride. And like me, she’s an open book. With her there are no undercurrents or agendas. I wonder where she stands on the issue of color. The way I see it, there are truly only three choices—a dusky rose, a pale silvery gray, or a multi-colored pattern, floral or geometric. Because Khim would look truly lovely in antique rose, I’ll leave that alone in case she wants it. And because busy prints look like pajamas on my squatty form, a pastel gray is my goal. As to style, I’ll simply have to see what the stores have on offer. 

It’s a disaster. Four hours, sore feet. In and out of every store that has dresses. Ruffles and pleats. Fronts that gape, waistlines three inches too high, trims that don’t match. Sequins, sparkles, and fluorescent pinks and oranges. Zippers on the outside. Fake jewelry sewn into the neckline—why? Unexpectedly, this year’s dominating colors are pine green, which is inappropriate because it’s what the bridesmaids will be wearing, and black, which is inappropriate because, well, it’s black. Defeat. 

On the way to the hotel I stop for take-out nachos. At the quick mart next door to the taco place I buy a Guinness. I check in to the hotel, eat while I watch TV, and go to sleep. 

The next morning I give a talk to a readers’ group that’s paying me enough to cover the hotel, gas, Guinness, and nachos—plus the added benefit of getting to publicize my books. Five years ago I would never have pictured myself sharing my novels, opinions, and experiences with twenty-five women. But I’ve done it several times now and I don’t hate it. In fact, it’s gratifying to be greeted by people who are enthusiastic about my work and want to know what I have to say about creativity, inspiration, and discipline. Hey, I have an ego. I never knew. 

That being said, though it seems like I’ve been publicizing these novels forever, Why Stuff Matters was actually only recently released in the states. So there’s fixing to be a big publicity push. Soon Why Stuff Matters will be everywhere. If you haven’t bought it, buy it. If you haven’t written a review, write one. Please. If you belong to a reader’s group or if your library invites guest speakers, I’ll go anywhere in Texas. Publicity is vital to the life of a book and the strength and longevity of a writer’s career. Mic drop. 

This is the theme color for the wedding. Sometimes cameras and ambient light don’t work together to give a true picture, but this is clear enough to give an idea, right? This color is being called “teal” in the stores, which I find puzzling. I think of teal as being more of a turquoise, a light shade of blue-green. Thoughts?