The best stream of consciousness written. Ever. Plus you got all 100,000 readers of Oldster taking selfies in our bathroom mirrors and missing our mothers, as if we didn't already.
The best comment ever . . . and I must amend the "stream-of-consciousness" description. It's never what I do. Every sentence is carefully deliberated to create the illusion of a person speaking to you. I hope everyone does take a selfie in the bathroom mirror, and I hope the lighting is as good in your mirror as in mine. xxL
Re: stream of consciousness--it is a mark of genius that it appears inevitable in retrospect. So, too, with the best writing. You've done it, Laurie. Take your bow, my friend. Turn up those bathroom lights.
You remind the world that no matter how old we are there is so much beauty in us to share. When I was young, my father used to take us on Sundays for waffles. So I would love to have a meal of waffles and real maple syrup and bacon with him and learn more about who he was as a young person. It is only now as I slowly purge the family home that I find remnants of him under a stack of magazines or in an old shoe box or hidden in letters secreted away.
My mother and I had a difficult relationship all throughout our lives. She's been gone 24 years. She used to say that we were like two ships passing in the night. I always felt that I never was the daughter she had envisioned. However if someone said you can have two hours with your mother on Sunday morning, I would be there in a heartbeat just to converse and laugh.
I am 72, and have a visceral dislike of the phrase "old lady." My dear friend (75) started calling herself an old lady about 10 years ago, and I have never gotten used to it. That is not what I see when I look at her. And even though I only know you from your writing, and a few photos (including this wonderful one), I do not see you as an old lady either. Just a beautiful and talented one. So much baggage with that term.
And when I see catalogues with models of diverse ages and sizes, I don't see "fat lady" or "old lady." Recently I took a couple of revealing selfies for a man who wanted them. (Lucky me that there is a man who wanted them!) A long-time lover who lives far away. I did it, and wished I still had the nude pencil drawings that a friend did of me in college. I wished that "boudoir photography" for everyone had been a thing 30 years ago, and that I had done it. I've never been much of an enthusiastic bra-wearer. But lately, in the right intimate circumstances, I do appreciate the eroticism (and the engineering!) of low-cut underwire bra.
First of all, that pic of you is glorious. And your words. Phew. So moving, Laurie. I can't even form my thoughts through my tears at this moment in time.
Beautiful piece, every sentence, but especially the Chinese restaurant dinners and the owl image, which brought up so many emotions. Shared meals do bring a flood of memories, and I love the way you described it, very simply but with great specificity. One meal for me that immediately came to my mind: my friend Len who passed suddenly last year. In college (1970s) he introduced me to duck a l’orange. We were both working class kids at a state university and for me it seemed like the fanciest, most elegant dish I’d ever tasted. Funny how that one dinner comes to mind after a half century of friendship.
Lobster Cantonese! I’d forgotten that was my favorite dish at the Chinese restaurant Dad would take us to for dinners after the divorce. Just a beautiful piece of writing. I should read the book.
Love this: At the shoot, I hope no one says, “You look great for your age.” It’s a lie and who cares. I love life more than ever. I just love it to pieces. No time to waste. This is not a gift of getting older. It’s just a fact. I have nothing to tell you that will make you happier about being younger.
"how was I to know I would be lonely for you?” It's so hard to know ahead of the time of death. I wish I was smarter, more intuitive about absence. Mothers are deceptive they should remind us over and over they aren't forever., we need reminders . They are the anchor tennants in life. Doesn't that mean they don't go away? I want a do-over.
My mom Toby was not an anchor, unless you mean the thing that drags you to the bottom of the ocean. I exaggerate. She would have laughed. The narrator of this piece is being a bit soppy and sentimental. I have no generalizations to make about mothers.
Absolutely gorgeous! How lovely it is to read about your mother, like she is in the room and you are introducing her to me. Fabulous, darlin', just fabulous! As far as being an underwear model, I wish someone would ask me to do it. I'd do it in a New York minute, if someone would take me to the shoot and home again. Not likely that's going to happen!
The best stream of consciousness written. Ever. Plus you got all 100,000 readers of Oldster taking selfies in our bathroom mirrors and missing our mothers, as if we didn't already.
The best comment ever . . . and I must amend the "stream-of-consciousness" description. It's never what I do. Every sentence is carefully deliberated to create the illusion of a person speaking to you. I hope everyone does take a selfie in the bathroom mirror, and I hope the lighting is as good in your mirror as in mine. xxL
Re: stream of consciousness--it is a mark of genius that it appears inevitable in retrospect. So, too, with the best writing. You've done it, Laurie. Take your bow, my friend. Turn up those bathroom lights.
Thanks Laurie. Your words, me, and the hum of the dialysis machine equals a good morning. We're alive!
Yes, we are! xxL
On it! xxL
You remind the world that no matter how old we are there is so much beauty in us to share. When I was young, my father used to take us on Sundays for waffles. So I would love to have a meal of waffles and real maple syrup and bacon with him and learn more about who he was as a young person. It is only now as I slowly purge the family home that I find remnants of him under a stack of magazines or in an old shoe box or hidden in letters secreted away.
Beautiful and thank you. xxL
Hot chocolate and cinnamon toast for both of us. I just want to look at him and for him to hold my hand.
My mother and I had a difficult relationship all throughout our lives. She's been gone 24 years. She used to say that we were like two ships passing in the night. I always felt that I never was the daughter she had envisioned. However if someone said you can have two hours with your mother on Sunday morning, I would be there in a heartbeat just to converse and laugh.
Exactly.
Beautifully crafted piece. I see many mothers in that snowy owl.
Thanks, dear Jill. xxL
Laurie's self-portrait has a Vermeer-like quality to the light. Beautiful!
Like a boulder on a mountain! This entire piece rocks … thank you
I am 72, and have a visceral dislike of the phrase "old lady." My dear friend (75) started calling herself an old lady about 10 years ago, and I have never gotten used to it. That is not what I see when I look at her. And even though I only know you from your writing, and a few photos (including this wonderful one), I do not see you as an old lady either. Just a beautiful and talented one. So much baggage with that term.
And when I see catalogues with models of diverse ages and sizes, I don't see "fat lady" or "old lady." Recently I took a couple of revealing selfies for a man who wanted them. (Lucky me that there is a man who wanted them!) A long-time lover who lives far away. I did it, and wished I still had the nude pencil drawings that a friend did of me in college. I wished that "boudoir photography" for everyone had been a thing 30 years ago, and that I had done it. I've never been much of an enthusiastic bra-wearer. But lately, in the right intimate circumstances, I do appreciate the eroticism (and the engineering!) of low-cut underwire bra.
I'm with you on all. xxL
Right on that you dont see old , or fat or other derogatory descriptions of diversity in your friend or others faces.
I miss my Mama too.
First of all, that pic of you is glorious. And your words. Phew. So moving, Laurie. I can't even form my thoughts through my tears at this moment in time.
Thanks, so sweet to hear. xxL
Beautiful piece, every sentence, but especially the Chinese restaurant dinners and the owl image, which brought up so many emotions. Shared meals do bring a flood of memories, and I love the way you described it, very simply but with great specificity. One meal for me that immediately came to my mind: my friend Len who passed suddenly last year. In college (1970s) he introduced me to duck a l’orange. We were both working class kids at a state university and for me it seemed like the fanciest, most elegant dish I’d ever tasted. Funny how that one dinner comes to mind after a half century of friendship.
That one dish summons a world brilliantly snapped into focus. xxL
Lobster Cantonese! I’d forgotten that was my favorite dish at the Chinese restaurant Dad would take us to for dinners after the divorce. Just a beautiful piece of writing. I should read the book.
Love this piece immensely.
“You, mom, are a great snowy owl.”
That line got me.
“Not everyone has a pretty mother.” Oh, that one sentence and what it makes me remember about own relationship with my mother…
Love your writing.
Love this: At the shoot, I hope no one says, “You look great for your age.” It’s a lie and who cares. I love life more than ever. I just love it to pieces. No time to waste. This is not a gift of getting older. It’s just a fact. I have nothing to tell you that will make you happier about being younger.
At 73, I just love it to pieces too.
"how was I to know I would be lonely for you?” It's so hard to know ahead of the time of death. I wish I was smarter, more intuitive about absence. Mothers are deceptive they should remind us over and over they aren't forever., we need reminders . They are the anchor tennants in life. Doesn't that mean they don't go away? I want a do-over.
My mom Toby was not an anchor, unless you mean the thing that drags you to the bottom of the ocean. I exaggerate. She would have laughed. The narrator of this piece is being a bit soppy and sentimental. I have no generalizations to make about mothers.
I shocked myself as I was anxious for her to go, maybe too anxious for my own good.
Absolutely gorgeous! How lovely it is to read about your mother, like she is in the room and you are introducing her to me. Fabulous, darlin', just fabulous! As far as being an underwear model, I wish someone would ask me to do it. I'd do it in a New York minute, if someone would take me to the shoot and home again. Not likely that's going to happen!