Wow! I can’t believe the day has finally come!! This has been a years long process in the making!
KINDA FUNNY: Stories by A Full-Time Comedian (with Four Part-Time Jobs) is now available on Amazon!!
This comedy-club-meets-therapy-session collection of stories is a mix of laughs, tears, heavy thoughts and awkward moments. I definitely revealed more of who I am in this book, so Iām a mix of excited and nervous to share it. You can read the stories at random or read straight through to the grand finale! šš
If youāve ever enjoyed my comedy, art or writing, please consider sharing this video with people you may know whoād enjoy some kinda funny content! And don’t forget to get your own copy TODAY!! YAY!!!
JJ takes her stories from the comedic stage to the comedic page in this comedy-club-meets-therapy-session collection. From aging parents, awkward first dates, and avoiding the dentist to traversing the difficulties of eating disorders, wrestling with faith and depression, and yet still stumbling into love after looking for thirty-five years in very odd places, JJ uses her experiences to reveal her understandings of humor, faith, mental health, and what it means to finally āgrow up,ā if thatās even something we ever actually do.
Youāll find stories that are kinda funny, kinda deep, kinda awkward, and even kinda spiritual, giving readers a place to go, offering comfort, sanity, and little to no answers about how to live a better life, but certainly a place to feel a little less alone and a little more entertained.
KINDA FUNNY reveals the freedom a quippy sense of humor can unleash in all of us by bringing levity to those gritty moments.
Iām not sure I have any business writing about this, but the news hit me deep and I feel lost within its reality. In many ways I lack the words to express how I feel, and yet writing seems to be the only way I know how to process it. Itās an awkward tension.
On a recent trip to my hometown I was notified that a friend of mine had passed away. I say āfriend of mineā and yet I hadnāt seen her in about six years. Even then, it was a grocery store passing, a quick hug and life update. I hadnāt been an active part of her life, nor she mine, in nearly 20 years. How does time go by that fast?
Truth be told, I donāt know if I thought of her as a āfriendā when I knew her best, which was in my teens and 20s, only because she wasnāt just a friend, she was my (former) boyfriendās mom. When I first met her at 14, I didnāt know kids and parents could be friends. She was definitely one of the cool parents, but that was as close as teen/parent relationships got in the late 90s/early 2000s, at least with other peopleās parents- they were either cool or not cool.
My parents were pastors, so I’m not sure the other kids thought of them as cool, especially since we never had the good snacks, or cable. My boyfriend on the other hand, his parents were cool, they had the good snacks, cable and a boat. Though they were cool, I was nervous to meet his parents for the first time, especially his mom, girls are always nervous to meet the mom. Despite being so young, I remember very vividly Mrs. Lisa’s smile and her laugh- it was a good hearty laugh that made you want to think of a joke just to make her laugh again.
I dated her son from the time I was 14 until just before I turned 21, and seeing as I spent half of my time at his house, she was, in fact, more than a friend, she was like a second mom to me in those formative years of life. Despite being young and āin love,ā unaware at the time that high school romances didnāt have the best success rate, she only ever made me feel like a permanent fixture in her family.
High school is an odd enough time, trying to navigate it is confusing and awkward. All I ever wanted (for whatever reason) was to fit in. I wanted what I think most people want, to be loved and accepted. When my high school boyfriend first showed interest in me, I was shocked. I was not āeye-catching,ā I wore sweater vests and braces and was too self-conscious to have developed much of a personality at 14, so I really didnāt know what he āsaw,ā but when we met, something clicked instantly. This was at a time when parents still drove their kids to the movies and usually sat three rows back. Two curious 14 year olds in a dark movie theater with no supervision? āYea right,ā my dad would say.
Essentially we grew up together, sweet 16s, driverās permits and licenses, high school graduation, college acceptances and tailgate parties, sharing time at each otherās house with each otherās parents. Despite being young, my parents loved him, so much so that they bent the āno dating till 16ā rule. I not only loved him, I loved his parents, and they loved me too. I know this because I felt it, and if thereās one thing a teenager knows, itās their feelings and how other people make them feel.
His family lived in a beautiful house on the Black River in Georgetown, SC. It was a 30 minute drive exactly from my house to his, which at such a young age felt like an eternity, but it was always worth the drive. I was greeted first by the dogs in the driveway, and then, with a smile on her face, Mrs. Lisa. She didnāt wait inside for me to make my way to the door, sheād always come out to say hello, give me a hug, and immediately I felt welcomed. Did I want a snack or anything to drink? How was my momma?
At the time, her greeting and questions seemed normal, but as Iāve gotten older, Iāve learned that not as many people are so quick to make such an effort to make you feel welcomed into their home. Itās actually an art, so much so that someone wrote a book about it, The Art of Gathering. I remember reading “when hosting a gathering and people come to your home, donāt just stay busy in the kitchen and expect them to come find you, be the first person to welcome them in and show them you are glad they are there.” That was Mrs. Lisa, whether there was a gathering or not, she was there to welcome you in.
I was an odd mix of outgoing and shy in high school. I was prone to express myself while simultaneously getting caught up in the opinions of others, stifling any sort of self expression I had stirring within me. With parents around I would usually get quiet in social situations, but when I felt like no one was expecting me to behave, Iād be the one dancing, doing impressions and taking any dare that came my wayā jump in the pool with my clothes on? Of course! Eat an entire stick of butter? Sure, why not? I was reserved and outlandish at the same time.
While I always wanted to behave properly in front of my boyfriendās mom, Mrs. Lisa knew I had a wild side, if for no other reason than she attended nearly every high school basketball game I had played in (her daughter also being on the team). So despite my ānice girlā image, she saw me foul out nearly every single game, often getting a technical called because Iād get so aggressive. Truly, I was a horrible human when I played basketball, nicknamed the Tasmanian Devil for just how chaotic I could get. And yet, Mrs. Lisa never once brought up my behavior on the court, she just loved on me and remained a safe space for me to keep growing up around.
For almost seven years we spent birthdays and holidays together. Every year for Christmas Mrs. Lisa got me a new pair of pajamas, which was always one of my favorite gifts. They werenāt just any random pair of pajamas, they were perfect for me, they were intentional. Mrs. Lisaās pajamas were pajamas I would have picked out for myself if I could have afforded them. My most favorite were a pair of purple leopard print pajamas, I wore them so long (well after her son and I broke up) that the purple eventually faded into grey.
With any breakup there comes a time when you let go of (get rid of) all the things that remind you of the other person. Thatās never been easy for me, Iām a story person who loves memories, not to mention Iāve dated some pretty good gift-givers, the best of which was my high-school-sweetheart, and his mother. Pajamas from Mrs. Lisa were the last item I still owned long after that high-school-sweetheart relationship ended and weād both moved on. I justified keeping them because they were from Mrs. Lisa, not from my ex.
Truth be told, Iām not entirely sure I handled that break up well (Iām also not entirely sure how one does handle a break up well). I was so confused, but who isnāt when theyāre almost 21, about to graduate college and still unsure of who they are and what they believe? There was a period of time, as with any breakup, where we were still seeing each other on occasion, along with each otherās families. But when things were āofficially over,ā that was the unexpected hit, losing the family that had become my own. No one prepares you for that.
If felt unfair that I had grown up with these people, Mrs. Lisa and Mr. Perry, who Iād come to love as family and just like that, they werenāt a part of my life anymore. I remember writing a letter to Mrs. Lisa that I still loved her and missed her. I think in a fit of grief I ripped it up, and must of calmed down at some point because I taped it back together and eventually gave it to her, in person, explaining I had ripped it up and taped it back together (who does that?). She hugged me and thanked me and said she still loved me, which meant a lot knowing her allegiance was to her son (rightfully so). I had more closure with her than I did with the ending of my relationship, but I felt at peace knowing she didnāt hate me.
From time to time when I would come home on visits I would run into Mrs. Lisa at the beach or in the grocery store, always a hug, a smile, and a few times, tears in our eyes. It was odd seeing someone you loved so much, who you had history with, knowing you only had a brief moment with them before things went back to them not being a part of your life anymore. I always wanted to linger but never knew how.
And that was the last time I saw her, one of those moments in the grocery store with tears in our eyes, long past the season of life in which we knew each other. Iām happily married now, and I can honestly say Iāve often still hoped to run into her again when visiting home. Thereās been plenty of times Iāve kept my eyes peeled for her in the grocery store or at a restaurant in Georgetown, thirsty for one more hug from her, a mom who saw me through all of high school up through college, still wanting her to be proud of me.
Thatās the kind of person Mrs. Lisa was, so kind-hearted and good-natured that nearly 20 years have gone by since Iāve been a part of her life and she mine, and yet I feel like Iāve lost a good friend. Iāve been caught off guard by just how hard it hit me, like I shouldnāt be so affected. The only thing I can attribute it to is who Mrs. Lisa was. She leaves that kind of an impact, whether you knew her for an afternoon or the entirety of your life, she made you feel so loved and so seen that thereās a void in her absence.
Despite having moved away long ago, now being back I feel a shift in atmosphere in Georgetown County knowing it lacks her presence. I simply cannot wrap my head around it. I have read her obituary so many times just to be sure itās real. I keep thinking one of these times I will check again and it wonāt be there, it shouldnāt be there. And yet there it is, her name next to the word āobituary,ā a brief commentary on the beautiful life she lived and the heart she had for people, especially her family.
Two nights ago I laid in bed and for the first time in years, I talked to her. I cried and I said all the things I had perhaps wanted to say (but didnāt know how) when I was either too young or too unsure if it was āappropriate.ā I said all the things I didnāt have time to say in the grocery store or passing by on the beach. I said goodbye, again, and I thanked her for loving me when I was young and at my most vulnerable. I thanked her for not just being a mom in my life, but being a friend. Iāve always missed her, so this feeling of missing her isnāt new, but it feels more final, at least on this side of eternity, and that part is hard to stomach. Iām grateful we shared a faith in which we believe in an afterlife and therefore no death is final, but Iāll be honest, it doesnāt lessen the pain or make it any easier.
I do believe in celebrating oneās life, but I also believe in grieving loss, and the loss of Mrs. Lisaās life is certainly worth grieving over. For the last 20 years itās always been possible that I run into her on a visit home, perhaps less likely as time went on, but possible. The last few days Iāve found myself still looking for her. A few times I even thought someone looked like her and I started to perk up, only to realize itās impossible, completely baffled that this time it is in fact, impossible.
I will continue to miss her laugh and her smile, choosing to take some comfort in the fact that I will see her again, without all the confines of human relationships and rules about breakups. And if I still know anything about Mrs. Lisa, I bet sheāll be one of the first to welcome people home when they get there. Whether it’s her arms youāre looking for or your own momma’s, sheāll hold the door open for us with a smile, I just know it.
Well, I’m trying to think of a more eloquent way to put it, but all that comes to mind is, “we did it!”
By “it,” I mean performing for 10,000 women at The Women of Joy Conference in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee last weekend. I was told there’d be 9,000 women at the event, which was already enough to make me squirm a little, but upon arrival I was corrected, “it’s actually about 10,000 women, only about a 1,000 more, so no big deal!” š.
When I first walked in and saw the venue space, I could not wrap my head around it, the chairs spread so far and so wide that not even a picture could capture it all. Surely the whole place won’t be full, I thought, but I thought wrong. The whole place packed out, women from all over the southeast and midwest, hungry for a girls’ weekend, a spiritual encounter and hopefully, a few laughs.
So that’s the “it” that we did: a show that size, for an hour, laughing all the way. And when I say “we,” I mean I absolutely could not have done it alone. We did it. First, my husband, Josh, who was with me every step of the way from the booking process to the week leading up to as I tried to prepare mentally, emotionally, physically and spiritually. After all, it takes a lot of work to make it look easy on stage!
Along with Josh goes a handful of people like my sister, Betsy, who joined us for the whole weekend, helped at the merch table and provided an overall sense of fun in the midst of what felt like a lot of pressure. She loved meeting all the ladies and by the end of the night she was signing copies of my book š¤£.
I’d never seen anything like it before, women and girls of all ages waited in line to get a copy of my book signed, grab a picture or just thank me for the laughter. Some waited more than an hour, many of whom met Josh and Betsy and enjoyed their company while waiting. By the time women reached me for a signature, Betsy and Josh had both signed the inside front cover… it was like signing a yearbook with some of my favorite people.
People kept thanking me for staying around, but I was the one who was grateful people would even want to wait to talk to me, let alone get a picture with me. My middle school self was thriving! “See kiddo,” I whispered back to her, “you’ll be alright, middle school is tough, hang in there!” The show ended at 9:30pm and we didn’t leave the venue until 11:45pm when the last person left. I was absolutely floored.
We went back the next day to sell more books and meet more people, we spent another four hours just talking with women and girls from all over, each with their own stories; some of struggle, some of triumph, all grateful to have had a break from it all just to laugh. “You inspire me to be myself,” one girl said, and that right there was worth it all.
Along with Betsy and Josh was my mom, who had been praying for me everyday since she first found out about me performing at Women of Joy. “I’m praying twice a day now, and so are my girls,” she said the week of the show (her girls are the ladies she prays with), “see, it’s not so bad to be on a southern lady’s prayer chain!” It was a clever jab at one of my jokes about prayer chains being a righteous way to gossip.
Other friends and family members joined in with encouragement and prayer as well. My dad and my mother-in-law often sent messages of encouragement or GIFS of love. Friends sent me voice memos and videos with words of support. Debbie, the woman who booked me and organized the whole weekend encouraged me like no other event planner/booker I’ve encountered. She cared, and she wanted me there, which made all the difference in the world for any amount of anxiety or nerves I might have felt leading up to it… I belonged there, and starting from a place of belonging versus trying to fit in is a game changer.
It’s not to say other comedy shows, producers and organizers haven’t been great, many have, but the spiritual piece is not something I’ve often encountered in the comedy world. I am neither a church comedian nor a club comic. I enjoy parts of both, but don’t fully resonate with either. I’m still in the middle of both my spiritual journey and my comedy journey. Social Media traps people into thinking they can’t grow any more, at least not in a public space. People think they need to find their audience and present their stance on everything they’ve “figured out.” While Comedy requires an audience, my goal in life is not to have an audience, and I certainly don’t have it all figured out. It’s an odd place to be… to still be growing, especially in public.
In some ways I still have a lot of healing to do from the church, unfortunately many people do, but unlike a number of “90s Christians” who’ve had some kind of awakening and decide to throw the baby out with the bath water, I simply can’t throw it all out. The church is still a wound for me, but I also still ache for the heart of Jesus and how He loves us. I still look for Him… in clubs, in churches, in theaters and bars… I’ve seen Him in all of the above, sometimes in the most unassuming of places. I’ve also wondered where He was, sometimes especially in the church.
Are you there, God? It’s me, JJ!
I’ve been welcomed into churches and welcomed into clubs. I’ve also been “not a favorite” at churches and “not a favorite” at clubs. That’s life, some people will get ya, and some people won’t, and it’s okay. Even in my attempts to look for one, I’ve always had a hard time “finding my audience,” I just enjoy making people laugh, I don’t care who they are (I am a marketer’s worst nightmare). But, whether making fun of my own insecurities, oddities about the church, or just overall awkwardness of life, it’s like my sister Betsy said after my weekend with Women of Joy, “well, looks like you found your audience: 10,000 recovering Baptist women!”
The best part was I never went looking for that particular audience. Through the ebb and flow of life we all just found ourselves there, relating to each other, perhaps not about everything, but enough to see the good and enjoy each other’s company.
And so, another part of the “we” would have to be all the women who were there at Women of Joy (not all of whom were Baptist, I loved hearing one woman claim her Catholicism while able to jokingly add, “who else was going to bring the crippling guilt?” š¤£š¤£. People who can laugh at themselves, I guess that’s my audience.
Hearing that many women laugh in unison was electric, almost unworldly. It was the first time it ever occurred to me that I hope Heaven has a comedy club. Maybe I will actually get to see Robin Williams perform one day, Gilda Radner too. I’m still unlearning a lot about church and relearning a lot about God, so I can’t claim to know much, but I do know that God has a sense of humor, and I think He gave me a dash of it, or at least lets me use it from time to time.
Even if I never get to experience anything like this past weekend again, I will forever be grateful that I got to experience it on this side of life.
“Thank you, God,” is something I mutter from time to time, whether as a sigh of relief or finally finding a parking spot. But as the last (not least) part of my “we,” I mean it sincerely when I say, thank you, God, that I did not go it alone, nor did I lose my sense of self, in the vastness of it all.
On March 10th of this year I went to Season Passholder’s Day at Dollywood- the official kickoff day for the 2023 season. I’m only just now writing about it because it feels like it’s been a whirlwind since then, and I have a big show rapidly approaching that has a little something to do with that day at Dollywood.
I woke up at 5:30am that morning, as eager as if it were Christmas morning. I hit the road by 6:30am and made it to the front gates of Dollywood by 9am. I checked into the media tent where I met up with a few other Dollywood Insiders who would also be capturing the day for their own content creation and blog posts.
I was happy to see my friend and fellow Insider, Angie, and grateful she was there as I’ve often felt like an outsider with the Insiders. This has been my first year with the Insiders and when you enter any established group of friends or co-workers, it can take quite a while before you feel like you actually belong. Angie was also a first year Insider and so we connected over not feeling connected.
Since Dollywood Insiders are considered a part of the media at Dollywood, we were ushered into the theater first where we were given incredible seats just a few rows from the front of the stage. I noticed that the teleprompter in the back of the theater had an introduction for Dolly Parton, signaling we would for sure get to see her. What I love about seeing Dolly is there’s no show before her that you have to wait through in order to see the headliner- she is the show– beginning, middle and end. There’s no host that tries to warm up the crowd, she doesn’t need that, there’s just an announcer that comes over the speakers, introduces her and she walks out.
She did her whole PR monologue that she has to do for media covering the event, then she took the time to thank us all in a more personal way without the teleprompter. She answered questions from the media and was absolutely hilarious. When asked how she managed to “do it all.” she flawlessly retorted, “I’m on drugs,” and the audience erupted in laughter. She followed up by saying “in all seriousness,” she got her energy from creating and hoped to continue to do good for herself and other people as long as she had a working bone in her body. “I ain’t got time to get old,” she said.
She ended the event by singing “I Will Always Love You,” something I’m not sure I thought I would ever see in my lifetime. I was torn between recording it and simply watching it. I did a little of both, making sure I had time to just sit in the moment, but it was still hard to wrap my head around it all.
Afterward we went to eat lunch in the park with the rest of the media. I tried to act normal as if we hadn’t just experienced something once in a lifetime, especially now that Dolly doesn’t tour anymore, but I kept saying “I think I just need time to absorb this.” I tried to engage in conversation, but I was mentally and emotionally distracted.
After lunch, Angie and I walked around the park getting all the content we needed for our upcoming blogs and vlogs. I knew there’d be a parade at 4pm, which isn’t so much a parade as it it just Dolly being driven around the park in an open air car, waving to fanatics like me while we shake pompoms and wave posters that say “I LOVE YOU, DOLLY!”
I really wanted to stay for the parade. I had attended the Dolly parade the year before and I knew it was spectacular seeing Dolly up close. The absolute only reason I debated not staying was that I had a chance to meet up with Debbie, the woman who booked me for a big event I’d be performing at this April, next week, in fact. She would only be in Pigeon Forge that weekend, just five minutes from Dollywood where I happened to be only for that day. The event was for over 9,000 women where I’d be performing comedy amongst other speakers and musicians.
I finished getting all my content around 3pm, only an hour before the parade.I wrestled with myself about what to do. Should I stay for the parade, push back my meeting with Debbie, making my two-and-a-half hour drive home that much later and get home crazy late? While Dolly is certainly worth getting home late over, I also hadn’t seen my husband in over a week who’d been traveling on business, and I knew he was finally home. In addition, I was also speaking at a women’s retreat the following morning and I knew being out incredibly late and waking up tired and unprepared would probably not be in my best interest. Nonetheless, I still would have done it for Dolly.
Something inside me kept telling me to not miss the meeting with Debbie, besides, I got to see Dolly sing “I Will Always Love You,” as far as I was concerned, I already won at life that day.
And so, I chose myself. I decided to go to the meeting about something I’m trying to do with my future. I choose taking care of myself right now in order to be a better version of me, instead of waiting around for an hour to be one of the masses trying to get a glimpse of someone else living their dream.
Season Passholder Day 2022
I got in my car knowing everyone would have amazing photos and videos of the Dolly parade, I’d probably see it later on social media and kick myself for not staying. I felt like a traitor for choosing myself over an icon worthy of other people’s attention.
“I’m sorry, Dolly” I said as I started my car, “I will always love you.” And I drove out of the park in the direction of my own dreams.
Next week is the big event, over 9,000 people- my largest audience to be in front of to date. Wow. I’m so grateful for the time I spent with Debbie that day, going over the process of events and reassuring me that I was the perfect fit.
All too often I let nerves or insecurity get in the way. I know I am capable, but then I doubt myself, assume I’m an outsider and tend to flail under the pressure I put on myself to be accepted. “We chose you for a reason,” Debbie said, “it is by no mistake that you are joining us. I prayed for each person I invited to perform, and God led me to you. You’re supposed to be there.”
Ditching Dollywood early that day was worth hearing those words, and the reminder I keep clinging to when I think about performing in front of that many people.
I had a birthday last week. Thirty nine. I didnāt see it coming. I knew itād come eventually, the way you know your parents are old or your grandparents will eventually dieā¦ everyone ages, so I will too, but not like them, right? Iāll be different, Iāll get older but I wonāt age.
I used to think the point of being a kid was to long to grow up, but while I was longing to stay up past my bed time or eat ice cream for dinner, I didnāt realize that along with adulthood not only came responsibility, but aging. Back aches, chin hairs, lines that start forming across my face like a road map. I wish I had more of an understanding of aging, not so much as a kid, but I would have liked to have been let in on the process much earlier than late thirties.
Much like the first round of puberty and getting thrown to the wolves to figure it all out, the adult puberty of aging has been an uncomfortable and confusing process. Many have gone before me, many will come after, and so here are some things I wish I had known from my late teens to my early twenties, and how I maybe would have approached life a little differently with these insights.
Your grandma will not always be around. Itās something you know in your head, but it will be hard to wrap your head around the reality of it until sheās gone. Spend time with her, as much as you can. Ask her about her life, her mom, her stories. Sheās not just some old woman or even your momās mom, sheās a person whoās had multiple lives well before you were even a thought. While it may be your time to shine in your youth, donāt let your grandmaās light dim just because sheās old. Sheāll grow into even older old woman, so regardless of what your relationship may have been like before, there is still room to love and grow and start completely over with a woman who survived multiple world wars, an abusive husband, a lost love and whoās heart has been softened by age. Let you grandma be a lesson to never treat someone as if they will always be who they used to be. The woman who you thought was a little too tough on you as a kid will be one of the most joyful older women you will ever meet.
1a. Love the elderly. They matter, they matter, they matter. You will be surrounded by people who advocate for kids, which is great, but youāll find few voices advocating for the elderly. Be one of those voices, they need it.
My Mommom.
2. You wonāt always be cool. Itās not that you were ever one of the popular kids, you made your way around with friends fine enough, but being young gives you a mindset that compared to little kids and adults, youāre currently in the cool group. Youāll feel this way up until mid-twenties, when those little kids start becoming high schoolers. It will get worse as you get older, climbing your way into your thirties and kids you used to babysit are now making fun of you the way you used to make fun of your parents and their friends. Just when you start to realize that old people arenāt really that old (remember you thought 30 was old in high school), kids start calling you maāam and new technology will come out that you donāt know how to navigate. Youāre no longer the teacher of the latest technology, youāre the student, and you hate it.
My advice, be kind to little kids, theyāre the ones who are going to grow up and out-cool you. Be even kinder to your parents and their friendsā you arenāt going backwards in age, youāre heading in their direction, so respect that theyāve already been where you areā just because they come from a different generation doesnāt mean they donāt know what itās like to be a human trying to grow up in a world that ādoesnāt understand the youth of today.ā Every generation says that about their youth, youāre not special because you have technology, youāre more prone to awkward social interactions, so maybe appreciate the fact that your parents are trying to keep you human in a world thatās only going to get harder to live in.
3. Believe in yourself. Even when youāre the runt in the group, the newcomer, the scrawny one, the less intelligent, the underdeveloped, the easily forgottenā¦ believe that you are capable of more than you or anyone else knows. Believe that most people donāt even know what theyāre doing or how to do it. Everyone on this earth is transitioning through life trying to figure out how each new season and decade works and no one has mastered all of it, and the ones whoāve have are dead, because only then is there nothing left to learn.
Donāt act dead before you get there. Show up, try, be brave, cry, try again, believe in yourself, and do not give up on yourself. That meaning will change over the course of your life, sometimes to not give up will mean to keep going even when itās hard. Other times, to not give up means to learn to rest when necessary. Itās okay to say āno,ā and even more so, āI donāt know.ā You donāt have to know it all, except that you are worthy. Know that to your core. People will tell you you arenāt worthyā¦ stand firm, respond kindly when you can, and know their words are about their own insecurities. Kindness first, followed by what is necessary to guard your own mental health.Ā
Figuring it out in a public space.
4. You will hear the things your mother says come out of your mouth. I donāt have much advice for this other than learn to laugh at yourself and think fondly of your mother. Perhaps maybe figure out if what is coming out actually rings true to you or if youāre simply repeating it because itās been engrained. Cling to the puns and your motherās sense of humor, you donāt know it yet, but it will serve you well in the future.
My Momma.
5. There are no guarantees in lifeā¦ including your parentsā marriage. This oneās gonna wreck you, probably longer than you feel like it should. Donāt āshould” on yourself. Let yourself be sad over something worth being sad about. Everyone will come out okay, but youāll still have moments, even 10 years later, where you feel the sting of losing what you thought everything was supposed to be like. Your relationship with both of your parents will change, but will grow into something even deeper with the reality of life piercing the surface level of everything being āfine.ā
I love these people. With or without the matching shirts.
6. Speaking of marriage, itās possible for it to be above and beyond anything you could imagine. Itās possible to be loved for you, all of your quirks and even your insecurities. You donāt need to morph and change ten times over in hopes that the current guy you have a crush on will notice you ājust happenedā to like the same things. You donāt need to prove to anyone that you deserve to be liked, loved, or even responded toā¦ you are already enough, already loved, already worth it. Sometimes itās not just the guy, but the timing. We all grow up at different times, donāt stunt your growth because a guy you like wasnāt ready to grow. Keep growing and trust the process.
June 4t, 2019. Best. Day. Ever.
7. Itās okay to leave the church to get closer to God. Having grown up in the church and worked for the church, youāll think you owe it everything. You donāt. The church is not God, nor is God the church. God is love, above all else. The church was never meant to show off the best of Christianity, the church was meant to love, help, and heal the broken-hearted. And just like we all mean well as humans, we all fall short. The church will too, after all, itās made up of people. It will let you down, leave you out, forget about you, praise you, change its mind, and at the end of the day just when you need it the most, it will call itself a business and ask you not to take it personally.
If thereās one thing the church should be, itās personal. Itās okay to give up on what you thought the church was supposed to be. Go find God in nature, in creative endeavors, in your elderly neighbor. Donāt give up on God, or humanity, just reset your own expectations, knocking the church off itās pedestal, realizing maybe itās you who had the church ranked too high, for it will always be filled with lost people in need of a savior, which if theyāre honest, is why theyāre there. Forgive the church and take as long as you need to restore your connection to God, never again to confuse the two (God and Church) as the same, but not giving up on the people inside the church walls who may need more help than even they realize.
This was on the chalk board of a youth group I showed up to work at. Right then I knew there was a lot of work ahead.
8. Sometimes no matter how much success you have, it will never feel like enough. Thatās just life and the human condition. It is essential to know in your core you are already and always will be enough. No accolade or sold out show will truly or permanently fill the void youāll feel from time to time. The void, I think, is part of existing in a world humanity wasnāt truly meant for. Learn to live in the tension of functioning on this side of eternity. Rest in your restlessness for something more, trust you have all you need, and enjoy the moment, itās all we really have.
From stage time…to home time.
9. Not everyone will like you, ever, and that is okay. Youāll never win everybody over, so itās best to just be yourself and let those who love you (for who you really are) find you. You will want recognition for all your hard work, but donāt sell yourself out or buy more followers to get it. Maintain your sanity by recognizing that all the greats were misunderstood and under appreciated while they were alive. Unfortunately, most people have to die to be truly appreciated and for their work to be viewed as rare genius. As a result, some even opt out of life early by choice. But trust me, itās not worth giving up on life, thatās not taking control, thatās giving other people power.
Peopleās recognition of greatness is not what makes someone great, unfortunately social media will make you think otherwise. Donāt fall for itā the likes, the followers, the millions of views everyone else has. In all honesty, who cares!? Theyāre just as, if not more so, empty, some of them aware, some not, all still struggling to keep going viral or come up with the next hit. Keep your head down, work hard, look up, breath, and take in the joy of all your creations regardless of how other people view them.
In addition, be open to constructive criticism. Not to be confused with the online attacks from trolls trying to belittle people to make themselves feel better. Unfortunately, those people will always be out there, finding something to pick on you for, no matter how good, kind or neutral your material is. Give them what they deserve which is absolutely none of your time or mental space. Erase their comments if need be and erase them from your memory.
Constructive criticism will come from safe people, who care about you, or at the very least care about how youāre coming across.
No one ever got better without the hard work of growth and coaching where they needed it.
From wanting to be an olympic synchronized swimmer to stand up comedian! You’ve come a long way!
10. Hang in there. Donāt spend too much time waiting for life to get easier, the truth is, it wonāt. The easiest day of your life will the the birthday you showed up into the world, by 39 more youāll realize that while life is beautiful and fun, it can be really hard, and even more hard, sometimes, to care about it. Sometimes you wonāt know why life is so hard, you probably wonāt ever understand the meaning of it, and occasionally youāll just want it to be over already. You arenāt alone. Where you fall short to care, know thereās plenty of other people out there who feel the same, and could use someone like you to show up and offer comfort without answers and company without agendaā¦ just because, people are people and desire to be loved and seen just as much as you do.
Iām sure thereās more, and by 58 maybe youāll add more, erase some or re-do the whole list all together. Thatās the beauty of life, we learn as we go. The internet makes the process a little more dangerous because the world is not as forgiving as our past mistakes when they find them on online. BUT! Nothing will block your drive to live well, or your creative process to keep flowing, more than the fear of others and the fear of making mistakes. Somewhere along the way youāll hear someone say āthe mark of a true disciple is joy and bravery.ā First try to remember who said it and write it down (youāll learn more and more people want their credit). But mostly, cling to thatā¦ joy and bravery. May you have both, be both and spread both.
“I wish I grew up in the 90s,” my niece said to me as she laid across my bed, staring up at the ceiling. I laughed and agreed that it was the best time to grow up; technology had not yet taken over, so much of it was still just an exciting experiment that we got to tinker with after coming in from playing outside.
“I heard there was only one phone for everyone in the house,” she said with a mix of amazement and curiosity. Mailey is 12 and going through an “obsession with the 90s” phase, the way I went through an “obsession with the 70s” phase at her age. I would ask my parents about folk music and what they did before video games. I am now my parents to my niece, giving her fascinating information about a time before her time.
My niece, Mailey, is visiting me in Tennessee this week, along with my nephew, Jackson, and my dad. Three generations in my house and I’m in the middle, no longer the kid at family gatherings. Wow, time flies.
“Yes!” I said, “there was only one phone, and only one person could be on it at a time. Your mom and I used to fight over that because we both wanted to talk to our boyfriends, but they would get a busy signal if they tried to call and the phone was already being used.”
“What does a busy signal sound like?” She asked. It felt very surreal, to be the grown up in the situation, explaining something that was as normal as peanut butter and jelly now be a non-existent thing of the past. “A busy signal? Yea, I guess you’ve never had to hear one… it’s like a contestant beep. It’s the most annoying sound in the world when you are trying to call your friends.”
“Weird,” she said, “so you just had to wait until someone else got off the phone?”
“Yea, OR…” I said, “we would do this thing called an emergency break through. You had to call the operator, say you wanted to do an emergency break through to a busy number. The operator would interrupt their phone call and say “hello, I have an emergency breakthrough from….” whatever name you wanted to give them. Oh man we used to do those all the time.” I laughed as I thought about the ways we tried to get ahold of our friends and boyfriends in the 90s.
“And the phone was plugged into the wall right?” Mailey asked, “one day I want to have a phone like that.” I laughed at the thought– kids now wanting a landline when all we wanted growing up was a cellphone. Whether landlines are cool now because they’re vintage or it’s simply a longing for a simpler time, I get it.
I continued to explain that someone couldn’t be on the computer and the telephone at the same time. The internet used the same phone line as the telephone, so you could only be on one or the other. “And,” I said, “if someone picked up the phone while you were trying to get online, it would kick you off, you had to start all over.” I watched Mailey absorb all the information I was telling her. “It sounds so much easier,” she said.
Technology was meant to make everything easier for us, and here was this 12 year old, laying at the end of my bed, aware of just how difficult and complex technology had made everything. Don’t get me wrong, technology has also done a lot of good for us, I’m not against it, I’m just aware of how destructive it can be if it takes over. “Yea, in a lot of ways, it was easier, we didn’t know what was going on with everyone else all the time. We couldn’t really compare ourselves to the girl in Holland making her own almond milk.”
Mailey’s trance broke, “what?” she asked. “Oh” I said, “just someone I follow on Instagram.” We both laughed and she agreed as she rolled her eyes at the notion of social media, “it’s weird because on the one hand I like it, and on the other hand, I hate it. And I hate seeing what everyone else is doing.”
I can’t imagine being 12 and having to grow up with social media, comparing yourself to the 12 year old who dresses like she’s 16. Where are her parents? And how am I now old enough to even care bout that question!? Her parents? What am I, someone’s mom?
I also can’t believe I’m at the age where everything I grew up with is considered a relic. I’m in this weird middle ground of thinking things like “kids these days, ridiculous!” and yet excessively buying Lisa Frank products on eBay because I want some of my own childhood back.
Mailey and I talked for a while longer, well past the time I stay up at my current age. As I noticed it nearing 1am I almost told her it was time for bed, and then I realized, she was on vacation, and she’d otherwise just be sitting on her phone, scrolling through content until her brain wore out and she’d finally fall asleep.
When people say “age is just a number, just keep doing things with gusto!” I think it should be less about cliff jumping and doing something “risky” for your age. I think it should be more about being willing to keep connecting with people, even when the easiest thing to do is call it a night, or scroll through your phone.
Mailey and I laughed and talked until 2am. I could barely keep my eyes open. I was hurting the next morning, but when I overheard Mailey re-telling the story, that she and Aunt JJ stayed up until 2am laughing, “my stomach still hurts,” she said, it was well worth every sleepless ache in my body.
Who needs cliff jumping when it’s just as intimidating and even more rewarding to figure out how to engage a 12 year old, in person, in the year 2022!?!
Bonding over the 90s: one remembering, one wondering- we make a great pair!
My younger sister, Betsy, just left to head back to Washington, DC. She came to visit me in Chattanooga for the weekend to celebrate her 37th birthday. It’s crazy when your younger sibling turns 37. Not only do I keep thinking I’m 37, I feel more like 27. Funny how the mind needs to be convinced that the body is not what it once was. I wake up with cricks in my neck, not from a night out of dancing, but from sitting on the couch in a slightly different manner than my usual lounge posture.
With my husband out of town for the week and a freezer full of pre-made dinners, I had plenty of time on my hands to prepare for her arrival. She’s been living alone since the beginning of the pandemic, and while she is the strong one in the family, I know it’s been really hard on her, if for no other reason than she often feels like she has to be the strong one. Being that I’m the middle child, I often had no problem flailing my emotions about, making it very clear I needed attention. I have since grown out of it, for the most part, but I still have my moments.
I was 28 years old before I realized that being a MIDDLE child meant I had a YOUNGER sister… meaning I wasn’t just a middle child, I was a big sister, with some one to look after other than myself. It was groundbreaking. We’ve been close ever since.
I set my intentions ahead of time, I had recently read the Art of Gathering and I learned that a good gathering isn’t just about the decor or the food, but about the intention you have for the gathering and how well you carry it out. My intention for her time at my house was to create a space for her to feel celebrated, but more so, loved and special; knowing this helped me think through what might make Betsy feel that way.
Since she lives a busy life in DC, she doesn’t often have time to do the things she’d like to do: cook, decorate, take a bath. Living alone means she’d probably even more so like to be on the receiving end of someone cooking for her, someone decorating her space, and… well, the bath she can do on her own.
I spent the week preparing for her arrival, from making the decorations and hanging them, to making the cake and the cake topper…
Though Josh and I have been living in Chattanooga since November, we have to yet to find a kitchen table we like… partly because Josh keeps saying he is going to make one, but we’re going on month four of that not happening, so I guess we’ll see. In the meantime, I went down to Wal-Mart and grabbed a cheap folding table to cover up.
Betsy and I used the table once the whole weekend and spent the rest of the time eating at the kitchen counter or on the couch. I guess it’s true that decor is a mere addition, take it or leave it, compared to the over all purpose of the gathering and being together.
The day she flew in she had already spent an extra three hours in the DC airport due to delayed flights. She was getting in much later than planned and I knew she’d be tired, not just from the flight, but the work week she had just come off of. I wouldn’t be able to fix her energy levels, but I could certainly make her feel welcome, and hopefully get her laughing after a long day.
I dressed for the occasion and awkwardly waited for her to come down the escalator in the Chattanooga Airport…
After waiting a while, enduring stares and little girls saying “Mommy, look” while pointing at me, Betsy finally started to come down the escalator. As soon as I saw her I began playing the Sisters song from White Christmas, you know how it goes…
And in no time, though tired from travel, delayed flights and a DC work week, she laughed out loud as I continued to sing and act out the song until she reached me.
“Welcome to your birthday weekend!” I yelled, and proceeded to keep playing and singing the song until we reached the car. I may have overdone it a little, but I’m still a middle child, sometimes I can’t help myself.
When she got in the car I had snacks and an itinerary for the weekend, letting her know she didn’t have to think about or plan a thing, it was all taken care of, all she had to do was enjoy it.
I’m not sharing all this to say “look at all I did!” (Maaaaybe the middle child part is saying that), I’m sharing it to say, it took me 38 years to do something like this for someone who’s been a part of my life all 38 years. It was long overdue and I’m grateful I was allowed the space in time to make it happen for her. I’m sharing it to say, I realized it’s never too late to make someone feel loved and special.
I played Hanson when we walked in the door, our childhood obsession. With the house decorated at each corner, she’d let out a little scream as she’d see something new. I had snacks at the ready while I finished making dinner.
After dinner she took a bath, an often daily ritual for her until pipes in her apartment burst and she hadn’t been able to take a bath for weeks. We joked about how anxious she must be since she’s only been able to take a shower, “yea,” she laughed, “sometimes I take two baths a day!” I suppose that’s what happens when you live and work in Washington, DC… you take two baths a day, not just to relax but to wash all the politics off!
She thanked me for everything and turned in early. I knew she was tired, but there almost seemed to be a sadness about her, not a heavy sadness, just a sense I had that she couldn’t fully express excitement. Times before I may have asked what was wrong, but this time I had a feeling she just needed to be where she was at, and I didn’t need to take any of it personally, wondering if she expected more or if I got the right kind of cheese. It wasn’t about me and so I let her go to bed, telling her I’d have homemade cinnamon rolls ready by 9am.
On the day of Betsy’s birthday I woke up early to prepare breakfast. Hot yoga was scheduled for 10am so I figured she’d be up much earlier to have time to drink coffee and eat. At 9:20am I still didn’t hear any stirring upstairs so I started to text her. Just before I hit send I heard her bedroom door open and her slowly walking toward the stairs, “ow, ow, ow,” she said, “I think I need help.” I ran over to the stairs, “what the heck happened?” She was slowly trying to maneuver her way down and began laughing when she couldn’t make it.
“It might be from sitting all day, but just before I went to bed last night, I felt a pinched nerve and I couldn’t go to sleep, I just laid there in the happy baby position.” We both started laughing. “What do you need?” I asked, “want to get back in bed and I’ll bring you coffee?”
“I think just water,” she said, “I’m going to take a bath and see if that helps.” I was pretty sure her taking a bath meant we were going to miss yoga, but she managed to make it in-and-out in time for us to go, stretching her hamstrings out before getting in the car, “ow, ow, ow.”
“Welcome to your late thirties!” I said.
After yoga we went and got smoothies, returned home and Betsy decided to take another bath. We both laid down for a nap, her having been up late with a pinched nerve and me having been up early making cinnamon rolls. Wow, I thought to myself, baths and nap time, we really are getting older.
I took her to get a pedicure at 1:30, during which she fell asleep and upon returning home again she took nap number two, after which she took bath number three. I guess that’s how she celebrates her birthday, I thought, lots of baths! To each their own.
After all the baths and naps, we got dressed up and went out to dinner downtown. We talked about previous birthdays, what our family looks like now and if she had an ideal man, what would he be like. “I don’t really have a type,” she said, “I’ve dated a South African, an Israeli, and a 50 year old. I’m open to any type of person, I only have two requirements: that he be emotionally intelligent AND available, and that we share the same spiritual beliefs. I’ve loved people who haven’t shared my beliefs, and in the grand scheme of things, it’s just too hard on the relationship to differ on your core beliefs.”
We were home by 9:30 pm and dressed for bed shortly there after. I had her blow out her birthday candles, being too tired and full, she passed on having a piece of cake. She opened the present I made her, a corgi birthday crown in honor of our family corgi (who she is obsessed with), Benny Boy.
After she went up to bed I sat on the couch with my own piece of cake and small glass of champagne. Josh called to say goodnight and we talked for a while. I told him I knew Betsy was glad to be here, I knew she was enjoying it, but it didn’t feel like she was. I wasn’t getting this excited reaction I would assume one would get when they’ve done everything I did.
Josh reminded me that sometimes people just need a safe place to be themselves no matter how they are feeling. “She might not be able to express it right now,” Josh said, “but you know she loves being there.” “I know,” I said, “I guess in some selfish way, I just want to feel it!” I knew doing things for her wasn’t about getting a specific reaction from her, and that if it were, I’d end up transferring my disappointment onto her, creating an uncomfortable environment to be in, all because I wanted more recognition. “Let her be where she is at and keep loving her there,” Josh said, “you’re so good at that.”
The next morning I had a Dollywood mug with her name on it and a Dolly Parton card sitting by the coffee maker. I wanted to set the tone for the day that this was it… the day we go to Dollywood!
Now that I live in Tennessee, Dollywood is my happy place. I’ve been three times since moving here four months ago- that’s about how many times I went to Hollywood living in Southern California for eight years! The week before Betsy’s visit, I went to Dollywood for Passholder’s day (Yes, getting a season pass was one of the first things I did as a Tennessean), and unbeknownst to everyone, DOLLY PARTON WAS ACTUALLY THERE! She waved at me when she saw one of my homemade Dolly crowns and I momentarily forgot to keep breathing.
Before coming, Betsy had said the one thing she for sure wanted to do was go to Dollywood. Piece of cake.
I was laying in bed drinking my coffee when I heard a knock on my door. Betsy popped her head in, “I LOVE MY MUG!” she said and she scurried over to sit on the end of my bed. We sat there talking for hours, there she is, I thought to myself, not because she expressed something I wanted to hear, but because she was finally expressing herself, talking, asking questions, laughing, the Betsy I know when she’s not weighted down by work, family drama, or living alone.
Had I made a comment like “oh you finally decided to show up,” or “nice to see you finally being expressive,” I think it would have killed the moment. A comment like that would have shamed her for simply being tired or worn out from life, making her feel unsafe to feel however she feels. Unnecessary commentary is what I am learning to discern, and I knew making a comment about her suddenly seeming lively would have made her feel bad about the days prior; something she didn’t need to feel bad about because there was nothing wrong with the days prior.
We drove two hours to Dollywood and spent the rest of the day there feeling like kids all over again. We both wore our crowns that donned our favorite things, hers, a corgi and mine, Dolly.
We drove the two hours back to Chattanooga listening to Dolly Parton’s America Podcast the whole way. Betsy had not only officially caught the Dolly bug, but she had finally felt rested and able to enjoy herself. “Next time I’m gonna take a vacation before my vacation so I don’t feel so tired on the vacation,” she said. We laughed and I was relieved I never made an issue of what I perceived to be her lack of enthusiasm. We had another day and a half together, relaxed and fully enjoying each other’s company.
By the time I took her to the airport she started crying, “I had such a good time,” she said, “I don’t really want to leave.” I made some stupid comment I read off of Pinterest in response, “Oh, don’t cry cause it’s over, smile cause it happened.” It kinda makes me gag now, especially when she responded while still crying, “well, I can do both.”
I laughed, “yes, you can.” She was right. And that’s what makes her the strong one, not an avoidance of emotion, but realizing she can be sad and grateful at the same time. She can be tired and lonely and worn out AND still enjoy herself and every opportunity she is given. If there’s one thing I know, it’s that life is a mix; a mix of emotions, not always compartmentalized by seasons, but often times experienced simultaneously.
Perhaps Betsy wanted her birthday to happen at a different time, when she felt more rested and had more time to enjoy it, but life just happens, without asking if we are ready, rested, or prepared. She turned 37 when she did, and I could either meet her there and love her, or I could complain that she wasn’t acting as happy as I’d like her to be.
When I returned home she left a note on her bed, thanking me for the whole weekend, for every thought and detail that didn’t go unnoticed. “I will never forget this weekend,” she said, “you made ME feel loved and special…
Aunt Jackie did a double take in the middle of her generic hello when she clearly realized it was my mom, “WELL HEY! Oh my goodness, it’s so good to see you!” My mom pointed to herself, “it’s Lydia,” she said. “I know it’s you,” Aunt Jackie quipped like how dare you think I don’t know.
“And this is JJ!” My mom pointed to me and I pulled my face mask down for her to see. “JJ!” She yelled, “JJ! WHOOO look at you, JJ! Great Scott!” I remember Aunt Jackie saying “Great Scott!” long before I ever heard Doc Brown say it on Back To The Future. She repeated back to us what we said to her, so we still weren’t entirely sure if she fully knew who she was talking to, after all, it had been three years since we’d last seen her, and things were getting more “fuzzy” back then.
The three of us sat silently for a moment all looking at each other, the Golden Girls still playing in the background. Aunt Jackie put her hand on my mom’s knee, “Pawleys Island,” she said with her slow Southern draw. My mom and I looked at each other as if to say she knows! We both got emotional. Our hometown of Pawleys Island was Aunt Jackie’s favorite place to visit. She loved the ocean and made annual trips with her own group of golden girls to soak up the sun and salt water. “That’s right,” Mom said, trying not to cry. “You lucky birds,” Aunt Jackie said.
I told her we had just come from Pawleys Island, “don’t say it too loud,” she said, “people might get jealous.” Already she was off to making us laugh. “Did you get in the water?” she asked. “Yes, JJ did, she went surfing,” Mom said. “She went to what?”
“Surfing, she went surfing,” Mom said, and I added, “in the ocean.” Aunt Jackie sat back in her wheelchair, raised her eyebrows as if she finally processed what we had just said, “that’s an ugggly thing for you to saaaay in front of me!” We both laughed and she asked if the water was cold, “it was freezing,” I said. “Oh!” Aunt Jackie took a sip of her coffee, “then I won’t feel so bad, ah ha haha!”
Aunt Jackie’s laugh is just as classic as her Southern accent, a much more sophisticated Phyllis Diller type laugh (and more enjoyable to listen to, in my biased opinion, but it has tones of the Diller cackle in it). As an old school Southern woman of devout faith, Aunt Jackie would die if she knew I compared anything about her to Phyllis Diller.
“So what have you been up to?” Mom asked. “What have I been up to?” Aunt Jackie repeated back as if it was obvious, “this!” she said, “this is what I’ve been up to… sometimes I move over there, or over there” and she pointed to different spots in the sitting area, “but mostly I just sit here and they roll me around wherever I need to go.” We laughed at her sense of humor about it, but also knew it must be hard to live confined within the walls of a place you can’t leave.
“It’s okay though,” she said, “most people just sit around here until the end, but not me, I’m busting out of here soon.” She nodded her head as if to say you know what I mean? and took a sip of her coffee. We laughed at the thought of Aunt Jackie busting out of assisted living. “Well if anyone can do it, you can,” I said.
“Yea,” she agreed as she nodded, “there’s a two-way highway right out front of this building. The only problem is, once I get there, I can’t figure out which way to go!” Mom and I were rolling in laughter. “Well tell me about the children,” Aunt Jackie said, “there’s one of the children right there,” and she pointed to me. Mom told her all about the kids being grown up, some married, some dating, one with a dog. The dog is what most excited Aunt Jackie, “Ohhhh, tell me about the dog! Now, what kind of poochy!?” We told her all about my brother’s corgi and she responded with “ooooh how cute” to each detail. She told us she had a dog but could’t remember her name. “Claudette,” mom said. “Who?” Aunt Jackie asked. “Claudette, that was the name of your dog.” It didn’t seem to ring a bell, Aunt Jackie shrugged, “well if you say so!”
I later found out the dog’s name was Tallulah, so both Mom and Aunt Jackie had a little memory slip there, but at least Aunt Jackie remembered what her dog’s name wasn’t. She told us about her horse, Solomon, who died 20 years ago but she seemed to think it just happened. “I think they did something to him,” she said, convinced that someone had prematurely put her horse down. This was where her memory was “fuzzy,” she clearly remembered things, but the order of events was disoriented. “I remember Solomon,” I said, “we used to ride him with you.” She looked surprised so I pulled up an old picture I had saved on my phone of my sister and I riding Solomon, Aunt Jackie standing beside us. Aunt Jackie gasped, “Oh! there he is,” and she began to mimic kissing the picture, “mwah mwah mwah, oh I love him so much.”
“I think they did something to him, you know?” and she sat silently for a moment as she thought about it. We weren’t sure who she meant by “they,” but it was clear that though the memory was fuzzy, it left an impression. After talking about Solomon for a while she asked about the children again. Mom went through and told her about each of us again, a little less detail than the time before, but included the part about the dog. “Ohhh, tell me about the poochy, what kind of dog!?”
The longer we stayed the more obvious her lack of memory became. She was sharp in that she could remember stories from her childhood, stories from our childhood, and pretty much anything we would remind her of, but where her memory failed was by the time we finished talking about a topic, she’d have forgotten we talked about it.
Aunt Jackie pretty much helped raise my dad, who’s own parents were always traveling as music evangelists with Billy Graham, America’s Preacher back in the day. Generations now don’t really know him, but any generation my mom’s age or older tend to have an idea of who he is. He prayed with every America president from Harry Truman to Barack Obama, my grandad always at his side.
Aunt Jackie started as my Granddad’s secretary, but quickly became a caregiver to the five children who grew up with a dad the whole world knew, who’s own children barely knew him. That’s another topic in and of itself, and there’s been peace and resolve made about that. I only bring it up to say, Aunt Jackie was just as a vital role to the family as a parent or grandparent to all of us. With all my grandparents now passed, she’s the closest thing I have left to a grandmother. She’d never accept the title grandmother though, “it sounds too old,” she’d say, so much like my dad called her when he was growing up, we’ve always called her Aunt Jackie (despite her being the same age as my grandmother).
I showed her all the pictures from when she worked with my granddad and Billy Graham, she remembered all of them and gasped with delight at each picture. I got to a picture of Billy Graham kissing me on the cheek, “this was at Nana’s funeral,” I said. “Who’s funeral?” she asked. “My Nana, Bille Barrows.” She sat back with a look of shock, clearly remembering who but not quite remembering that she passed. “Where was I?” she asked. “You were there,” mom said. “I was?” She asked with a sigh of relief, “okay good.”
It didn’t dawn on me that with the order of events being fuzzy, it might overwhelm her to know who of her friend group wasn’t around anymore. Aunt Jackie is one of the last ones left from the generation of friends who poured into our family over the years, having long outlived her husband, but she didn’t seem to notice. Probably a blessing and a curse, to not remember, there’s a sadness in the sweet memories not being there, yet a gratitude to not relive the pain all over again.
“Well what else can you tell me?” Aunt Jackie would ask, trying to think if there was any news she hadn’t heard yet. “Well what do you want to tell us?” Mom asked. “What do I want to tell you?” Aunt Jackie asked, “about what?” “About life,” Mom said, “if there’s something you’ve learned about life that you’d want us to know, what would it be?”
Aunt Jackie paused, “now I’m thinking, which is dangerous, but I gotta think.” She looked around the room and then looked at my mom and I, “don’t take life too seriously. Everything doesn’t have to be serious all the time. Just enjoy it,” she said. We agreed that life should be enjoyed more, which was humbling coming from a woman in a wheelchair at an assisted living facility.
“Do you want to tell her about your comedy?” Mom asked me. I proceeded to tell her I was a Stand Up Comedian, “Oh I love it!” She said. I explained to her that my sets included stories about her, “I always tell people about Aunt Jackie!” She laughed, “Ohh, don’t tell them everything!” I proceeded to show her my clip from Dry Bar Comedy where I tell everyone about my great Aunt Jackie. She needed me to repeat the punchline, “what’d she say?” when she heard the audience laugh. I retold her what she had said to me so long ago about how to be an artist when I grew up, “just get married and then you can doodle all day long!” She laughed hard at her own advice, “you can,” she said.
I recorded most of our time with her, and my mom recorded me showing her my Stand Up clip. It’s footage I’ll treasure for a long time.
Before we left she made one last declaration, “As for me and my house,” I was certain she was getting ready to quote scripture, “I’mma blow this pad first thing, you know!” We all laughed and she looked at my mom, “ain’t that right?”
I don’t have resolve for this post. We left on a happy, high note. I was so glad we had decided to make the trip. But it’s never as simple as leaving the facility and moving on with your life, well, it is and it isn’t. I still think about her being in there, alone in the sense of not with family or friends anymore. She had a whole life that looked so different than where she is now, all of it changed merely by the aging process.
I think about my own parents and what the aging process will look like for all of us one day. I even think about my own 98 year old self, wondering where I’ll be and if I’ll even make it that long. I hope to remember my husband, and yet I can’t imagine living without him should I surpass him. He knows, however, that if I die before him, he’s getting in the casket. “You coming with me,” I joke.
I over processed the whole visit on our drive home. I’ve thought about it for days after. Yesterday I re-watched the footage while laying on the couch and I heard Aunt Jackie say again, “don’t take life so seriously, just enjoy it.”
I sat my phone down, got up and put on my shoes to leave. “Where are you going?” My husband asked as I headed for the door. “I’ve been sitting around long enough, I’mma blow this pad!”
I went for a walk in the cold air, warmed by the sun, and I simply enjoyed it.
A few years back I got to film my first comedy special in Provo, Utah with Dry Bar Comedy. It was a unique situation for me given Dry Bar’s religious affiliation. They don’t promote anything religious, in fact, you wouldn’t even know they were (except for maybe the name “Dry Bar,” meaning no alcohol- even at the bar), but I suppose that is the beauty of a company who can hold their own values without forcing them on someone else. I appreciate Dry Bar’s approach… they don’t ask other people to be religious, they just ask that everyone be respectful of what they value if you are going to perform on their stage. Fair enough.
It was unique because given certain religious values, you had to not only work clean, but their version of clean, which is a little cleaner than church clean. I work clean, so I wasn’t technically worried, but their version of clean knocked out at least three of my favorite bits, none of which are dirty, but perhaps a little suggestive and leave room for you to imagine what I may be talking about. There was no room for imagination with Dry Bar, there was only pure, unadulterated fun… along with no alcohol.
I had to do some rearranging, which really wasn’t too difficult, in part because of who would end up taking center stage of my material given the omission of at least three big bits. The new focus of my material would be less about awkward dating situations in my 30s, and more about my slightly senile 98 year-old Aunt Jackie. I hear a lot of comedians do jokes about their kids, and while I’m sure children produce golden material for parents, I don’t have any kids, so I can’t count on a kid saying the darnedest thing to put in my act. In recent years, after spending time with my Aunt Jackie, I realized I didn’t need kids to make good comedy, because it’s not just kids who say the darnedest things… so do the elderly.
I’ve always loved the elderly, had more of a heart for them than kids, which is funny to me because part of what I love is how childlike they can be at such an old age. For some reason childlike at an old age is more endearing. Childlike at a child’s age is just normal, sometimes annoying.
For as sweet as it can be, I know there can also be really difficult things about the elderly reverting to a childlike state, losing their memory, forgetting who people are, or even who they are… it’s hard.
In processing aging parents and memory loss with an older cousin of mine, she shared that her mom (a different aunt) had put a tide pod into her Keurig machine. Thankfully, she was caught before she drank it. While my cousin tried to keep her mother in her own home for as long as possible, it was getting too dangerous for her mom to be alone at all. Fretting over whether or not she was doing the right by putting her mother in a memory care unit of assisted living, her mom kept showing sign after sign that she couldn’t be alone, like walking the dog with an electrical cord.
They had pictures up all over the house, her mom constantly asking who these people were, “these people” being her kids and grandkids. Physically, her mom was in great shape, which perhaps made it even more dangerous as she’d wander off outside and walk down the street until she got lost, not knowing where to return home to.
“She stopped living after my dad died,” my cousin said, “she stopped engaging, stopped going to activities or meeting up with friends, it’s the isolation that I think took her memory.” The day they took her to assisted living she protested, “you can’t leave me here with all these old people!”
We laughed and we also felt sad. “You laugh or cry,” my cousin said, “so sometimes you just gotta laugh for it to all feel okay.” I realized I didn’t want to make fun of the elderly, but I wanted to make light of a hard situation, especially for the families going through the aging process with their elderly loved ones. Sometimes you just need to laugh, not to avoid what’s hard, but to be able to endure it.
When I shared my material about Aunt Jackie in my Dry Bar set people loved it. “We want more Aunt Jackie,” people would comment, along with things like “women are not funny.” But amongst the trolls and their insecure criticisms of other people were compliments and love for essence of Aunt Jackie.
My special came out in fall of 2019, which meant a few short months later the world would shut down due to COVID. The last time I saw Aunt Jackie was the time I shared about in my comedy special, just a few months prior to the performance. She was also living in a memory care unit of assisted living, diagnosed with dementia. Aunt Jackie had no idea she was a hit, and two years later, she may have had no idea who I was at all.
This last Monday my mom and I made a trip to finally go see her. Between COVID, COVID restrictions, and long distance there always seemed to be some reason for why we couldn’t quite make it. Knowing her time was limited if for no other reason than age alone, we made the trip.
We were warned before going to see her that she may not remember us at all. We prepared ourselves mentally but held out hope that she would be the same sharp and witty Aunt Jackie we’d always known, loved, and quoted over the years.
Once we were in the facility, we walked down a long hall passing door after door, most of which were wide open, revealing elderly men and women, some of whom were asleep with their mouths open, some of them reading or watching T.V. As we passed a door where a woman was reading a magazine I heard her yell out, “Dolly Parton is 75 years old!” She wasn’t talking to anyone so much as just remarking out loud. I love Dolly Parton, so naturally I lingered to see what the old woman was going to say, she did not disappoint… “What the hell am I doing in here?”
When we got to Aunt Jackie’s room, her door was slightly open. She had a roommate who’s bed sat next to the door and Aunt Jackie was nowhere in sight. “Hi,” my mom said, “we’re here to see Jackie Wallace.” Her roommate pointed towards the bathroom, “she’s in the tub.” By herself? we both thought, is that allowed? “She knew she had company coming,” her roommate said, “so she wanted to wash up.” Well that seemed like a good sign, at least she knew someone was coming.
My mom and I waited in a sitting area just down the hall from their room. After about five minutes we heard all the nurses making a fuss, some even arguing about a lost patient, probably a frequent argument in a memory care center. My mom and I gave each other that look you give someone when something awkward happens but you can’t say anything- it’s all in the raised eyebrows.
After another five minutes or so my mom whispered, “I hope she’s okay.” I said I’d go check again. I walked back to her room and peeked in when a nurse noticed me and asked if she could help me. “Yea, we have an appointment to see Jackie Wallace and her roommate said she was in bathtub so I wasn’t sure how to go about checking to see when she’d finish.” The nurse had an A-HA look on her face, “Oh my God, that’s where she is.” She rolled her eyes as if to say “duh,” and said they had been looking for her. “Why no one checked the bathroom is beyond me,” the nurse said, “I’m sorry, we’re usually a little more put together than this.” Apparently Aunt Jackie was the missing patient the nurses were trying to locate, she remembered she had guests coming, but didn’t remember she’s not supposed to bathe alone.
The nurse had someone go in and help her finish while we waited in the sitting area. The Golden Girls were on the big screen T.V. and it felt like too perfect of a setting. Rose was making omelets for the girls without the yolks, “so we don’t get too much cholesterol,” she told Sophia, but she hated to throw all the yolks out, so she decided to bag them up to give to the homeless. “Your heart’s in the right place,” Sophia said, “but I don’t know where the hell your brain is.”
There couldn’t have been a better quote to sum up a memory care center.
“And here she is!” A nurse said as he rolled Aunt Jackie into the room. She started to say a generic hello, one that every southern woman knows; you act pleased to see someone even if you aren’t sure how you know them.
Would she actually remember us, or possibly pretend like she did? “HEY!” my mom and I yelled, and we pulled down our face masks just to see if our faces would ring a bell.
Here we are, another new year and a lot of the same ole stuff… well, at least some of the same ole stuff.
Today I found myself walking in my hometown of Pawleys Island, SC, grateful to be home, but also restless as to how to spend my time here. Tonight we are celebrating my mom’s 72nd birthday and I can’t quite wrap my head around watching my parents age. As a kid you imagine your parents to remain forever in the state you know them. Of course they’re old because they’re your parents, but they’re not old old. I remember thinking our 32 year old babysitter was ancient, and now at 38 I realize that 32 year old woman was still just a child wrestling with how to be an adult.
I’m not sure how my parents did anything with four young kids constantly at their feet. I hang out with my nieces and nephews for longer than two hours and I feel like I’m about to have a nervous break down, my only solace being their return to their own home. Bless their hearts. I love them, and I’m okay with kids in general, but I love quiet time and a clean kitchen and not constantly having to figure out answers to “why?”
I’m restless because at this age I figured if I didn’t have kids by now it would certainly be because of a career. But when Covid took care of that, I found myself waiting for the next two years for the country to open back up so I could get back out there. As I look back I realize, I spent so much time waiting, I’m no further than I was two years ago, having put my life on hold, now not knowing where to start.
I’ve decided to write again. Since I can’t control live performances and venue spaces and communities of people not wanting to crowd into a building to see a comedian they’ve never heard of, I’m letting go, not so much of the idea of performing, but of the waiting for it to happen. I’m going to get busy with what I can control, which in this case is writing, and honestly my first love well before performing came into the picture.
I started in on my second book a while back and am nearing what I consider to be the end. I’ll soon begin the process of organization and editing, followed by the grueling process of figuring out publication. I self published my first book, it’s called a spade, and while I enjoy maintaining the rights to my stories, I admit it’s hard to get the stories out there relying solely on my often neglected social media platforms; to live life or to “share” life, that is the question!
So, I hope to be back here more often, sharing this process with you, if anyone is still out there. In the meantime I still post videos from time to time over on YouTube. I’ll share my 2021 in review here to give a glimpse into what the last year looked like. I admit, I can’t complain. Perhaps that’s where the frustration comes in; much like Loki of Asguard (God of Mischief in the Marvel Series), I have a very good life, all while feeling burdened with glorious purpose.
Here’s to a beautiful 2022, whatever that word may mean to those who use it. I know it’s not the most quotable thing to say, and you certainly won’t see it on a Pinterest board, but I honestly hope to work more this year. That, to me, would be a beautiful thing. I hope to work so much that I eventually start saying things like “work less, play more!” But for now, it’s hard to enjoy the play when there’s no work to take a break from.
jj barrows 