Author Archives: Stacy Lynn

Bug and Us

A tiny Chihuahua came to live with us back in August, and since then she has romped, cuddled, and squeaked her way into our hearts. We are beyond charmed by her awkward eagerness to be a special buddy to me, to Kevin, and to Pepper, our reluctant Pomeranian. We call her Bug, although her growing importance in our lives suggests a more respectful moniker…perhaps Miss Bug? Everyone who meets her is immediately enchanted by her quirky personality, her sweet spirit, and her gentle nature. One minute she is a bouncing little goofball, acting wild, and the next minute she is power napping atop the back of the old leather chair in my office. She is a whole lot of funny and a little bit of weird and oh so very delightful…just like Mack; and sometimes I wonder if Mack handpicked Bug herself and sent her to us.IMG_5288

Adopting Bug turned our house a little upside down at first with house training, fur-sibling rivalries, and life adjustments by and to our new little family member. But upside down was a good thing. It was exactly what we needed. We had become too sheltered. Too comfortable with our seclusion. Too exhausted by grief to seek out new happiness in the world. Kevin needed a project; I had become too reliant on Pepper to calm my anxieties; and Pepper needed a furry companion, even though she is still not convinced that Bug should stay. Bug arrived at our house with the energy and intensity of a puppy, her need for training dramatically altered our only-dog complacency and pushed us into the previously avoided neighborhood dog park where we have met new people and new dogs. Bug arrived at our house, claiming her spot as the baby in the family and demanding the constant attention of all three of us. Yet most importantly, I think, Bug arrived at our house to save us.

Grief is a lonely and bitter journey, but at times external forces make you stop to share the road; and when you do, little comforts are frequently your reward. I have learned that those comforts that come along the way are frequently unexpected and often arrive in small packages. In August, one of those unexpected and small comforts had arrived in the form of a tiny Chihuahua. But as my difficult 2015 is drawing to a close, I now realize that Bug is so much more than just an unexpected comfort. In recent days, I have realized that this silly, six-pound doggie has become my special friend; but she has become a sort of spirit animal to me as well. Bug’s dorky lovability, her goofy personality, and her kind spirit daily remind me of the qualities in Mack I always admired and promised to emulate a year ago as I faced my first New Year without her. The year 2015 has been a struggle, and it is a constant battle to survive my loss with grace. Bug reveals to me that I still have the capacity to love, to find new joys in unexpected places, and to embrace the future with a little hope. She can provide some grace with me on this journey.

Bug’s cute little face both connects me to Mack and gives me some strength to face 2016 without Mack. I know in my bones and in my soul that Mack would be so pleased that her dad and I have let this sweet little animal into our hearts. She believed that animals held the power to lighten many sorrows, and it would be no surprise to her that Bug could melt her Momma Bear’s heart. Of course, Mack would remain skeptical about the impact that Bug might have on our reluctant Pomeranian, but she would wholeheartedly approve of our new little friend and the magic of her little heart full of love for us all.

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And because I cannot pass a blog without an image of my Macko, here she is loving up on Pepper…

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Mack on Trumpet

When I registered Mack for sixth grade at Franklin Middle School, I insisted that she give the school band a try. It would be an understatement to say that she was not very keen on the idea, but she accepted my suggestion and mumbled that it would probably be better than choir. She made a typically dramatic Mack pitch for the percussion section, but just the thought of that kid with drums or cymbals sent shivers down my spine and made my ears bleed. Besides, we still had Savannah’s school trumpet in the house, and I knew Mack’s heart was not in the band so why spend any money? Always respectful of parental money arguments, Mack accepted the trumpet and said she would probably kick her sister’s trumpet talents in the butt, so perhaps the trumpet was the best instrument choice anyway.

Band was a scheduled class at Franklin Middle School, so a little practice time at home and a handful of evening concerts did not interfere with Mack’s involvement with sports. Mack loved the very cool and youthful band director, Mr. Keys (isn’t that a hoot?), and several of her best friends were in band, so Mack never complained about it. She made some pretty horrible honking sounds during the first few weeks of school, but after that I barely noticed Mack on trumpet anymore, so she must have gotten the hang of it. Besides, Mack was a three-sport athlete, so I had no expectations that I was raising a musical prodigy, nor did I hold any real hopes for trumpet solos or the jazz band. But since she never moaned about band, kept an A in band class, and participated in the first couple of concerts, I believed she was learning to read a little music and broadening her musical and intellectual horizons. And when my friend Alica reported that she had come home one day after work to find her daughter Maggie (one of Mack’s best friends) and Mack on their front porch playing their band instruments, I was like, wow, maybe this band thing was having an influence on my hyperkinetic child and would become a happy habit.

At the Christmas concert that year, the sixth grade band sounded so much better than it had sounded during their first concert at the beginning of the year, and I figured Mack on trumpet had at least a little something to do with the band’s overall progress. But then, sometime in the spring towards the end of the school year, when I was sitting in a camp chair in the grass at a track meet waiting to watch Mack high jump and run a slow 800 meters, I noticed all of the band instrument cases piled up with all the book bags near where the Franklin track team members were hanging out and waiting for their events. I wondered to myself if Mack had her trumpet over there, and it put in my head the idea to ask her on the way home if she still liked the band. Mack, who did not, by the way, get into the car with a trumpet case, skipped not a beat when I put the question to her. She said something like, “yes, it’s ahright. I’m not first or second chair or anything, but I’m pretty boss.” She said it without a hint of sarcasm or fear in the eye or facial tick that belied the words, but at that moment I knew damn well it was a Mack-happy answer and had absolutely nothing to do with the truth. The past months of school flashed across my brain. I realized that I had never checked to see if Mack was practicing her trumpet. I had no memories of hearing Mack on trumpet in her room after those first few days of honking. I had not a single memory of seeing her schlep to the corner of our street with that trumpet to meet the school bus in the morning. I could not, in fact, remember any time other than during the previous band concert when Mack was in the company of that trumpet.

I had a momma bear fit, accused Mack of being a band slacker, and told her she had better practice and be ready for the spring concert. She was unfazed, refused to make any practice promises, and said she would do just fine at the final band concert of the school year, which would also be the final band concert of her life. She had no intention whatsoever of participating in the seventh-grade band, and she informed me quite sternly that I just needed to get over it. I was not heartbroken about the band necessarily, but I was frustrated by Mack’s lack of effort on trumpet and I was mad at myself for failing to notice that lack of effort for an entire school year. At that final spring concert, I settled into my seat and trained my eyes on Mack on trumpet. As the band played, Mack pressed the keys of her trumpet, but it was absolutely clear that she blew no air into the instrument. And, it turns out, she had never played a single note at any of the previous band concerts either. She had faked her way through the entire school year of band. Mack on trumpet was, it turns out, never a thing. Mack on trumpet was a lie. And Mack deemed the farce one of her favorite Momma Bear scams.

Mack on trumpet 2Many years later, when we were packing up our Springfield house to move to St. Louis, Mack found the old school trumpet in the back of her bedroom closet. She opened up the dusty case, wiped off the mouthpiece, and played a “tune” (which I captured on my IPhone). Pepper, our Pomeranian, was, according to Mack, entertained by this impromptu concert; I am not so certain. But the concert definitely took us back to Mack’s great band hoax, which sent us into fits of laughter, and then we put that trumpet in the “keep” pile and packed it for St. Louis. Mack thought that even though she never really played the damn trumpet, it was a funny memento of her childhood, a reminder of the Mack on trumpet that never really was.

And for your listening pleasure, I introduce to you, Mack on trumpet: https://youtu.be/lYPal2JX1fc

Mack’s Best Friends: Justice

By the time Mack was ten and fully immersed in competitive basketball, she knew every player her own age and she was very aware of all of the best older players in the region. At tournaments, she enjoyed watching elite older players, and on the drive home she talked about them, analyzing their shooting styles, ball-handling skills, and prospects for playing at the college level. But after one tournament in the summer of 2006, in Bloomington, Illinois, it was a younger player who caught Mack’s attention; and all the way home she could not stop talking about her. Mack was in awe of this younger player partly because her approach to the game was so different. Mack was a pure point guard, a methodical executor of an offensive game plan and a skilled passer, who was more tickled by a slick assist than by hitting her own deep, three-point shot. In contrast, this younger player demanded the ball, relied on her athletic instincts, and was fast and fearless; and Mack respected her athleticism and full-throttle style. But mostly, Mack connected with this player’s joyful exuberance, as she saw a kid who shared her own passion for basketball and for life. Mack not only wanted to play ball with this player, but she wanted to make her a friend, too.

That player’s name was Justice; and little did she know in the summer of 2006 that she was in Mack’s sights, hand-picked for Mack’s impressive collection of best friends. But when Justice arrived at Franklin Middle School as a seventh grader in the fall of 2007, Mack—the big, confident eighth grader—immediately scooped up the new kid in her long arms and “collected” her right away. Justice probably did not know what had hit her; and it took about two minutes before those crazy girls became two peas in a pod. Mack made friends effortlessly, but I never saw such a fast and easy friendship as the one between Mack and Justice. They were soul sisters from the start and had more fun than any two girls in the history of American middle school. Together they were loud and joyful, took advantage of every second to breathe in and experience the world around them, and left a trail of mischief and merriment in their wake. Some of my favorite life moments were spent driving between our house and Justice’s house on the opposite side of Springfield with those high-spirited and noisy girls in my backseat.

In that first magical year as friends, Mack and Justice were still very different basketball players, but that was about the only real difference between them. They were both confident and mentally tough, cheerful, unfazed by popularity and preteen drama, smart but lazy students, witty and sarcastic. In the hallways at school, on the volleyball, basketball, and track teams, and after school and on weekends, Mack and Justice were joined at the hip. Justice became a part of Mack’s eighth-grade friend circle, and Mack spent time with Justice’s group of seventh grade friends as well. And, finally, those girls got to play some basketball together—at Franklin basketball practices (although Coach Bitner would not let them guard one another because they giggled way too much) and on a winning Gus Macker team one summer.

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Mack, Mariah, Corrine, and Justice

But most of the growing-up memories Mack and Justice made together had absolutely nothing to do with sports. They teased and pushed one another, looked out for each other, and accepted each other unconditionally. They were just kids together, acting like fools, making messes, and laughing…so much laughing…loud, hysterical laughing. I could fill a dozen or more blogs with Mack-and-Justice stories, but I will now offer three that reveal something of the nature of the relationship between these special kids.

Good-natured teasing: One weekday evening as I was preparing dinner, Mack came rumbling down the stairs and into the kitchen. She called for my attention, turned around, and bent over slightly, sticking out her rear end. She pointed to her butt, wrinkled up her brow, and asked: “Is my butt big?” I chuckled and told her that she had inherited some booty from my side of the family. Mack smiled and said, “Dang, I guess Justice is right. Today she was behind me going up the stairs between classes and super loud she yelled ‘Mack! You got some cakes!!’” Mack and I then laughed our big asses off; and Mack forever acknowledged that she did, indeed, have some cakes. It was a favorite expression she employed whenever she was shopping for a new pair of American Eagle jeans. Mack and Justice were always able to engage in such teasing, and I always admired that about them.

Well-placed loyalties: After just one year of attending school together at Franklin, Mack went to Springfield High School; and a year later, Justice went to rival Southeast High School across town. They competed against each other in basketball, and they each embraced the ferocious spirit of their respective schools. Mack was a true Senator. Justice was a true Spartan. And those girls talked a whole lot of smack to each other. But even though they were competitors and lived their school rivalries, they remained fierce supporters of one another, often cheering for each other from the bleachers when they were not in direct competition. They had only been school chums for one year, but their friendship not only survived the school separation, it grew stronger during their high school years. One year at the boys’ basketball City Tournament (which is a huge deal for school spirit and town sports’ rivalries in Springfield, just so you know), Mack made a “dangerous” decision to sit in the Southeast section with her friend. When I questioned her intent, Mack said something like: “City is so much fun, and I just gotta do one with J.C.” Justice provided a Spartan blue t-shirt and Mack joined the Blue Crew on one of the three nights of the tourney, only to be caught “blue” handed yuckin’ it up with Justice in a photo that was posted on the school district website. Some people were appalled that Mack would cross that line, and her basketball coach was horrified by the photo, but when Mack saw it, she shrugged her shoulders and without any tone of apology at all, she said: “oops.”traitor

Friends for Life: Mack and Justice worked hard to spend as much time together as they could over the years. Justice was a frequent weekend guest in our home, Mack hung out in Justice’s basement during the summer, and they included each other in various outings with their own friend groups.  Yet sometimes their busy teenager lives interfered, and weeks might pass between face-to-face visits; and then Mack would get lonely for Justice (or vice versa) and say, “I need me some Justice time.” What always amazed me about those girls is that no matter the distance, no matter the time, together they were always at ease. It was as if no time had ever passed at all. Even after Mack went off to Truman State, we moved to St. Louis, and Justice went to college in Kansas City, the girls enjoyed an easy and comfortable friendship that never faded. They really were two peas in a pod. They were life friends. They were sisters.

Many people we meet in life pass by us with little notice. Others play an important role for a time and then fade away. If we are lucky, we will know a few that grab onto our hearts and stay forever. Justice was one of those friends for Mack. Mack was one of those friends for Justice. And that is a beautiful thing.

p.s. I am so very grateful that Justice was a part of Mack’s life, and, in some ways, I now believe that Mack collected Justice not only for herself but for me as well. Justice’s spirit and strength at Mack’s memorial service brought me some solace in those terrible first days without Mack. Her random text messages over the past year have been precious to me, providing humor and support. And the way that she has chosen to honor her best friend by living a good and joyful life is an inspiration to me and should be an inspiration for us all.

Justice’s beautiful and funny eulogy to Mack: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n9e2NIGnbww

#Projectmack: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gKd5NWQm9ss

And some social media exchanges that make me smile:

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A Thanksgiving Tradition for Mack

Thanksgiving is a perfect American holiday because it is a holiday for all Americans, it transcends religious and cultural divides, it encourages gratitude, it focuses on the family table, and it celebrates food. For all of those reasons, Mack loved Thanksgiving, but mostly she loved it for the food. Every year as we drove to my sister’s house for our annual family feast, Mack would say something like: “Thanksgiving is da best, because I can eat three plates of noodles and no one will judge me.” (I can certainly attest that Mack could definitely put down some noodles!). Sharing a meal with Mack was delightful, because her love and appreciation for food was infectious; and Mack’s enthusiasm for food and her joy of eating always enriched our Thanksgiving dinners together. All holidays without Mack are difficult, but I feel her absence more keenly when food is the focus, and so Thanksgivings without her will always be particularly sad days for me.

In bracing myself last year for my first Thanksgiving without Mack, I wrote a blog about Mack’s love of food and her unique philosophy of eating. At most every meal she ever ate, Mack saved a perfect last bite for the end. It was a bite that epitomized the best qualities of the meal. A bite for which she would close her eyes to more deeply savor the food she had just enjoyed. A bite that would linger on her tongue and remain in her brain. Since writing that Thanksgiving blog, I have frequently finished a meal with a Mack-perfect last bite. It is a small and quiet way to honor my girl, but it is also a reminder to me to stop for a moment to appreciate the simple joy of good food. Thanksgiving is a holiday of food and of gratitude, and so it was a Mack-perfect holiday; and a Mack-perfect last bite is a perfect holiday tradition that I will always observe. So go break bread with your families. Go gorge yourselves on noodles (no one will judge you and Mack will definitely approve). And then, end the meal with a perfect last bite to savor, to appreciate, and to remember.

For inspiration from Mack’s perfect-last-bite philosophy, please read last year’s Thanksgiving blog: https://macksmommabear.com/2014/11/26/the-perfect-last-bite/. I think you will see that Mack’s joyous approach to food was, indeed, an inspiration. Love and cheers to you all and my best good wishes that your perfect last bites this Thanksgiving will be memorable.

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McDermott Family Cheers in Ireland, 2002. (Mack is reppin’ the Yankees in her motherland).

 

Mack on My Shoulder and in My Ear

At 3:30 p.m. on Thursday, I left my office in Springfield, Illinois, and headed south on Interstate 55 towards St. Louis. It was the last work day for four of my colleagues at the Papers of Abraham Lincoln (the Illinois state budget trouble had forced layoffs), and one of those unlucky colleagues, who also lives in the St. Louis area, was in the car with me. About thirty minutes into the trip, a woman in a van pulled up next to me in the passing lane, waving frantically. She rolled down her passenger-side window, and I rolled down my window, too. “There is smoke…it’s coming from underneath your car…pull over!” she yelled and gestured towards the back of my car. “Thank you,” I answered, surprised, and waved to her as she sped off ahead of me.

“Well that woman’s a little overwrought and maybe even crazy,” Mack’s voice whispered in my ear.

I looked in my rear-view mirror to see for myself. No smoke that I could see. No engine light flashing on the instrument panel, either. And the temperature gauge was settled far closer to the “C” than to the “H.” Mack was right. That woman was probably over-reacting.

Keep on drivin’ Momma Bear,” Mack said, “It’ll be ah-rite.”

I rolled down the window again and tried to smell the smoke. I thought I detected a hint of oil in the cold breeze, but not enough to be alarmed. “I think everything’s fine,” I said, “What do you think?” I asked Mark, my colleague. He didn’t see any smoke either, he was not convinced we were even smelling oil, and then he replied: “old cars burn oil.” When I informed him that the car felt fine and had just had expensive work done on the oil pressure system two days before, he agreed with me (and with Mack’s little voice inside my head) that we should just keep on driving.

About ten minutes later, a police SUV started to pull around me in the passing lane and then suddenly shifted into the lane behind me. The SUV followed for a time, making me nervous, and then the police lights starting flashing. “I was only going 75,” I said defensively to Mark, as I pulled off the road onto the right shoulder.

“The po-po’s come to get you, Momma Bear!” Mack’s voice chuckled in my ear.

The cop approached my car from the passenger side, and I rolled down the window. As he flashed his badge, he exclaimed: “There is a whole lot of smoke coming from underneath your car!” Mark and I were now convinced that we did smell burning oil, that the woman in the van was not crazy, and that the cop had probably just kept me from blowing out the engine of my aging but still very spunky Honda Element. The cop recommended that we pull off the interstate at the very next exit, which we did in Litchfield, Illinois, at a Conoco station. I popped the hood, Mark called his mechanic father and checked the oil dipstick, and I stepped to the back of the car to get the quart of oil I keep in an emergency kit. There was a greasy film thickly spattered over every square inch of the plastic bumper, the metal frame, and the window. Oil! Lots and lots and lots of oil.

“One quart ain’t gonna do it, woman,” Mack said.

I purchased three quarts of oil in the Conoco Petro Mart, right next to the drive-thru of the Jack-in-the-Box, which smelled far worse than the burning oil, by the way. My car’s oil compartment was totally EMPTY, and as Mark poured in two quarts of the new oil, I watched as it ran right out of the bottom of the car! I Yelp’d for a service station, and a quick phone call lead us to Neal Tire and Auto Service just a quarter of a mile up the road. “What in the world did people do before smart phones?” I asked myself.

“They got stranded in hick towns never to be heard from again,” Mack replied.

While three friendly mechanics investigated the problem for two hours (ninety minutes after their closing time) and made two trips to Napa Auto for parts, Mark and I spun worst-case scenarios for my car and speculated about how inopportune it was that he was performing as Renfield in a community production of Dracula that evening, and we were about sixty-five miles away from the theater located in the western suburbs of St. Louis.

“Don’t be all uptight and nervous, Momma Bear, and don’t be getting crabby either,” Mack suggested. “This ain’t no thing.”

Mark and I sipped on cups of the garage’s complimentary flavored Keurig coffee, charged our cell phones, chewed gum I dug out of my giant Pink Coach traveling tote, and laughed about how ridiculous it was that this last day we were sharing as colleagues had become such a damned fiasco. As the clock ticked and time passed, we realized the worst-case scenario was in play. And so at 5:30 p.m., I put Kevin on the road from St. Louis in his Jeep to collect Mark and me in Litchfield in case the mechanics failed to get us on the road by 6:30 p.m.—the time Mark had determined was the last possible minute departure that would give him enough time to drive to the theater, get into costume and makeup, and be ready when the Theatre Guild of Webster Groves raised the curtain for the 8 o’clock show.

“Daddio gonna get Irish mad about driving all that way for nothing,” Mack warned. “And you don’t even need this backup plan, because those three dudes got this.”

And just as Mack promised, at 6:20 p.m. those three dudes emerged from the garage bearing tidings of good repair news, I called Kevin to turn him back to St. Louis, I paid the garage $120.51, and they presented me with a receipt and a parting gift—the faulty auto part that was guilty for spewing out all of that damned oil and causing my car to smoke and spurring concerned citizens to my rescue. At the strong urging of Travis, the youngest of the three mechanics, I then drove my repaired but still oil-covered (and flammable) car through the car wash just a few doors down from the garage. Mark and I hit the on-ramp at 6:30 p.m., and I drove like a bat out of hell all the way to Mark’s car, which was parked at the Cracker Barrel in Troy, Illinois. As Mark gathered his belongings and stepped out of the car, he looked at me and said, “I think I will just make it to the theater on time.” “Oh my god, I hope so!” I answered, as he closed the door. “I don’t think he’s going to make it,” I said out loud as I drove out of the parking lot. “You stupid old car, you’ve ruined tonight’s performance of Dracula. How in the hell can you stage Dracula without Renfield?”on my shoulder

“You worry too much, Momma Bear,” Mack said. And then she gave me an evil “heeheeheeheehee.” It was a pretty damn good Renfield, if you ask me.

Despite the disastrous commute from work on that windy and cold Thursday evening, I smiled the rest of the way home. With Mack on my shoulder and in my ear, I am learning how to take life’s little dramas with more calm, and I am learning to infuse them with at least a little of Mack’s good cheer. I will never be as chill as my Macko, but I’m going to keep trying. And as long as she continues to perch on my shoulder and whisper in my ear, I will benefit from the talents of the best chill coach in the history of the world.

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And here is Mack sticking up for my stupid car.

The Best Idea Ever

Halloween was definitely a Mack-holiday. Costumes and candy are a winning combination for every kid, but Mack set the quintessential example of how best to celebrate and to seize the day with the most kid gusto. She believed that the collection of a giant bucket of candy and the permission to gorge yourself into a sugar coma was simply the best idea ever in the history of the world. She saw selecting the perfect costume and then putting your whole kid heart and soul into it as a moral imperative of childhood. And trick-or-treating through heavy fall leaves in our historic Washington Park neighborhood—where most of the houses were spooked out with deadly decorations, creepy lights, and haunted music—was her favorite night of the year.

I miss Halloween with kids, and last week I purchased a giant $15 bag of candy even though I will not host a single trick-or-treater. Those Halloween sweets sitting in a big bowl in the kitchen all week have reminded me of the Halloween memories I have of Mack. While Kevin, Savannah, and I enjoyed Halloween before Mack joined our family, Mack’s enthusiasm for the holiday inspired us all to make it family favorite. Over the years, the four of us celebrated Halloween with themed baked goods, truckloads of candy for trick-or-treaters, decorations (including an expensive porcelain haunted mansion), and regular costume parties. So on this Halloween day, 2015, I want to celebrate Mack’s love of Halloween, to pay homage to her exuberance for costumes and for candy, and to illustrate her wholehearted embrace of America’s best kid holiday. As per usual, photos speak more loudly than words where Mack is concerned, and the following images exemplify Mack’s enthusiasm for Halloween, illustrate her sense of humor, and reveal something of the evolution (or, perhaps, de-evolution?) of her chosen costumes.

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Mack would never have chosen a mermaid costume herself, but baby Macko had no choice. Mack was always horrified that I had dressed her in such a way, but I have no regrets; because I absolutely adore this Halloween photo of me and my girls!

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Little kid Mack from clown to witch to kitty to devil…

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Our old neighborhood was full of young families, and Halloween was a serious event…porches were transformed, lawns became graveyards, and there was one house where Count Dracula invited kids up to a scary porch through mist, spooky sounds, and haunting music. Trick-or-treating in our neighborhood was magical for my girls, and Mack always insisted we do some porch decorations. We were not the best house in the neighborhood by a long shot, but at the very least, we always had jack-o-lanterns and a mechanical bat that flew around the porch.

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Halloween costumes were almost always an easy way to tell my girls apart and to perfectly illustrate the differences in their personalities, as well.

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One year, Mack did not let a badly broken arm stand in the way of her and Halloween; and even dressed as a vampire, she was still the cool kid on the block (Word!).

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One year, Mack was a leprechaun, and it is my all-time favorite Mack-holiday costume. She was a leprechaun every day of her life, so playing one on Halloween was likely her most comfortable Halloween role. (A previous blog explains this perfect costume: https://macksmommabear.com/2015/03/17/mack-day/).

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I’m not sure how Mack came up with this one, but with her Dad’s movie makeup skills, she certainly looked just as awful as she had hoped.

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Mack trick-or-treated in our neighborhood her freshman year of high school against my protestations that she was too old. She argued quite emphatically that it was cruel to deny her one final participation in her favorite childhood pleasure. When she returned home that night, I watched her dump out the fully loaded pillowcase with the wild eyes of a ten-year-old, and I was glad she had convinced me to allow my high school girl to hang on a little longer to her childhood.

Here’s a costume from Mack’s junior year of high school, where I believe she was channeling her inner self…

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And here Mack is in college, where she brings us back full circle, dressing like a baby…

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Roll Down the Windows and Let It All Out

Mack loved to sing. She sang in the shower in the mornings before school. She sang in her bedroom while dancing on the bed. She sang to music blasting into her ears through her headphones in the backseat on car trips, oblivious to the existence of fellow travelers. She sang on the school bus on her way to out-of-town sporting events, leading her teammates in song and distracting them from the homework they should have been doing instead. But when Mack got her driver’s license, her old Jeep Wrangler became her favorite stage. She would roll down the windows, crank up the tunes, and sing with enough volume to overcome both the music and the Jeep’s rumbly engine. Mack was happy to serenade anyone within earshot. Carefree and unbothered about how people in the surrounding cars might judge her singing voice or her song choices, she would belt out her favorite tunes in Mack-crazy style.singing

I loved to listen to Mack sing. I loved how she would hum a pop tune while brushing her teeth or rap to Eminem in the grocery store. I loved pressing my ear against her bedroom door to listen to her sing and strum one of her guitars. I loved her singing with friends in the backseat of the car when I chauffeured them to the movies or to summer basketball tournaments. It was always a hoot to listen to them giggle and sing to twangy country songs like “Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off” or croon like divas to Beyonce’s “Irreplaceable.” I loved it when Mack’s exuberant voice filled our loft with Broadway show tunes on weekend trips home from college. When Mack sang, I was always entertained and amused, but singing with Mack was one of my favorite pastimes with her. She had a magical ability to pull people along for a warble; and when you sang along with that kid, she carried you with her to her Mack-happy plane of existence.

Over the years, Mack and I did a lot of singing together. When were alone in the car, I shared my favorites from the 1980s, and she got me hooked on Taylor Swift and Kanye West. We would sing so loudly that we couldn’t even hear the music. In the kitchen while chopping vegetables or doing dishes at the sink, we would sing Disney songs (“A Whole New World” was one of our favorites), and every crescendo featured Mack dancing with veggies or the dishes. We sang our own stupid original songs, we sang to our pets, and our birthday serenades were the stuff of family legend.

After losing Mack, I stopped singing. During work commutes from St. Louis to Springfield, I kept the dial on NPR, not at all tempted to blast my special ‘80s mix created especially for those weekly trips. Even during two long, solo driving trips to North Carolina and Nebraska this summer, I did not pass the time with music or singing. Grief has a way of stifling your enthusiasm for the things that used to make you happy, and singing in the car was one of those things I just stopped doing. But last week, on the way home from Springfield, when I was about fifteen miles from home, I changed the dial from St. Louis Public Radio to KSHE 95. The NPR story did not have my attention, and without thinking about it I hit one of the programmed buttons on the car stereo. Just as soon as the station changed, the familiar piano introduction to Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’” sucked me in, and before I knew it I was tapping my foot and preparing for the introductory lyrics. I turned up the volume, and I sang the entire song at the top of my lungs…just like Mack and I always did.

After the song was over, I remembered how much I loved to sing in the car. I remembered how much Mack loved to sing in the car. And I remembered that Mack had written a music blog for her college radio station that offered her top ten list of songs to sing at the top of your lungs. It is a very good list, complete with several of the favorites that she and I shared as well as a couple of more obscure Mack-like selections. Singing with Mack was a joy to me, and singing with Mack is also a cherished memory for many of her friends. Therefore, I offer up that top-ten list, complete with internet links below, so that anyone who wishes it can sing along with Mack in spirit. And since I can now sing in the car again, I will keep all of Mack’s favorites at the ready, sing them at the top of my lungs, and let Mack transport me over and over again to her Mack-happy plane of existence.

Top Ten Songs to Scream at the Top of Your Lungs (for KTRM Radio website) by Mackenzie McDermott

There is great music with amazing lyrics, music with really awesome beats, and super artsy and unique music. What kind you enjoy is completely a matter of taste. However, there is a certain type of song that magically creates an insatiable need to roll down the windows of your car and scream every lyric, even if you only know the chorus. It might not always be the best music—sometimes it’s even pretty bad—but this is the music that unites us all.

  1. “Bohemian Rhapsody”—Queen. I have never met a single person who can hear this six-minute rock epic without bursting into song. It’s inevitable, and it’s even better when there are multiple people rocking out to it in a car so that someone can sing every part, and no one is allowed to leave. ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fJ9rUzIMcZQ)
  2. “Oops I Did It Again”—Brittney Spears. Call this a “guilty pleasure” all you want, but there are two kinds of people in this word: those who admit to jamming to this whenever it comes on and liars. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CduA0TULnow)
  3. “No Scrubs”—TLC. This song is like listening to the ‘90s, and not singing along to its impossibly awesome chorus should be against every law. Roll down the windows and let it all out, because you don’t want no scrub. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FrLequ6dUdM).
  4. “Hold On”—Wilson Phillips. Here’s one that isn’t necessarily a conventionally “good” song, but when you hear it you can’t help but sing the three lines of the chorus you know and mumble along to the rest. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uIbXvaE39wM)
  5. Don’t Stop Believin’—Journey. ‘80s rock ballads will always be the perfect road trip music. With its up-beat music, super catchy lyrics, and awesome notes that everyone can totally hit (haha, Mack…not!), Don’t Stop Believin’ is an all-star screaming-in-your-car-song. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1k8craCGpgs)
  6. Sweet Caroline—Neil Diamond. The uncontrollable urge to scream BUM BUM BUMM during this song is overwhelming. It’s almost as if Neil Diamond has taken over your body and you are no longer in charge of your actions. It’s awesome. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1vhFnTjia_I)
  7. Livin’ on a Prayer—Bon Jovi. Whether it’s in the shower, a commute to work or just jamming out in your bedroom, Jon Bon Jovi knows how to make people want to jump around on their bed and sing at the top of their lungs. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lDK9QqIzhwk)
  8. Tainted Love—Soft Cell. This cover is so ‘80s that it hurts. And it hurts so good. Synthesizers and ridiculous lyrics make this song get stuck in your head in the worst possible way. You can’t help but drum along to this one. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qsMz9vIaLwQ)
  9. Bille Jean—Michael Jackson. Michael is great for so many reasons that don’t involve how much people like to sing along to his songs at the highest possible volume. Billie Jean is just one of the many of his songs that are perfect for this list and every other list ever. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zi_XLOBDo_Y)
  10. Say My Name—Destiny’s Child. Last, but certainly not least, is ‘90s girl band awesomeness. Similar to “No Scrubs,” this is a rock-out jam that makes you happy to be a woman, and you just can’t help but sing along. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sQgd6MccwZc)

And some additional links for your listening pleasure…

A Family Birthday Serenade recorded for Savannah (https://youtu.be/dy2_eVr_JrM).

“Irreplaceable”—Beyonce (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2EwViQxSJJQ)

“Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off”—Joe Nichols (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nj2700em-JQ)

“A Whole New World” (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-kl4hJ4j48s)

Ok people, now go sing at the top of your lungs…It is exactly what Mack would want you to do.

Remembering Mack: Great Deeds and Simple Gestures

One year ago today, we lost our incomparable Mack.Mack

For all of us who loved her, the sky is cloudier, the sun is less bright, and the world is far too quiet. With tears we have paved the winding road of this grueling, twelve-month journey without her. Along the path, we have tripped over anger, stumbled on sorrow, and struggled for air to breathe. Yet between stretches of hard travel through grief, we have taken respite from it by finding ways to keep Mack with us. Some great deeds as well as simple gestures have offered us rest for our weary and broken hearts, have given us strength to make it around each uncertain bend in the road, paid tribute to Mack’s beautiful spirit, and honored Mack’s significance in our lives.

During my journey of grief over these last 365 days, I have been buoyed by the abiding love of family, by the patience and kindness of friends, and by the constructive therapy of writing. I found solace in the beautiful and fitting memorial service for Mack, I drew strength from heartfelt tributes from her family members and friends, and I continue to take comfort in the photos and stories about Mack posted on social media. The tattoo on my wrist honors Mack’s name and will endure until my own death, an endowed scholarship will give meaning to Mack’s life in perpetuity, and an elegant brass plaque on granite in a peaceful spot near the Lincoln Tomb will mark the place where Mack will rest easy for all eternity. These great deeds and simple gestures have not lessened the reality of my terrible loss, but they have eased my journey. They have not kept all of the bitter tears and deep sorrow at bay, but they have provided me the strength I need to survive my terrible loss. Most importantly, they have shown me that despite Mack’s short time in the world, she made an inspirational and everlasting impression on the lives of the people who loved her.

Memorial Service in Springfield:

Nearly 600 people gathered in the gymnasium at Springfield High School on Sunday, October 12, for our public goodbye to Mack. It was a dreadful day for all of us, but it was also a respite from our private sorrow. The purple balloons, the giant picture boards, Mack’s high school softball teammates presenting her jersey, and eulogies by her second father, her favorite teacher, and her best friends broke our hearts but also lifted our spirits. There was great comfort in being there with so many other people who loved Mack. The dear friends who made this beautiful memorial service possible gave us all an amazing gift: the public time we needed to cry together, to acknowledge our terrible loss together, and to celebrate Mack’s life together.

Memorial 2    Memorial 4   Memorial 1

Social Media:

Social media has offered all of us a forum to share our personal stories about Mack, to post our favorite pictures with her, and to draw strength from knowing we were not alone in our grief. In the first terrible weeks without Mack, there were hundreds of tributes on Facebook and Twitter, and there was a deluge of photos, short notes, and longer homages. The daily posts have now ceased, but there is still a regular hum of activity on Mack’s page, as people add reminiscences, express loneliness caused by Mack’s absence from their lives, and, even sometimes, continue to talk to her. Say what you will of the vagaries of Facebook, but for me it is a positive presence, a helpful friend, and a portal to Mack’s beautiful collection of people.

IPad 2014 582       Social Media 1 Social Media 6       Social Media 4      Social Media 3       Social Media 2

Writing:

Just hours after losing Mack, I was compelled to write about my loss. This memorial blog has given voice to the emotions that A True Senatorthreatened to drown me. Writing shined a light on the path of my journey through the dark days, and I have been lucky and thankful to find some grace along the way. The blog captures my sorrow, but it also seeks to capture my girl; and in capturing my girl, it has led me to smiles and laughter I desperately need. The writing helps me and, it turns out, the writing helps others (especially Mack’s grandparents); and this is a most wonderful and unexpected gift that I am happy to bestow upon the people who feel Mack’s absence as keenly as I do.

Writing is a powerful remedy for grief, and I am grateful that others have picked up their pens to honor our incomparable Mack. Kevin edited a beautiful volume of Mack’s writing and has given us all a sweet and personal keepsake. But this fall, Truman State University will accession a copy of Mack: Her Life and Words (http://mackmcd.yolasite.com/) into the collections of the Pickler Memorial Library, which will preserve Mack’s words at the campus she loved. And as the following elegantly penned eulogies attest, writing can, indeed, set us free.

Truman State Tribute: http://tmn.truman.edu/blog/editorial/editor-remembers-mackenzie-mcdermott/

Kailey’s beautiful blog post: http://kaileytrieger.weebly.com/blog/in-loving-memory-of-mackenzie-mcdermott

Justice’s heartwarming eulogy: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n9e2NIGnbww

Personal Gestures:

Sometimes, it is a simple gesture that warms our hearts and keeps Mack close. In November, just weeks after Mack’s death, some of her golfing buddies (who played for a rival high school) wore Mack ribbons in Mack’s high school colors during their appearance in the state tournament. A favorite Mack mom made memorial t-shirts, and a younger softball teammate wrote her nickname for Mack on the catcher’s mitt that Mack had bequeathed to her. A lifelong friend and golf teammate adorned her golf bag with ribbons honoring Mack, and I and at least two other people who loved Mack, got tattoos to commemorate the imprint Mack made upon our hearts. (https://macksmommabear.com/2015/04/22/permanent-mack/).

personal gestures 1   personal gestures 5 personal gestures 4     personal gestures 6 personal gestures 2     personal gestures 3

Interment at Oak Ridge Cemetery:marker

Mack was cremated in Spain, but even upon the return of her remains to the United States, we made no plans for interment. As some time passed, however, and some of the shock wore off, we decided that interment and a permanent marker were important to us. Oak Ridge Cemetery, the beautiful and tranquil home of the Lincoln Tomb, was our immediate and contented choice. Springfield is Mack’s hometown, and the historical significance of Oak Ridge strikes a peaceful chord in my historical sensibilities. We have chosen a grassy spot under a gigantic and gnarled old tree that keeps watch over a quiet grassy area with old and new headstones. A marker in bronze with a lovely shamrock will note Mack’s existence in the world, all of us who need it will have a physical place to commune with Mack’s spirit, and the historian in me is grateful that Mack will belong to the ages near Mr. Lincoln.

The Mackenzie Kathleen Memorial Scholarship at Truman State University:

Most of my attempts to survive this unbearable loss have been small gestures that bring me welcome, albeit limited, peace. But the endowment of a scholarship in Mack’s honor is the best great deed we have accomplished since Mack’s passing. I take credit for the idea, and Mack’s father did all of the initial work with Truman State to make it happen. But it took a Mack-sized community of people to make an endowed memorial scholarship a reality. In just two short months, the annual scholarship for creative writers was fully endowed, and in August we honored our first scholarship recipient (https://macksmommabear.com/2014/12/09/honoring-mack/; https://macksmommabear.com/2015/08/15/magical-medicine/). The generosity and love of more than one hundred donors made this great deed possible. I am so grateful for the power of that generosity and love to bring us all some peace. And I stand in awe of the beautiful girl whose life inspired it all.

One year ago today, we lost our incomparable Mack.

Here we now stand with one year of life without Mack behind us. Every holiday. Every month. Every season. We have survived the lonely and sorrowful road through them all. Now we have some experience—however bitter, however hard—to understand something of the grief we have endured in losing Mack and to recognize the difficulties we yet face in our efforts to adjust to a world without her. And through all of our great deeds and simple gestures, we will continue to appreciate the time we spent with Mack, to cherish the memories we made with her, and to draw strength from the love she gave us and the love we have for her…always.

Silly Songs and Funny Faces

Mack loved eating, spending time with animals, and watching her favorite television shows, but I believe her favorite activity was making people laugh. For my funny girl, laughter was the essential ingredient for a good life; and I can say with certainty that Mack laughed every single day of her wonderful life. Laughter soothed Mack’s soul, and she developed a passion to evoke laughter in the people around her. She loved to be the cause of a good giggle, to bring on a big belly laugh, or to start a contagious chuckle; and she was particularly delighted if she could cause you to blow soda out of your nose.

Mack employed various strategies for unleashing an outbreak of laughter around her, and her methods reflected the sensibilities of her own inner child. She made up silly songs and sang them in ridiculous voices, and she performed her own unique renditions of popular songs. In a squeaky register, for example, Mack would sing: “And I’m on tonight, you know my hips don’t lie, and I’m starting to feel it’s right,” mimicking the singer Shakira but also adding a Mack-silly twist by singing out of the side of her pursed lips. Mack danced like a fool, could talk right through a belch or a yawn, told stories in a horrendous cockney accent, and always ratcheted up the teen slang with a heavy dose of nerd. Mack relished her repertoire of really, really bad jokes (many straight off of Laffy Taffy wrappers), and she made up her own dumb jokes as well. Of her Mack originals, one of my personal favorites was: “Why did the squirrel cross the road?” There were many that started with this question (and others that started with a chicken), but every time Mack began a joke in this way, she would lean in with an expectant look on her face and pause as she waited for her victim to nod, and then she would shout out the nonsensical answer: “Because there was bacon on the other side!” Mack would usually start giggling before she could offer the entire punchline, and people were laughing before they even knew just how bad the joke was going to be.

But while silly singing, crazy voices, and lousy jokes were useful tools of her laughter-seeking occupation, it was probably the art of the funny face that drew the most laughter. Mack could suck in her lips or bug out her eyes and make us all laugh without saying a single word. Mack’s humor was mostly of the low-brow variety, was usually self-deprecating, and was always fair and good-natured; and since she liked to use herself as the target for most of her humor, she rarely engaged in excessive teasing or orchestrated practical jokes at the expense of others. But there was one practical joke that Mack deemed particularly successful for the laughter it produced; and because it is a personal favorite Mack-story of “Stapes,” Mack’s beloved high school golf and softball coach,” I offer it here in his words:

“One evening after a golf match, the girls were getting brand new golf bags. Their old bags were going to the junior varsity boy’s golf team. Mack asked if her and fellow teammate Becca Ramirez could be the ones to give the bags to the younger guys. She and the rest of the team started laughing, so I knew something was up. After some conversations back and forth, I convinced her to let me in on the joke, because with Mack, she was always up to something. Mack said that her and Becca purchased 10 boxes of feminine products and planned to stuff every pocket in the bags with them. Now image, with me, if you can, 14-year-old boys getting ready to practice with their new Springfield High bags only to find them loaded with tampons. So, of course, I looked at Mack and told her to go ahead and proceed.”

With the approval of her coach, Mack then carried out her humorous plot. She giggled throughout the plans, she laughed long and loud with her teammates as they stuffed the golf bags with tampons, and she chuckled every time she told people that “Stapes” had joined in the laughter, too. But the belly laughs of those boy golfers were the laughs Mack enjoyed the most. They were a new audience for her, and it tickled her pink to learn that she was capable of sharing a good laugh with people outside of her own circle of friends and teammates.

Oh Mack, you were a natural, my dear. We enjoyed the giggles we shared with you, we treasure the laughter you brought us, and we know that every day you made us laugh was a day worth living.

sisters babies  nerd caffeing and yellow nailscheesin with kaitlin

no lips  dancing with a potato eye balls

Mack is Everywhere

Early last Saturday morning on my weekly trip to Trader Joe’s, I paused a moment in the floral department, and my eyes settled in on a lovely pot of fall chrysanthemums. The small plant I noticed first was just one of dozens of potted flowers and fresh-cut arrangements, many of which commanded far more attention than the demure and jewel-toned flowers on which I had fixed my gaze. The deep maroon petals and contrasting yellow centers were smiling brightly at me; and there in the floral department, I smiled back at them. mums

I had awaken that morning feeling a little more sad and a lot more empty than usual, and the short drive on a deserted I-64 stretch of highway to the suburban shopping center had made me weepy. But there I was, standing among those flowers, smiling, my spirit lifted in one beat of my heart. Mack was in that little pot of flowers that were, like her, reserved on the outside and vibrant in the middle. Mack was there in the store, daring me to smile away my gloomy demeanor and begging me to welcome the simple joys of a Saturday.

Because my Mack is everywhere.

Mack’s freckled face is in the clouds. Mack’s impish giggle floats upon the wind. And Mack’s happy, carefree spirit is an essential element of the air I breathe. She wanders around in my mind, always in t-shirts and over-sized basketball shorts. She sits upon my shoulder when I prepare her favorite foods or as I cheer for our Cardinals to beat the Cubs. And she sings those infectious yet saccharin Taylor Swift songs in my ear whenever a dreadful silence threatens to overcome me. Mack was on Cherokee Street when an empty Funyuns bag blew across my path as I walked between antique shops one Sunday afternoon. funyunsShe was at the intersection of Gravois and MacKenzie roads as I waited for that interminable traffic light to turn green just a couple of weeks ago. And she was in those chrysanthemums last Saturday, one of my bad days, when the simple task of grocery shopping challenged my shaky resolve.

I am not a religious person, nor am I spiritual in any way. Wish that I did, but I do not believe that Mack is watching over me from some heavenly plane. Yet I have come to consider my Mack “sightings” as real and essential and true. Real because they happen daily. Essential because they have strength to catch me when I falter. And true because they perfectly reflect what Mack was to me in life and must continue to be for all of the days I must live without her.

Mack is alive in my memories. Mack is ever in my mind’s eye. Mack is in my heart, in my soul, and in the world around me. Mack is everywhere.

Macko in hato

And who wouldn’t want to see that face in the clouds?

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