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.

Spiders and Bugs

One summer afternoon as I was enjoying some quiet time with a book after work on my serene front porch in Springfield, a blood-curdling scream pierced my solitude. Through the screen door behind me, I heard a door slam upstairs, and then a thunderous noise roared down the stairs inside of the house as the screaming grew louder and louder and more and more shrill. Just as I was about to put down my book and go see what was happening inside, Mack flew out of the front door, jumped across the front porch, and raced into the yard. “There is an army of beetles in my bathroom!” she shrieked. “They tried to kill me!” Mack stood in the middle of the yard, dancing and whining, shuddering with revulsion, a look of pure disgust and horror across her little freckled face. When I started laughing at the child, she told me to shut up and go do something about it. Mack stayed in the yard as I went upstairs to repel the invading army. When I opened the bathroom door that Mack had slammed during her noisy and narrow escape, I found a dozen or so leaf beetles—the little orange bugs with black spots—hanging out around the nautical window high in the corner of Mack’s bathroom. So, basically, a handful of cute little lady bugs had defeated the brawny, ten-year-old Mack, sending her screaming in defeat out into our front yard.

Once when Mack and I were playing a quick round of nine holes at Pasfield Golf Course down the street from our house, Mack propped up her golf bag on the tee box of the third hole. She reached into her bag to withdraw her driver, as I was putting down my own clubs to watch her tee shot. After Mack withdrew the club, she let out a high-pitched squawk, threw down the club in a panic, and took off running down the open fairway. “A spider, a spider,” she yelled. “Oh my god, there’s a spider in my bag!” She kept tearing down the fairway as she yelled and while I peered into the golf bag, which miraculously had stayed upright. There dangling among the shafts of the clubs, I saw the remains of a small spider web. I started laughing, but Mack kept running! If there had been a spider present at the time Mack had reached into the bag for her club, it had disappeared during the ruckus. My high-school senior had abandoned her clubs and went screaming down the fairway of a busy golf course because there may or may not have been an eensy-meensy spider in her golf bag. And, what’s more, Mack adamantly refused to continue playing until after we had emptied out the entire contents of the golf bag and made damn sure that the offending spider was long gone.

Over the years, most of Mack’s friends and family members witnessed first-hand Mack’s response to bugs. But for those of you who never had the pleasure of a Mack-meets-bug episode, let me be direct and perfectly clear. Mack hated all creepy crawlies, great and small. Mack was terrified of every spider and every bug that ever lived. And although Mack adored all mammals and liked very much all reptiles, she abhorred and abominated insects and arachnids; and if one dared to introduce itself, you could rest assured that Mack would make a spectacle of herself getting as far away as possible.

To further illustrate the depth of Mack’s fear and loathing of spiders and bugs, I offer the following tidbits…

Mack may have been one of the best tacklers on her youth football team, but she ran away from adorable and beloved fireflies.

Mack never cried when she broke her arm, but she screamed like a baby every time she saw a bug, however small it was and no matter how close it was to her body.

Mack was one of the most self-sufficient teenagers I have ever known, but whenever there was an ant in the kitchen or a spider in her bathroom, she called her dad to come home from work to kill it.

For her entire life, Mack refused to sit in the grass, because a grasshopper might join her.

Mack once toughed out two days of high school basketball practice when she was suffering from a horrible sinus infection, but she once refused to get into my car when we discovered there was a chirpy cricket hiding inside.

Some of the best cardio I ever saw Mack do was in response to seeing an insect. Mack was no track star, but if she was fleeing from a bug, she probably could have been a state-qualifying sprinter.

Mostly, my Macko was a quiet person who rarely ever raised her voice. But, I kid you not, Mack’s scream at the sight of a bug could shatter eardrums and crystal wine glasses!

This face does no real justice to the faces Mack made when she was horrified by a spider, but it reveals something of the disgust she always felt when a creepy-crawler had the nerve to make her acquaintance…

And this just in…

After I posted this blog, Sierra, one of Mack’s dear and life-long friends, provided the following picture of Mack fleeing a spider. Apparently, during a weekend friend trip to Ali’s cabin, a spider made its appearance in Jackie’s car and Mack jumped into the trunk to get away!

For Mack, It Was ALWAYS Sunny

When Mack departed for Spain, she placed for safe keeping a pair of enormous pink sunglasses on the lime green bookcase just inside the door of her bedroom in St. Louis. These shades had been a favorite pair since middle school, but Mack determined that they lacked “dignity.” The lenses were square-ish and over-sized, and the frames were made of crappy, lightweight plastic. “I think I may have gotten these cheapos from the Dollar Tree after school in, like, eighth grade,” she said, as we were organizing her belongings to fit into the large purple suitcase that would transport her stuff on her adventure abroad. “I’m gonna take my classy shades, instead,” she giggled. “These baby’s here were like seven bucks!” “I’ll be lookin’ like a phosisticated ‘merican with these, don’t you think?” Mack then modeled a pair of green and brown, tortoise-shell shades with the attitude of a pop diva, and then she flipped them carelessly into her carry-on bag.

I left those pink sunglasses where Mack had left them until about a month ago, when I was organizing the bedroom to host Savannah. When I started to move them from the shelf to a nook on the desk across the room, I inspected them for some time. I could picture those silly sunglasses taking up Mack’s entire freckled face, and I remembered how much these and so many other pairs of cheap sunglasses were a part of her outward appearance and personality. From the time she was just a little bitty kiddo, she was always sporting a crazy pair of “stunna shades,” as she called them. As I stood there holding those awful pink sunglasses and daydreaming about my smiley girl wearing them, it occurred to me that not only had sunglasses been Mack’s signature accessory, but sunglasses were also a fitting metaphor for her sunny disposition as well. Mack wore her crazy and cheap collection of sunglasses rain or shine, indoors and outdoors. Although I had never really noticed it before, I realize now that sunglasses were an important prop for her. They portrayed her inner light and happiness as much as they shielded her sweet brown eyes from the sun.

Thinking about those sunglasses in Mack’s room that day, I determined to write about her fabulous self and her fabulous shades. Before sitting down to write, I went looking for accompanying photographs. I quickly found such a plethora of perfect photos, humorously illustrating Mack and her favorite accessory, that I decided a photo essay was the perfect approach. The following photographs do far better justice than I can do with words, so I will let my Macko do the “talking” for this one. Through the pictures she posed for behind various and wonderful pairs of her beloved shades, I think you will quickly see, that for Mack, it was always sunny!

I think these ridiculous pink and perfectly round shades were Mack’s first pair of sunglasses. For many months, she wore them everywhere…preschool, the bathtub, to bed, and to the cabin in Wisconsin. (And don’t ask me about that poncho; I have NO earthy idea!)…

Yes, Mack really did ride her first bike in the house with her helmet AND her shades…

Obviously, you have to be stunning in “stunna” shades during parades at minor league ball parks during celebrations for your summer basketball team…

Shades were, apparently, necessary for the indoor high school graduation of her sister…

Mack on the right and “sister” Maggie on the left were too cool for middle school…

The picture here does not quite do justice to the wild shade of blue of this pair of shades but, clearly, Mack and Sierra were too cool for high school…

Here is one pic in which Mack REALLY needed those shades, because she is with Savannah in sunny and hot Sevilla, Spain, during a family trip in 2011…

Mack rocked the sunglasses all through college. The red shades (in the photo with “Yackie” aka Jackie) were freebies from a street music festival we attended in downtown St. Louis…

And, finally…

The cheap “undignified” shades Mack left behind in St. Louis…

And the “classy” shades that traveled to Spain…

Cousins’ Weekend

In the McDermott family, Cousins’ Weekend is a cherished family tradition that has had a magical impact on the personal connections that eighteen McDermott cousins, now ranging in age from five to twenty-seven, feel for each other. In 1989, Bill and Dianne, Mack’s paternal grandparents, took the first two McDermott cousins—babies Jacquie and Savannah—to their Wisconsin cabin for a weekend; and that trip became an annual event around which five McDermott families planned their summers. Mack attended her first Cousin’s Weekend in 1995, and for the next eighteen years it was a highlight of each summer for her. During those weekends, she became a strong swimmer, failed at water skiing (the only sport she never conquered), lived on hot dogs and chips, fell in love with all of her cousins, and became the magnetic ringleader of the little ones.

On the south bank of Fish Lake, just two miles or so southwest of the Wisconsin hamlet of Hancock (population 417) the McDermott family cabin sits nestled among giant and fragrant pine trees. The humble, two-bedroom, wood-frame house, which is perched high up over the lake, accommodates the large and boisterous McDermott clan for one long weekend every August. There is a multi-level deck, a long wooden staircase down to the boat dock, an inflatable pier, a tree house, a private loft for the teenagers, and a small patio and yard. Therefore, the large group can spread out a bit, but it’s always crowded, ever noisy, and a raucous good time. Now in its twenty-sixth year, Cousins’ Weekend is a chaotic, full-blown McDermott party to which nearly all of the some thirty McDermott clan members make annual pilgrimage to central Wisconsin to share food, to spend time on the lake, to take impromptu walks and bike rides, to loudly talk over each other, to tell bad jokes and to laugh, and to roast marshmallows around a small fire on the beach at night.

Although she generally steered clear of large and loud gatherings, Mack enjoyed the hell out of Cousins’ Weekend. She loved the water, tubing, the late-night card games, the walks to the neighboring campground snack bar, listening to her Uncle Brian play guitar, organizing various ball games in the yard, teasing her grandpa and her uncles, and sharing her electronic devices with the youngest kids and teaching them tricks with a basketball. Mack adored each of her crazy cousins, and the feeling was mutual. And although it is probably wrong for me to say it out loud, let alone to put it into writing, Cousins’ Weekend never officially began until Macko arrived. The younger cousins would eagerly await her arrival, as Mack was frequently delayed by a basketball tournament, and there were always squeals of delight when their tall and smiley big cousin walked through the cabin’s front door.

This weekend, the cousin gathering at the McDermott cabin is underway. It is the same chaotic, fun, and magical time it always has been. Mack’s grandparents and father are there, as are three uncles, two aunts, and fifteen McDermott cousins. Those rambunctious cousins are swimming, boating, playing silly games, and laughing. Cousins’ Weekend is about fun and time together, after all. Yet there is also a dark little cloud that has settled over the cabin and the lake and the woods. Macko is missing and, in many ways, Cousins’ Weekend will never be the same again.

But it is absolutely true that Cousin Macko would be so very happy to know that the tradition continues and that far too many people are crammed into that cabin, together once again, catching up with each other before the summer ends and all of them are busy with their own lives. Mack would be excited to know the little ones are learning how to water ski. She would chuckle to learn that Grandpa Bill is still trying to shake the older kids off of the tube into the cold water behind the boat’s wake. She would be happy that hot dogs and toasted marshmallows are being consumed with reckless abandon and that someone (probably Cousin Sam) is telling a very bad joke that has made everyone laugh and at least one little cousin fart.

But Mack would want her cousins to know that Cousins’ Weekend was “da bestest,” that they were all—each and every one of them—important to her, and that she always enjoyed her time with them, even though it was often too short. And, perhaps most importantly, Macko would want her cousins to know that much of what she understood about people and the world around her she learned from them; and she gained most of that useful knowledge during those magical meetings with them at Fish Lake in the middle of Wisconsin.

Cousins’ Weekend, 2005 (Mack is in the middle in white t-shirt, sporting her corn-row braids)…

Cousins’ Weekend, 2011. No doubt, Mack is telling one of her uncles “what’s up” as Kevin and Grandma Dianne look on…

Here is Mack (in a blue tank top) leading the pack of kiddos in the yard and on the beach…

Fun on the inflatable pier and slide. Mack’s back is to the camera, as she gets ready to jump into the lake…

In this photo, Sam is hanging on tight to Macko to keep her from leaving…

And, finally, a picture that for me sums up the value of Cousins’ Weekend. Here Mack is on the right with Kelty on the left, and little Zachary sandwiched in between his two adoring and fun older cousins…

Benji the Jeep

When her sister moved to Spain in July 2010, Mack inherited our 1997 Jeep Wrangler. Mack had been driving since March, sharing my boxy blue (and very uncool) Honda Element, so she was very happy that her sissy decided to leave the country. That soft-top, gun-metal blue, noisy, old Jeep and my Macko were a match made in highway heaven. That spunky car befitted Mack’s personality, matching her casual, no-frills style and providing endless material for her unique brand of self-deprecating humor. The Jeep ran pretty well and, for an old guy, was still very reliable, yet it sported a few rusty spots and some tattered upholstery, rattled and roared over bumps, idled raucously at stop lights, and sometimes sputtered between second and third gears. But Mack, as she did with every person and possession in her life, accepted that old Jeep for what it was; and she was grateful to have it all to herself.

When we presented to Mack her own set of keys to the Jeep, she announced her undying devotion to her new four-wheeled friend, and she frequently reminded her sister via Skype that the Jeep was ALL hers now and forever. She named it Benji, talked to it like it was an old friend who needed extra love and encouragement, and made it famous at Springfield High School. When Mack sped into the gravel overflow parking lot at school each morning, Benji announced their arrival in a cloud of dust and a noisy shimmy and shake as Mack cut the engine; but classmates standing around the high school’s south entrance already knew that they were coming before they hit the parking lot, as Mack’s quick and forceful gear shifting and Benji’s creaky old bones could be heard at least a block away. I think Mack got a kick out of her arrival at school each morning. She was proud of Benji’s good effort to deliver her to school before the bell (at least most of the time), and she was glad that her classmates knew that she drove a classic old car with genuine character.

Shortly after adopting the Jeep, Mack got a “Life is Good” tire cover, and we ordered vanity plates to help her make the car her own. The floor of the backseat almost immediately became a large garbage heap, littered with Laffy Taffy wrappers and Gatorade bottles. Usually, there was also a softball glove or bat, a basketball, or golf shoes hanging around back there as well, so there was really no good place for passengers to put their feet. If Mack ever wiped down the dashboard or washed the outside of that car, I certainly never witnessed it. She could not even be bothered to scrub off the silly string caked onto the driver’s side door, the dash, and the steering wheel after she suffered a “hit” by a few softball teammates. I suppose Mack viewed Benji as an extension of her own messy bedroom. That Jeep may have been old and noisy and dirty, but Mack loved that car and driving it was a joy to her. A neighbor of ours remembered: “I recall seeing Mackenzie jump in her Jeep and head off with a smile on her face and a whole bunch of energy.”

Mack also loved sharing Benji with her friends, although she demanded that they, too, accept the old guy for what he was (rattles, backseat litter, and all!). Mack was so happy to chauffeur underclass teammates to practices, games, or the golf course in Benji. She enjoyed teaching a few friends how to drive a stick-shift behind the wheel of her car. And she was always willing to take down the Jeep’s top if her favorite passengers wanted to joyride with the wind in their hair. One time, after riding around Springfield in Benji with the top down, it began to rain. Mack had to quickly pull over to put up the Jeep’s rag top. As the kids all struggled to secure the top in the rain, Mack’s friend Patrick’s cellphone rang. In the rain and in the ruckus, Pat answered the phone and yelled: “I can’t talk now, Dad, I’m helping Mack put on her top!” Oh, how Mack and her friends laughed and laughed, as Pat then attempted to explain to his father what he had really meant by that provocative statement! That story remained one of Mack’s favorite Jeep stories, it always made her chuckle, and she frequently repeated it over the years.

When Mack left for Spain in September of last year, we parked Benji in an open parking lot just a couple of blocks from our loft in downtown St. Louis. Once in a Skype conversation, Mack asked about Benji’s welfare, and once at her request, I sent her a picture of the Jeep resting peacefully awaiting her return. Since losing Mack, seeing Benji parked in that lot all alone without his favorite driver has haunted Mack’s father and me, as it is a bitter reminder of our loss. But keeping the Jeep has been something of a comfort as well, because Benji is also a reminder of the joy Mack experienced behind the silly-stringed-caked wheel, with the wind in her hair, with a crooked grin on her freckled face, and the whole world in front of her. I am also reminded of one particular conversation I had with Mack about Benji’s future. I had suggested at some point that when she went away to college that we might sell the Jeep and give her my Honda. Mack was horrified at that suggestion. “Benji is my bad-ass buddy!” she exclaimed. “Benji CANNOT be sold!

Now Mack would be so happy to know that Benji will become her sister’s car once again. Savannah has returned from Europe and will settle in Chicago with her boyfriend Levi and Benji the Jeep. I think Mack’s spirit will ride shotgun in that Jeep, as her sister tools around Chicago. Savannah will be able to close her eyes and see Mack’s crooked smile every time the engine starts. She will hear Mack coax Benji into third gear and listen to her sweet little chuckle whenever the Jeep rattles over a giant Chicago pothole. Yep, Benji will remain an honored member of the McDermott family now and forever. He was a special friend to our special girl, and he possesses some magical power now to transport us away…at least for a little while…with our happy-go-lucky Mackenzie in the passenger seat right next to us.

In these photos, Mack proudly displays her driver’s license, you can see for yourself the silly string baked into the Jeep’s paint, and Mack is saying goodbye to her parents after a visit to Truman State to see her…

Mack rarely complained about her car, but on long drives, the noise-level of the Jeep annoyed her. She tweeted her annoyance once, after returning to college after a weekend visit home in December 2012…

Mack’s dad loved to take videos to annoy Mack, and here are two related to driving Jeeps…

https://youtu.be/JoWvFkEEAXU

https://youtu.be/yAf-Wmn4x0c

I Love to Laugh

Writing this blog has been a therapeutic endeavor for me, but it has also been a way for me to share my unique and amazing girl with the world and to keep her spirit alive. Mack and I were close, I knew her very well, and I have been able to share so many stories about her life, her character, her world view, and her zany and charming personality. But I realize that my perspective on Mack and my understanding of her was through the lens of a Momma Bear. Therefore, when I run across an artifact of Mack’s life, I am compelled to share it. And when it comes in the form of Mack’s own words, so much more the better.

Recently, one of Mack’s best friends reminded me of a random Facebook game in which Mack participated back in February 2009 (thanks, Kailey!). It was one of those chain games in which a friend of Mack’s tagged her to “write a note with 25 random things, facts, habits, or goals” about herself, and then tag twenty-five people to participate, too. Generally, Mack poo-pooed games like this, and she was very resistant to use social media to call attention to herself. Therefore, it’s quite surprising that she decided to answer this very public request to share personal insights about herself. I have no idea why Mack made this post, but I am thrilled that she did it. It offers one of those precious windows into her soul that has become a priceless artifact of her beautiful life and a sweet treasure for me. When Mack posted these twenty-five random facts about herself, it was 12:35 a.m. on a Saturday night. She was just shy of her fifteenth birthday, a high school freshman in the middle of her first varsity basketball season, well settled in at high school, unusually comfortable in her teenage skin, and already a wise old owl.

Below is Mack’s list of twenty-five random thoughts she offered about herself more than six years ago. I have provided some annotations and a couple of photos to go along with Mack’s words. Coincidentally, I have already featured several of Mack’s random thoughts in previous blog posts (they are hyperlinked) and, no doubt, other items will provide entertaining fodder for future blogs about my Macko. Mack’s wonderful list captures her incomparable humor and charm, offers some honest insights from her heart, and reflects the level of comfort she had with herself at a time when most girls her age are struggling to find themselves and to make their way in the world.

I tend to overthink things. not sure why.
I’m crazy if you know me but quiet if you don’t. [Mack was a little shy around strangers, but that never lasted very long. The close friends she made on the golf course is an excellent example at how quickly her “quiet” faded away.]
I enjoy food. a lot [Oh, Mack, what an understatement!].
lunch is my favorite [I suspect what she meant by this one is that lunch was her favorite subject at school!]
people say I’m odd, but what do they know =).
Basketball’s chill but it’s not my life [Even though Mack was at the height of her basketball success, making varsity and getting playing time as a freshman, she already knew that basketball did not define her nor did it control her life.]
When I grow up I’m going to have a show on the food network called Mack’s Makin Bacon. I shall be famous [Mack’s love of bacon was legendary, and for a very long time she talked about having this show. A blog post entitled “Mack’s Makin’ Bacon” is definitely forthcoming].
I once had a hamster named Strawberry Fabio McDermott. She died a tragic death. [Strawberry died of wet-tail disease, which is a common ailment in hamsters. Yet, I do suppose her death was kind of tragic, as Mack was so very fond of that little rodent.]
I also had a fish named filis. Her death was similarly depressing. [Mack named a giant carp in our aquarium Phyllis (at least that’s how the Greeks and most other people would have spelled it). During an ice storm one winter when the power went out for several days, we had to leave the house as temperatures dipped below zero. Sadly, we left Phyllis behind, and the poor beloved fish froze to death. Mack was upset with her dad over that one for quite some time!]
I have a pound puppy named Spot that I’ve had since I was two.
I have 2 dogs. One is fat and the other is insanely hyperactive [Napoleon was our fat pug; and Pepper is our crazy Pomeranian]
Stuff doesn’t bother me, I just kinda go with it.
I play golf basketball and softball. I don’t really have a favorite, but I’m best at softball.
I can’t dance, but that doesn’t stop me.
My nails are bright purple at the moment [Mack’s one beauty item was nail polish, and her toes and fingers were always as bright and cheerful as her personality.]
Harry Potter is pretty durn sweet. not gonna lie.
I love to laugh [oh, yes, Mack laughed every day; and she made other people laugh right along with her.]
It takes a while for me to break out of my shell.
I did not enjoy middle school.
When I wake up in the morning, the only thing I want out of life is to stay in bed. [Mack was a professional sleeper…more to come on this topic for sure].
I have 7 pairs of huge sunglasses. They all cost about 5 bucks [Stay tuned for a photo-essay about Mack’s glorious collection of sunglasses.]
Blueberry pomegranate gatorade is disgusting. (that is not really about me, but I just took a sip and thought I should give a warning).
My sister’s in Argentina and I am very jealous [Savannah spent a semester studying in Buenos Aires when she was junior at Indiana University majoring in Spanish.]
I watch comedy central, disney, food network, and discovery, and that’s about it
There’s a giant CWLP cone in my room [Mack’s sister stole a giant orange City Water Light and Power caution cone, and when she went away for college Mack inherited it. When we moved to St. Louis, Mack insisted that it come with us. It enjoyed a place of prominence in her bedroom, we have it still, and I will keep it for Mack forever.]

Balloon Hats Are Art

Walking around in downtown St. Louis this Independence Day weekend, I saw a couple of kids, about 10-years-old, skipping next to their parents. The entire family was decked out in Cardinals gear, they were all a little sunburned, and they were laden with stadium souvenirs. Most noticeably, however, this brother and sister duo were laughing and acting nuts, enjoying life while wearing balloon hats. When I saw those silly red, white, and blue balloon hats, Mack’s freckled face popped into my vision and my memory time machine took me straight back to New Orleans, December 2004.

Mack was 10. She had just hopped into the back seat of our boxy and blue Honda Element, and just before closing the wide-open suicide doors, I snapped a classic photograph of her. She was laughing and acting nuts. She was over-the-moon, because she had won an important argument with her dad, and she was proudly sporting her championship trophy atop her little head. We had just spent several hours wandering the streets of the French Quarter and Jackson Square, listening to music, eating beignets, and enjoying the performance artists. Mack had been fascinated by a flamboyant man making balloon animals and hats. She set her sights on a hat. Her dad said “no, no, no,” arguing that it was an overpriced and impractical souvenir. “No, no, no, Daddy-O,” she argued. “It is art, and I need it.” Of course, he caved in, like he always did. And Mack chose a red and orange monstrosity with antenna-like balloons sticking straight up in the air. Mack beamed in that hat, just like those two kids beamed in their patriot variety. For Mack, those contorted balloons were the perfect end to a great day.

It was simple things like balloon hats that lit up Mack’s world, and I am so glad her dad and I frequently indulged her in her child-like pleasures. It did not take much to make that kid happy, and although that damn balloon hat blocked the rear-view mirror, drove her sister crazy, and deflated long before we made it home to Springfield, Illinois, it was a highlight of the trip for Mack. It also left us with the cherished balloon-hat photo that now so beautifully captures the spirit of my lost girl.

When I saw those happy kids proudly sporting their patriotic balloon hats, my heart had smiled for three reasons. I remembered my Mack in her own balloon hat when she was just the same age. I was happy that those two little kids knew how to fully enjoy a simple and silly pleasure. And I was so glad that those parents had purchased ridiculous air-filled hats in spite of the fact that they were likely way overpriced and stood little chance of making it home. I just hope at some point in the day, one of those parents captured a photograph of balloon-hat bliss on the faces of their kids, like I was so lucky to capture on the face of my sweet girl.

Maybe those kids had not used the same balloon-hats-are-art argument that Mack had used back in 2004 to claim hers, but those kids (and likely their parents as well), understand the value of a few cheap balloons fashioned into a glorious and artful hat. Balloon hats are art, people. Pure and simple and true.

Mack’s Beautiful Brain

Mack’s self-effacing humor, silly personality, and humble nature often disguised her intellect and concealed the profundity of her intellectual curiosity. She loved to play the fool in order to make people laugh. Downplaying her own talents and accomplishments was also one of her ways of putting at ease the people around her. Growing up, Mack also invested so much of herself into athletic pursuits that she frequently put serious academics aside. She often joked about her slacking study habits, and among her friends and teachers, her academic procrastination was legendary. Throughout elementary school, junior high, and high school, Mack’s public persona was that of a witty and affable jock with a strong tendency toward frivolity and fun. Yet behind Mack’s goofy-girl façade, underneath that unpretentious layer of modesty, and well beyond her natural and effortless athleticism, was one of the most beautiful brains I have ever known.

Of course Mack’s family members and closest friends knew the truth about the depth and breadth of Mack’s intellect and intellectual curiosity. I am sure as well that there were people beyond family and close friends who may have noticed the impressive range of her vocabulary, as she peppered her comic routines with new favorite words. No doubt there were others who appreciated one or more of her razor-sharp critiques about a song or a book or a news story. And certainly there were still others who respected Mack’s uncanny ability to make an absolutely astute and succinct observation about the most random of topics.

But because Mack was always so modest and so damn quiet about her intellectual ideas, I think a lot of people might have missed out on Mack’s brain. I think there may be people who knew Mack growing up who never knew that she followed current events from a very young age, that she was reflective and philosophical, that she loved words, especially quirky or archaic ones. There are likely some people who did not know that my girl of few words was a master of debate, that she worried about climate change and the fate of endangered animals, that racism in America haunted her dreams. I am sorry that others might not have been aware that Mack was interested in how mechanical things work, that she learned quickly and possessed a remarkable ability to remember the smallest of details, that she understood people so well because she quietly watched and observed and considered them.

Frequently throughout the years, I would catch Mack engaged in a moment of deep thought. To me there was no sweeter scene than watching her freckled and expressive face as she was thinking through an idea, puzzling over a problem, or contemplating an object or event. It was such a frequent occurrence that I actually captured quite a few of these moments with a camera. While it is true that many of my happiest memories of Mack are of her dramatically delivering the punch line of a very bad joke or badly singing a silly song, it is frequently a memory of Mack’s face in quiet reflection that touches me most profoundly.

Recently, I remembered a conversation that Mack and I had about one of those photographs. When we attended freshman orientation at Truman State, I snapped a photo of her peering into the office of a creative writing professor we were waiting to meet. I showed her the photo and asked her what she was thinking about when I took it. She looked at the picture, flashed one of her famous faces of incredulity, and said: “What the hell, mom, why are you all up in my bizness?” I smiled and asked her the question again. She started to say something, but she stopped and, instead, she took a long pause. Then, in a slightly serious tone that took me aback, she said something like: “You know, I started to tell you that I was thinking about how much candy I will be able to eat once I am in college and you aren’t around to tell me to stop. But the truth is, I was thinking about how now that I am a grown-ass woman, I get to take the classes I want to take and read the books I want to read and learn the stuff I want to learn.” And then my smart girl poked her head a few times with her forefinger and said: “the next four years is all about this brain, and that, Momma Bear, is pretty fuckin’ cool.”

When Mack went to college, she shed her jovial jock image, almost overnight; and I think it was partly a deliberate act. She was finally ready to share her brain with the world; she was ready to release the intellectual in her that had been there all along. She maintained her self-effacing sense of humor, she remained true to her belief that boasting and bragging and being a know-it-all served no useful purpose, and, thank goodness, she never abandoned her wit and sense of silly fun. I think it is an absolute fact that the people who knew Mackenzie McDermott at Truman State University would have used the adjectives “smart” and “funny,” in that order, to describe her. And I know that this fact would have painted a permanent smile upon her heart.

Smart and funny is a winning combination in life, and my Mack was a natural at both.

Mack’s Beautiful Brain at Work:

In 1999 and 2000, we put an addition on our house and did a lot of remodeling, painting, etc. I was surprised but delighted at the interest that Mack took in the project. She stood in the yard and watched the carpenters construct the frame of the second-story addition, she convinced her dad to let her help with painting and hammering trim, she asked questions about the tools and the building materials, and she was transfixed when her dad assembled and installed the spiral staircase to the loft. Here she is, just a shrimpy little kid, perched on the newly constructed steps, thinking about the construction going on in the family room below or, perhaps, considering the new view from the reconfigured stairs…

Of all of her sports, Mack probably had the most fun playing softball. She always said that it was her “recreational” sport, even though she played it very well. Yet for all of the fun she had in the dugout, laughing with her teammates, it was actually while playing softball that I saw her engaged in the most thoughtful reflection. In this photo, I think she had trained her attention on the opposing pitcher, perhaps developing a strategy for her next at-bat…

Mack-Lazy Days

While growing up, Mack was an extremely active kid, and she sacrificed an enormous amount of her personal time and freedom participating in competitive sports. She enthusiastically and willingly made that sacrifice, but it made her a very practiced and determined lover of her infrequent lazy days. Mack took her limited free time very seriously. She redefined what it meant to relax, she took literally her declarations to “do nuttin,’” and she really did know how to let it all hang out. Mack earned her leisure time and, mostly, I was content to let her waste away much of her quiet down time. But it is absolutely true that sometimes the greatness of her sloth terrified me.

Let me paint a typical scene in Mack’s room on one of her famous Mack-lazy days: The curtains are drawn, and the room is dark. Mack is wearing baggy sweatpants (likely without underwear), and she is flat on her back on a bed crowded with clothes, her book bag, a sweaty basketball jersey, and maybe even a pair of her favorite cheap flip-flops. There is a dog stretched out next to her. On a pillow, which she is partly sharing with the dog, her head is propped up just enough so that she can chew and swallow without choking and can see the screen of her laptop, which sits across her pelvis. Warhead sour candies and Miss Vickie’s jalapeño chips or Flamin’ Hot Cheetos are scattered about, and an open 32-oz bottle of blue Gatorade is balanced precariously at her waist. Her lips are blue, and there are crumbs on her face and her fingers. She is watching Fresh Prince of Bel Air, or Sponge Bob, or Parks and Recreation. She is chewing and chortling and texting with two or three friends. When I interrupt Mack’s blissful laziness to ask a question or to say hello, she answers with a belch or a grunt; and then she cheerfully shoos me out the door by waving her hand in my face.

I was outwardly horrified by these Mack-lazy scenes that I witnessed so frequently over the years, but I secretly wished that I was capable of achieving such nirvana in my own life. For sure, Mack knew how to power lounge like nobody’s business. It was as if she was making up for all of the leisure time she sacrificed along the way. It was like she supposed that in order to be productive in life one also has to know what it feels like to accomplish absolutely nothing at all.

I think that excessive inertia (if that is even a thing), junk food eaten in bed, and mindless television was Mack’s not-so-secret recipe for refueling her soul on the lazy days so she could better face the busy days. Since Mack had way more busy days than lazy ones, I was content to let her practice her particular brand of recuperative medicine. And, who knows, maybe it was exactly those Mack-lazy days that made my girl ever content and ever cheerful, so well-balanced and calm, always patient and sweet. Maybe if we each practiced a little of Mack’s crazy-lazy medicine, we could all be as easy and gentle as she was.

A Purple Bulldog

Last week, a large envelope arrived in the mail with a Truman State University logo in bold purple letters. This was the kind of envelope that announced quite clearly that it conveyed a very important and official parcel. Upon holding that envelope in my hands and feeling the somewhat squishy character of the item within it, my heart skipped a beat…or maybe two…as I realized that the envelope and its contents possessed the feel of a padded diploma portfolio. I am not sure why I knew it, but even before I pulled out the lush purple folder with Truman State University embossed in gold letters across the front, I knew that Mack’s college—the school she had picked on her own, the school she had embraced with every atom of her budding intellectual being, the school she loved—was recognizing her collegiate accomplishments along with its spring 2015 graduates.

The tears freely flowed down my cheeks and I forgot to breathe as I fixed my blurred gaze upon that beautiful diploma. I cried because this represented Mack’s hard academic work and her success at Truman. I cried because she will not graduate with her best college friends and classmates one year from now. I cried because this will be her only college diploma. But I also cried because I realized that Mack had made a very wise college decision. That she had chosen a special school that embraced her as much as she had embraced it. And that my baby girl had spent her magical two years of college at a very special campus where individual students matter. The letter accompanying the diploma validated my realizations, and the tears just kept coming as a read it…

I am grateful and happy that Mack chose Truman State. Mack was incredibly happy there. And at every turn, she met teachers, administrators, editors, a coach, and friend upon friend upon friend who were all happy that Mack was there, too. But I can tell you that back in March of 2012, when Mack was procrastinating her college choice right down to the wire (of course), I had no idea Truman was such a special place. I had not even heard of this small liberal arts school in rural, northern Missouri until after we began searching for a suitable substitute for Oberlin College, which was way out of our price range. In our last-minute research, we became impressed with Truman’s rankings for academics and value. After we visited Truman for the first time, we came away with a pretty good feeling about the lovely little campus with its solid red-brick buildings, lush green spaces, and architecturally impressive library. The academics, especially in English, the varied writing opportunities available to all levels of students, and an invitation to play NCAA Division II golf added to the allure. But I was still worried it would be a poor substitute for Oberlin; and late in the game, I favored Mack’s other choice, Saint Louis University.

Once Mack narrowed her choices to Truman and SLU, she refused to discuss it further. She wanted to be left alone to quietly make a decision on her own. I tried not to press her, as I wanted the final decision to be hers; but, of course, I fretted more as each day passed. Mack’s nonchalance about it added to my stress, but she expressed no worry whatsoever. Finally, just a couple of days before a deposit for housing was due, Mack chose Truman State. She was calm and deliberate in delivering her decision and explaining it. She told me that she believed it made the most sense. It was affordable and would require very little in the way of student loans. It offered the liberal arts curriculum she wanted, as well as a strong creative writing department and a B.F.A. if she decided to pursue that path. And playing golf for free was “the bacon on the burger,” she quipped. Mack’s decision made sense, I had to admit. But I immediately worried that she had simply made a practical decision, choosing Truman not because it spoke to her heart but because it was more affordable. When I expressed my doubt about her choice, Mack said: “Mom, the school color is purple. I’m going to be a Bulldog. What could be better than being a purple bulldog?!!” I responded that a college wardrobe of her favorite color and the lovability of the mascot was no way to choose a college. “Nah! Hush, hush, Momma Bear,” she chided me. “It’s all good. I’ve found the right place. I feel it.”

Of course, like so many other things in her life about which I had fears or doubts, Mack was right all along. Her hunch…her feeling…about Truman State was, indeed, all good. Within just a few days of arriving on that campus, it was Mack’s place. She found a comfortable home there, and it was from that amazing little college in northern Missouri that I watched the scholar in Mack emerge. Truman was the place where she bloomed and beamed and blossomed. It is a good feeling now to understand so very completely that the most important choice that Mack made as a young adult was absolutely perfect. Truman’s kind and human gesture in awarding a diploma for the academic work Mack completed adds one final proof attesting to the special place it really is. Truman is a smart and quirky little school with a whole lot of heart, just like my Macko. Thank you, Truman State University, for giving my baby exactly what she wanted: a happy and healthy and hopeful place to flourish.

Purple bulldogs forever.

Mack sporting some of that TSU purple…

Mack is the first golfer on the left, next to her coach, Sam Lesseig. He was a sweet man, greeting Mack at freshman orientation with her Truman State golf bag. He and his wife fed the girls at their home and showered them with kindness and small gifts. Mack reported to me after a Christmas feast of lasagna, that he had given her a coloring book and crayons so that she could chill out a little while studying for finals. She was so tickled about that. Sadly, Sam died suddenly in the summer of 2013.

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Being Mack's Momma Bear

A blog in honor of a beautiful life.

Category Archives: All about Mack