Shut It Off

Anticipation of the impending two-year mark of my life without Mack has infiltrated my bones and made me unsteady on my feet these past days. In an effort to regain some balance and to face the grim week ahead, I need Mack to guide me. So I have taken yet another journey through Mack’s beautiful brain by spending time with the precious book that Mack’s adoring father assembled just months after we lost her. The spirit of our Mack dances (Irish jigs, actually) off of each of the priceless pages of Mack: Her Life & Words (http://mackmcd.yolasite.com/), reminding the reader of her quirky wit, her gracious and kind character, her uncompromising belief in equality and justice, her love for life, and her uncommon wisdom.

This morning, I was reading out loud her poetry. It is undisciplined, and it is raw. It is not the stuff of literary giants, but it has a beauty and a quiet wisdom that is uniquely Mack. One particular poem might in some ways now seem prophetic, but this morning as I repeated it half a dozen times or so, it was, very simply, pure and human truth. A sage epistle from my sweet girl. A gentle reminder to find the sun.

Shut it Off
By Mackenzie Kathleen McDermott

It’s all okay
The sun is out
But hidden behind generous clouds
On a lazy day
Soon to be replaced by lazy stars

Then all at once
The world collapses
The clouds turn mean
And the sun retreats
To mourn the ashes of kin
A touch is in order
Some simple relief from the gripping reality
As the world dims
But there’s a head on those shoulders
So give it all you’ve got
Then shut it off

Move quickly
And hold tight to false hope
Cling to the smallest of rocks in the stone
Just make sure you don’t look down
Because letting go is much harder than pretending

Shut it off
There’s much more pain that love can bring
Than just a body in a box
So shut it off

And then it’s almost okay
The sun is out
But hidden behind generous clouds
On a lazy day
Soon to be replaced by lazy stars
Shut it off
It’s not that hard

freckle

As I myself cling to the smallest of rocks in the stone, I can assure you all that under some of life’s cruel circumstances it is, actually, quite hard. But for my Mack, I will always try harder to find the sun.

Amazing Super-Bad Pope of Thought

I am a dark shade of blue today.

I am a tad over-tired, and I will admit to more than the usual angst about work. There have been intermittent, yet ominous, gray clouds passing over my balcony all afternoon, stealing away my sunshine and threatening rain. Even though I returned five days ago, I might still be the victim of a little post-vacation melancholy, as well. Yet today, I think, is just one of those days when missing Mack sits heavier on my shoulders. One of those days when the emptiness of life without her settles deep within my bones, crowding out hope and resilience. One of those days on which my smile is lost, and I am incapable of laughter. One of those days that only Mack herself could make better.

In my electronic files for this blog, I keep a folder labeled “Mack-Funny Faces.” Frequently, on blue days just like this one, when I so desperately need to smile and to hear my own laughter, I look through those photos. These glorious pictures so capture Mack’s spirit that they have become my medicine, of sorts; and that electronic file of Mack-funny faces is a portal for me, connecting my dreary spirit to Mack’s ever cheerful one. On a day like today, I need those photos to find a smile or some laughter tucked down deep under the shades of blue that oppress me.

So today I opened that folder to browse the photos, seeking some solace from the blue. One particular Mack-funny face popped off of the screen. I smiled at the sight of Mack’s face within it, beaming in the thumbnail, and I was laughing out loud by the time it opened and filled my computer screen. There was my silly girl, with her classic head-tilt pose, wearing some kind of hand-made paper hat, bearing the words, in her own hand, “The Amazing Super-bad Pope of thought.” I have no memory at all as to the purpose of that strange, school-project hat or of  the circumstances that may have elicited Mack’s theatrical pose within it. But Mack’s wit and irreverence found in me the smile and the laughter that I needed.

I am still feeling blue today, but the shade is decidedly less dark.

amazing-super-bad-pope-of-thought

Thank you, Mack. Thank you for being you every single day of your beautiful life. Thank you for making that stupid hat. Thank you for making that silly face beneath it. And thank you for finding me today.

 

A Tale of Two Days

It was the best of times. It was the worst of times. It was a day of joyous beauty. It was a day of quiet sorrow.

Today at Devil’s Tower in Wyoming, I marveled, wide-eyed, under a big and blue western sky, at the wonders of our Earth. Yet my heart denied the sparkle in my eyes for the glorious landscape and rejected the excitement in my mind for the wonders of our spectacular planet. Two years ago this day, I kissed the freckled face of my Mackenzie for the last time, and my heart has never been the same. Today, my body was in the Black Hills, but my heart was as far away from there as my lost girl is now from me, and a great day was tinged with sadness.

I struggle each day to find joy and beauty in life, and this western journey, this overdue and necessary vacation, has provided an abundance of both. Unfortunately, however, even the magical splendor of the Black Hills cannot completely restore my spirit. While my senses experienced the natural wonders around me, and as I enjoyed the cool wind on my face and delighted in the glittering sunlight reflecting off the haunting tower of stone and across the endless valleys, I was lost in myself. All the day, my tears were just below the surface of my joy in the landscape. 

This state of discord is a common one in my new life, and I understand its challenges. To balance extreme joy and extreme sadness is a mighty task, and today my efforts were insufficient. Mack’s spirit was with me, as it always is, but it could not reach my aching heart. The wind blowing through the ponderosa pines intensified my longing for her presence on this beautiful earth, in this spectacular landscape she will never see. In the shadows of the ancients rocks, I saw the shadows cast upon me. My eyes could see the enchanting environment around me. My mind could appreciate the awesome power of the planet to render me speechless. But my heart was an unwilling traveler.

It was a good day. It was a bad day. It was a day in which I felt the weight of my sorrows juxtaposed with all of the beauty of the world. It was another day in my life without Mack. 

Mack’s Pack

When my Mack collected a best friend, she spread out those long arms of hers, enveloped the lucky new person in a Big-Mack hug, and adopted her as a sister. Mack’s individual relationships with each member of what I have come to think of as Mack’s Pack were, of course, special and unique unto themselves. Yet for Mack, this group of amazing young women was more than just a random circle of her closest female friends. Almost as if she saw herself as Momma Mack, she created a little family out of those best friends. For her it was important…no, it was essential…that her hand-picked collection of best friends be friends with one another and that they feel the bonds for one another that she felt for them. I have come to believe that deep in Mack’s soul was the sweet knowledge of the good those best friends of hers might one day be able to do for each other.

The night before Mack’s memorial service in Springfield, her family of best friends assembled to grieve together, to draw strength from one another, and to share their memories of Mack with each other. Mack’s happy spirit was with them that night, and I know in my heart she would now be profoundly grateful that two years later the lifelong bonds of Mack’s Pack continue. Two of those women— Maggie, a childhood best friend, and Meagan, a college best friend—were recently together in Columbia, Missouri. During their brief but happy reunion, in the town where Mack first introduced them, a friendship between them has blossomed and the happy chances of life, realized through our human connections in the world, are on full, beautiful display.

Just a couple of months ago, Maggie, who has lived in Columbia since arriving there as a college freshman, was working at an internet ad agency, her first post-college job. Meagan had just moved to Columbia to take her first job, working on the Democratic campaign of senatorial candidate Jason Kander. Because they had Mack in common, they got together. They shared meals, beers, and funny stories about their lost friend. Maggie and Meagan also discovered that Mack was not their only common bond. Although not surprisingly, given that Mack had collected them as best friends, Maggie and Meagan also learned that they had similar world views, shared many interests, and enjoyed the cultivation and practice of very quirky senses of humor. As if those common bonds were not enough, they are also both fun-loving but serious-minded woman, and as feminists and politically astute new college graduates, both are enthralled with this season’s fascinating politics and the exciting election year of 2016.

Just weeks after arriving in Columbia, Meagan had the opportunity to take a job on Hillary Clinton’s campaign. Maggie was there to counsel and encourage Meagan to make the move, even after so short a time in her first job; and Meagan was there to convince Maggie, who studied political science at Mizzou and interned with a Democratic Missouri legislator, to follow her political passions, as well. Meagan lobbied her boss at the Kander campaign to hire Maggie as her replacement, and Maggie accepted the new job just as Meagan was preparing to move to her new job in Omaha, Nebraska.

Today, Meagan is settled in Omaha. Maggie has begun her new job back in Columbia. And both women have a new best friend. It is absolutely natural and happy and good that Mack’s Maggie and Mack’s Meagan would come together at a perfect time in their new lives as adult woman. It is a beautiful testament to their personal friendships with Mack that they would so easily forge a friendship with each other. It does honor to Mack’s good work in the creation and sweet maintenance of her special pack of best friends. And it is amazing and such a blessing to me that Mack’s spirit was once again party to all of the good her best friends can, and will forever do, for each other.

14 August 2016 198

Maggie and Meagan in Columbia

14 August 2016 204

I had the pleasure of sharing drinks and a meal with Meagan and Maggie in Columbia before Meagan moved to Nebraska.

The serious and silly sides of the Mack-Maggie friendship (https://macksmommabear.com/2016/02/21/macks-best-friends-m-maggie-margaret/):

heart-to-heart talks
too cool for school

The serious and silly sides of the Mack-Meagan friendship (https://macksmommabear.com/2016/05/07/truwomen/)

life discussions in their shared college apartment
silly faces while caving in Missouri

Epilogue: Yet another Mack best friend, Ali, helped Meagan pack up her belongings in Columbia! (https://macksmommabear.com/2016/05/19/the-ali-mack-frouple/)

 

Short Stature and Long Memories

Yesterday, I bounced up onto the washing machine into a seated position and then pulled one leg up, lifting myself into a standing position atop the washer, so that I could then reach a box stored on the top shelf in the laundry room. I am a short and small woman, so my reach is often insufficient. Therefore, I frequently engage in this hop-sit-stand method of obtaining the things I want that are located at high altitudes. I retrieved the box and then settled into the required, intermediate, sitting-before-dismount position. But instead of hopping down straight away, I stayed seated, my legs dangling several inches above the floor. Mack, who always deemed my hop-sit-stand method ridiculous as well as delightfully entertaining, popped into my mind. Her enchanting little giggle filled my head, and so many memories of her good-natured teasing of my vertically-challenged life flooded over me.

Whenever Mack witnessed the limits of my reach, she would chuckle and snort before obtaining the object for me, making a dramatic demonstration of how so very easy it was for her to collect the object. When we stood next to each other for pictures, she would often ask me if I would like for her to kneel so I would not look like a “shrimp.” Frequently, a hug from Mack meant that her chin would dig deep into the top of my head to remind me of her six extra inches of height. And nothing sent her more quickly into a fit of giggles than my legs dangling on the bar stools at Buffalo Wild Wings. My common response to her playful joking about my short stature was: “I’ve been short all my life, and I’m getting along just fine.” “Oh, really?” she would reply. And then a fit of giggles elicited her trademark wrinkled nose, exaggerated finger point, and whispery hee-hee-heeing.

Mack is always on my mind, and I carry her spirit around with me every day no matter where I am or what I am doing. But it is so weird sometimes how that goofy girl interjects herself into my memories and makes me laugh. There I was just getting a box off of a shelf in the laundry room, and Mack bursts in just in time to make fun of me. Sitting there with my legs dangling, I closed my eyes and just let Mack’s giggle fill up the small space. I am so grateful for these random connections with my lost girl. I am beyond thankful for all of the laughter we shared during our short time together. I wish like hell she was still here to tease me about being so damn short. But thank goodness her spirit can find me, even in the laundry room on an ordinary Sunday afternoon.

heehee

Here is Mack making fun of me as I struggle to find a way off of a high wall.

Mack and Me

Here is the photo taken on the wall before the teasing began.

a favorite photo

And here is my favorite picture depicting our height difference. Note: Mack is wearing flat sandals and is leaning over, and look where her waist is compared to mine!

Mack Memo #3: Love Trumps Hate

During the televised Democratic National Convention, I cried during the poignant speech of Muslim American Khizr Khan, an immigrant from Pakistan, about the loss of his son—fallen U.S. Army Captain Humayun Khan—and about Mr. Khan’s own love for and commitment to America. As I listened and watched, I saw an American family who sacrificed their son for our country, and I saw and understood all too well the deep sorrow in Mrs. Kahn’s eyes. As a grieving mother myself, it was for her specifically that I wept. My own broken heart shared her pain, and I admired her ability to bravely stand there on that big national stage while her husband shared their family story. When Donald Trump attacked the Khan family, dismissed their sacrifice, and suggested that Ghazala Kahn was not allowed to speak, he offended every immigrant who has ever believed in the American dream, every soldier who has ever given his life for our country, and every mother who has ever lost a child.

For months, I have watched in horror as Trump’s statements have become more outrageous and have further illustrated his ignorance and his vitriol. His attack on the Khan family is one more example in a long progression of ever escalating examples of his lack of character and grace, his appalling misanthropy, and his all-encompassing unfitness for the Presidency. Trump’s utter failure to see the grief in Mrs. Kahn’s face is another vivid instance of Trump’s inhumanity. In the past few days, as I have thought about Mr. Kahn’s speech and about Trump’s response to it, Mack has been ever present in my mind. Mack’s character and humanity are what I use these days to measure my own actions and life and to assess the world around me. Inherent in the high bar that Mack has set in that regard is some disappointment, I admit. For few of us will leave this earth with as perfect a record of happy human relationships as our dear Mack. But Trump fails my Mack test on all counts, and I have come to believe that his absolute inability to feel empathy and to show compassion for his fellow Americans is, perhaps, his gravest deficiency for suitability for the American Presidency.

If my Mack, a feminist and liberal-minded young woman, were here today, she would be a strong supporter of Hillary Clinton. One of her favorite mottos, “uteruses before duderuses,” would no doubt have found new meaning in this historic 2016 presidential campaign, In fact, it’s entirely possible she may have been actively engaged; and she certainly would have been proud of her dear friend Meagan, who is a Clinton field organizer in Nebraska. But more to the point, my loving, just-minded, big-hearted, and nonjudgmental daughter would be aghast by Trump’s tactics of hatred and bigotry. Trump’s campaign would offend everything she believed about human decency, civility, and leadership. Mack would have spoken out against Trump’s hateful campaign, and she would have wanted me to do so as well. It is for her and in honor of her true heart that I now raise my own voice.

Over the years, I have followed a general rule to keep my politics off of Facebook and out of polite discourse with people in my life who hold opposing political views to my own. I have always reserved my unabashed support for the Democratic Party and my liberal snark for family, for a close circle of politically like-minded friends, and for the shallow and more fleeting arena of Twitter. But I cannot remain silent on Trump any longer, because he is a danger to the human decency and ideals I instilled in my daughters. He offends my family’s deeply held convictions of tolerance and equality. He mocks and demeans women, which is a direct affront to the brilliant and promising girls I raised. Mack is not here to offer her own objections to Trump’s candidacy, but I knew my daughter’s heart. The boisterous hatred Trump and his supporters spew would have outraged her open mind, the negativity and cynicism of his campaign would have offended her happy heart, and his racism would have stirred her strong sense of equality and justice.

Simply put, Trump is not a legitimate candidate. He is not a legitimate Republican. I respect my Republican friends; and I admire their commitment to principles of limited government and fiscal conservatism, even though I do not share them. I whole heartedly honor their rights to voice their own opinions, to engage in civil political debate with their opponents, and to vote their own consciences. This is America, and our democracy depends upon intelligent debate. But the 2016 Presidential Campaign is not a real campaign, because the Republican candidate is an affront to our ideals of tolerance, compassion, and liberty. Every single time that Trump opens his mouth, he reveals his bigotry, his sexism, his ignorance, his vanity, and his complete lack of empathy for his fellow Americans. He mocks people with disabilities, attacks the service of members of our military, incites violence against those who challenge him, and breathes hatred and intolerance. Not to mention the fact that he offers no coherent domestic or foreign policies to move America further toward a more perfect union, Trump’s message of hate should scare the hell out of every American.

Trump is not a true Republican. Trump represents no Republican ideals that I can recognize. More and more real Republicans and conservatives agree with my assessment. Trump does not represent the party of Abraham Lincoln, and Lincoln is rolling over in his tomb at the possibility of a Trump presidency. So far from the character of Lincoln, Trump is a hate-mongering, egomaniacal narcissist who has devoted his entire life to himself and to his own business interests. He has no moral compass, he has no interest in public service, and he has no understanding of American history and the political foundations of our great government. His ignorance of world affairs is terrifying, he is not committed to preserving the principles of our founding fathers, and he lacks humility, honor, and empathy for the American people. He is the most dangerous presidential candidate of a major political party in the history of the United States, and the American electorate—Democrats, Republicans, and Independents all—must defeat him in November. Bigotry and hatred have no place in American politics, and we all need to show Trump that they have no place in America. Not anymore. And never again.

I know that many of my Republican friends have serious reservations about Hillary Clinton. Although it is my opinion as both an informed reader and as a professional historian that no person has ever been more qualified to be president than Hillary Clinton, I appreciate the hesitancy of some, more conservative Republicans to eagerly support her candidacy. In opposition to a real Republican candidate, I would be explaining why Mack would have supported Hillary Clinton and why I support her, too. But this campaign, sadly, is not about electing a qualified life-long public servant to be the first woman President of the United States. Sadly, it is about keeping an ignorant, hateful sociopath out of the White House. The American presidency is a job for true leaders—leaders like Abraham Lincoln, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, Dwight D. Eisenhower, and Barack Obama—who have character and grace, honor and humility, and empathy and compassion for their fellow Americans.

So, please. Please. Please. I appeal to your humanity in this election. Do not vote for Trump, a man so devoid of qualifications for the Presidency that it should be laughable, a man who would shed no tears for your children. Do not vote for one of the long-shot independent candidates simply because you hate Hillary. Significant voting for independents could skew the election in favor of Trump, which would validate his candidacy of hate. Vote for Clinton-Kaine because it is a reasonable, legitimate Democratic ticket that is running a campaign against racism, against sexism, against religious intolerance, and against anti-immigrant hostility and scapegoating. Be a part of this historic election to put the first woman President in the White House, but, most importantly, cast your vote for the Democrats, who are running a real campaign against hate.

Mack Memo #3: Love Trumps Hate. Always. Did you ever go on hatin’ after a Big-Mack hug? Nope. Never. No matter what you think about my girl Hillary, her election in November will send a message to the haters that we are all in this America together.

The Game of Life

With raised eyebrows and typical Stacy-the-cynic incredulity, I have been quietly observing groups of teens and millennials running around public places with their cellphones, chasing virtual Pokémon characters. Initially, I believed that Pokémon Go could be nothing more than just one more digital distraction. One more excuse to stare at a smart phone like a zombie. One more reason to avoid conversation with human beings. And watching a young man in plaid shorts and a tan fedora nearly step into a busy intersection, because his phone covered his face as he caught a Pokémon, certainly corroborated my initial impressions of the game. So much life is spent staring at tiny screens these days, says the fuddy-duddy within me; and I can hear Mack clucking her tongue at me as I judge that hipster who almost lost his life for the sake of a game.

But after reading a couple of articles about Pokémon Go and having a lengthy conversation about it with my daughter Savannah (who is an enthusiastic player), I wondered if I might have been too quick to throw shade at the game and too quick to lump it in with other cell-phone games—like Temple Run or Angry Birds—that steal our time, endanger our eyesight, and cripple our thumbs. In order to collect Pokémon characters, players must get off of their couches and go forth into the world. That is a good thing…right? Most of the people I see playing the game are with friends, so that is good, too…I think. The game encourages players to visit historical markers and memorials. How in the world can the historian Stacy be dismissive of that?! Yet no sooner am I convincing myself that Pokémon Go will raise a new generation of historians, Mack chortles in my ear and says, “Momma Bear, do ya really think they gonna stop and read the markers after they catch the Pokémons?”

And so back I am now to my original position of stern judgment against Pokémon Go and scorn for that hipster who almost got himself run over playing it. Also, here I am now wondering (as I have done with so many other new things that Mack has missed) if Mack herself would be running around town catching Pokémons if she was here. But, of course, if she would be playing the game, you can probably bet your ass she would not stop to read the historical markers along the way.

All of this mental energy devoted to my analysis of Pokémon Go over the past couple of weeks reminded me of a column that Mack wrote for her college newspaper. Recognizing the limitations of our screens—cellphones, TVs and computers—to satisfy our human need for social relationships, Mack paid tribute to the humble board game. I leave you here with Mack’s homage to The Game of Life, her most favorite board game of them all; and I am content for Mack, who knew so well how to play the real game of life, to have the final word upon this subject.

Board games are more social than staring at a screen, By Mackenzie McDermott
Truman State Index, 20 March 2014

A knock at the door, and the 8-year-old me runs down the stairs, The Game of Life firmly in hand. A handful of my parents’ friends stand on the porch, their children at their sides. The adults shuffle into the living area and the other kids and I run into the adjacent room. We are easily satisfied by what probably are last year’s Halloween candies and a good, old-fashioned board game. Circled on the carpet, we play that game again and again, the only noise our own laughter and that of our parents in the other room. The game doesn’t end until they come in to scoop us up and haul us off to bed. As we get older, we move into the adult room and loudly play charades, equally as satisfied.

This is the strongest memory of my childhood. It became such a commonplace ritual that my Life game—which I never have been able to part with—resembles one rescued from a war zone. The box is ripped apart, there are only a few of the little peg people left and the wheel doesn’t quite resemble a wheel anymore, but it still is there to remind me of just how easily entertained I used to be. Keeping kids today happy for hours with a little box of semi-movable parts or a hat full of ripped up bits of paper would be little short of a miracle.

With video games becoming more realistic and interactive, Netflix picking up more popular shows and movies, and new board games incorporating DVD elements, our culture has all but forgotten games you don’t have to plug in. Remember when Mouse Trap literally was the most high-tech thing you could think of and putting it together made you feel like a physicist? Or the way Monopoly had you convinced you would be fine if you ran away from home? I can think of so many board games that were integral to my interactions with my friends as a kid. It’s a different kind of experience than one in which people are looking at a screen. During our technological age, a friendly gathering often feels more like a night out at the movies.

Classic board games make you interact on a very human level. You circle around, face each other and are forced to fill silence with conversation. Even when new board games are made, they tend to have a literal board on which to move pieces around, but the game play itself happens on a computer or TV, such as all versions of Scene It. We love to be pointed in one direction, facing a screen rather than each other.

This isn’t just a generational trend and it’s not a shifting idea of what is fun—it simply is a change of comfort zone. Now that we’ve gotten used to the comfort of our screens, we don’t think we’ll like life without them, but we’re wrong. I know this because I recently played Cranium with friends after exhausting all of Parks and Recreation on Netflix. I can unequivocally confirm that board games do, indeed, still rule.

A group of 20-year-olds huddled on the floor of my dim, cold living room might have been a funny sight, but we didn’t let that concern us. We just chatted, laughed, trash-talked and became far more upset than anyone older than 12 should be about a board game. Once the game was finished, my teammate declared we would not stop playing until he won. I hope we don’t.

cards

Mack playing cards with cousins

game of life

Mack’s battered, well-loved Game of Life

Mack Memo #2: Clothes Do Not Make the Woman

Mack was not a fashionista. Most of her life, she lived in basketball shorts, sports t-shirts, and sweats. She preferred flip-flops, Chucks, and athletic shoes; and mismatched socks were always good enough for her feet. By the time she was old enough to dress herself, she rejected dress codes and event-appropriate attire, she rebelled against dresses and skirts, and except for Nikes and American Eagle blue jeans, brand names did not impress her much. Dressing up to Mack meant stretchy skinny jeans and a plain t-shirt or tank; and a golf club never collapsed when she walked in wearing sweats or flip flops. She was happy and cozy in her casual skin and with her personal anti-style style. I am at a complete loss now to understand why I worked so damn hard to impose a sense a fashion on that child, because back-to-school shopping with Mack was always frustrating for the both of us. I wanted to dress her up cool; and she just wanted to wear the faded tees she already owned. She hated everything a junior department had to offer, and she had no interest in keeping up with the fashions of her peers. Even when I successfully cajoled Mack into the selection of a flattering blouse or a stylish pair of flats, she just humored me at the store and then stuck those purchases (with the tags still intact) in the back of her closet so neither of us would ever see them again.

Mack’s relationship with clothes annoyed me when she was a teenager, but now it is my inspiration for a little change I am making in my life. Recently, I have grown tired of chasing fashion and maintaining an up-to-date closet of shoes and apparel that I now rarely wear. Working from home has dampened my enthusiasm for clothing trends. As well, since losing my Mack, I simply care a whole lot less about what my clothes look like and much more about what they feel like. With Mack very much in mind, I am also a new convert to the idea of a capsule wardrobe—a system in which you choose simple, season-specific groupings of garments that easily mix and match, wear well, and simplify your life. Garanimals for adults, I guess you could say. Mack is my cheerful and sensible spirit guide in my project to rid myself of unnecessary, uncomfortable, and unwanted clothing, especially from the stuffy, professional side of my overflowing closet. All special-event items are piling up for removal, and stiff dresses and fancy shoes will all soon be goners, as well. A brocade dress, a tight wool skirt, and a glittery pair of heeled Mary Janes went home last weekend with my fashion-loving, twenty-year-old niece; and more purging will continue over the course of the coming weeks. Mack will be ever present to cheer me on as I remove from my closet and drawers every item that pinches, squeezes, scratches, and keeps me from lifting up my arms. Mack did not tolerate crisp, button-down shirts that kept her from lifting up her arms!

The Great Stacy Closet Purge of 2016 is underway, and Mack assures me I am now on a happy clothing path many miles removed from the frenzied fashion highway I have traveled for the past thirty-five years. Although I am not trading my tailored dress pants for over-sized basketball shorts, as Mack would have me do, I am, basically, adopting my daughter’s comfort-first, style-not-really-even-second clothing philosophy. Most importantly, though, I want to reduce my dependence on clothes to boost my confidence in the world. My sweet girl never believed that clothes make the woman. She was always comfortable and confident in what she wanted to wear. She was always content to let her personality and her character, not her clothes, represent her in the world. And right now in my life, this seems a very appealing philosophy, indeed.

Mack Memo #2: Clothes do not make the woman. Dress for yourself. Be casual and comfortable, and you’ll have confidence to face the world. Keep it simple, because fewer choices in the morning means extra sleep. Don’t ever buy a stupid shirt that keeps you from lifting up your arms! And always be yourself and not your clothes.

Senior Picture 2-Mack copy

Mack’s version of “dressing up” for senior pictures

Casual, comfortable, confident Mack…

shopping in flip flops
dinner with momma bear in shorts and tee
a typical Mack outfit
golfing in sweats
attire to take you from the basketball court to vacation

Mack Memo #1: Make a Face

I just spent the weekend with my first baby, the splendid and sassy Savannah. We walked all over the Missouri Botanical Garden in nearly identical Birkenstock sandals. We drank giant steins of Heffewiezen under a 95-degree, afternoon sun, and we ate too many tortilla chips and not all of our tacos at a late dinner in historic Soulard. We laughed, we caught up on the details of each other’s daily lives, and we giggled a lot and cried a little when we reminisced about Mack. It was as close to happy as I have been since my last weekend visit with Savannah. And then her car disappeared down Washington Avenue, and the Illinois license plate faded away from my view. Then the sorrow moved back in, pushing out the sunshine and snapping me back to my lonely and gloomy, missing-Mack mood. The kind of mood that hangs on sometimes for hours after a weekend guest departs or after I return home from a trip to see family or friends. The mood that reminds me how desperately I miss my second baby.

This is the life of a grieving mother. This is the emotional truth of losing a child. For me, successful living in the moment comes with a price at the end that is frequently difficult to pay. Time does not heal this wound, no matter what they say; and so I must breathe in as deeply as possible during my live-in-the-moment successes and endure as best as I can the painful aftermath that always follows. Mack’s absence is the reason for my sorrow, but Mack is also the one who guides me through these terrible transitions, as well. Drawing strength from her humor through most all of my missing-Mack moods has been the key to my survival, and it is especially true after the positive effects of a magical diversion, like a visit with Savannah, fade away. To help alleviate my sorrow at these times, I always look at pictures of my funny girl. Mack’s face making faces has a curious power. I used to badger her to smile for pictures rather than to make a goofy face, but now it is those goofy faces that provide me strength to find my way to the next live-in-the-moment opportunity.

those eyeballs

Oh, that face! How can that face ever fail to make me smile?

Mack’s continuing power to soothe my heart, to bring a smile to my lips, and to make me laugh when I am at the lowest of low is a guiding force in my life. Mack speaks to me through her goofy grin and silly faces in photos. She whispers love and advice in my ear and plants happy memories and thoughts in my brain. She tugs at my arm to be strong, and she continually reminds me to laugh. I have come to think of these moments when Mack touches my spirit as memos from Mack. The contents of my Mack memos have become a sort of life mantra for me. Sometimes they come in the form of humorous one-liners, and sometimes they are lengthier essays with depth and with heart. Mack’s great character, her unflappable good cheer, her unique wit, and her incomparable wisdom for a person who had so little time give substance and style to all of her memos. Mack’s memos connect with my heart all the way across the great physical divide that now exists between us. Mack’s memos inspire and instruct me, and only recently have I come to fully understand their purpose and their power. Now I want to bundle up my precious memos and periodically share them in the pages of this blog. There is sound advice, much inspirational grace, and innumerable funny messages for good living within them.

And here to get it started is…

Mack Memo #1: Make a face. Make a silly face, people. Stick out your tongue. Cross your eyes. Wrinkle your nose. Suck in your lips. Use your face to make yourself or somebody else laugh. Making a face will make all the serious go away. It will make you feel better…at least for a while. Trust me. It will. And a goofy face might also save a life.

Black Eye

As a toddler, Mack had uncommon hand-eye coordination and a very good arm. By the time she was three, we made throwing balls in the house a class-one, McDermott-family felony, because if she aimed and fired at a lamp, for example, down it crashed, thoroughly battered and broken, lying on the floor. Mack’s mad throwing skills served her well in her early commitments to football and to baseball, and she loved to practice at home. As the sporty parent, it fell to me in those early years to play catch with her. I enjoyed this interaction with my cute little athletic daughter at first, but then practices became painful. And dangerous. Especially with the baseball. Even a catcher’s mitt failed to provide adequate cushioning for my delicate hand, and missed catches often left me crying and bruised.

When I started doctoral work at the University of Illinois in the fall of 2000, I passed off the baseball-catching responsibilities to Kevin. I did this partly because working a full-time job and working on a Ph.D. left me with little spare time. But, mostly, I just used that as an excuse. I could no longer handle the heat that the six-year-old Mack could put on a baseball thrown across the front lawn. Kevin was happy to pick up the slack, purchased his own mitt, and took over this duty with the good sport of a naïve angel sent down from the baseball heavens above. Every night after dinner, he dutifully stood on our driveway in the front lawn. Mack stood on the neighbor’s driveway on the other side of the lawn. And as if staging a Norman Rockwell painting, father and daughter played catch until dark, while I studied history in my attic loft.

Just behind my built-in desk in the loft, there was an adorable little window that overlooked the front yard. Many evenings, I would take a break and gaze down upon my sweet husband and my athletically gifted daughter playing catch in the twilight. The window was small, but if I wiggled a little, I could stick out my head and interact with them for a few minutes and give my brain a brief respite from my studies. Sometimes I would critique Mack’s pitching arm or comment on Kevin’s white athletic socks pulled up to the middle of his calves. Sometimes I would just watch quietly, feeling grateful that they were having this time together. Feeling happy to be with them for a bit, but grateful to be safely two stories away from the danger.

One night when Mack and Kevin were playing catch, I positioned my body in the window, called Kevin’s name loudly, and lifted my shirt to flash him. To this day, I am still not certain why I did such a thing, because I’m generally a modest sort of person. Perhaps I was punch-drunk from my graduate school reading list in American legal history. Perhaps I had one too many beers (yes, I have been known to drink while writing). Perhaps I wanted to give Kevin a little gift for keeping me out of the line of baseball fire. Whatever possessed me, I did it, and my timing could not have been more terrible. Mack had already started to deliver a throw across the lawn to her dad. When he heard me call, Kevin looked up to the little window, taking his eyes off that speeding sphere flying across the lawn. The baseball hit him square in the face, sending his glasses flying and his knees buckling. Down his body crashed, thoroughly battered and broken, lying on the ground.

I did not see the impact of the ball, because my chest covered the entirety of my little window. But I heard a girly scream from Mack and a painful man-grunt from Kevin as the baseball struck. By the time I was able to stick my head out of the window, Kevin was a heap of bones on the grass, and little Mack was standing over him. I think Kevin yelled a swear up at me and then called for ice. When I arrived in the yard, Kevin and Mack were laughing about how boobs and baseball are a bad match, and a black eye was already in evidence.

playing catch

Mack and Kevin playing catch, Field of Dreams, Iowa.