What we needed was more balls in the air. With Dodie under the weather emotionally, it was my job to start tossing.
I finished up with the paper bag albums and prepped for my favorite creativity booster, a synectics exercise, by tearing three shades of paper into small squares. On the pink, I put stages of life. On the green, I put as many places as I could think of. On the yellow, I added all the equipment I could brainstorm. My lists were eclectic and quickly scribbled. I shuffled each color group and pulled a slip of paper representing each topic. My first try yielded “childhood” (pink), “church” (green), and “hammer” (yellow). I wrote those down. I couldn’t see any relationship to scrapbooking, but I firmly agree with Nietzsche, “One must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star.” Right now the cards produced chaos. That didn’t mean I was ready to give up. I tried again. This time I flipped over “grandparents,” “home,” and “carts.” I copied those words down. I readied myself for round three when the door minder rang.
A woman of undetermined age planted herself in the center of the store, eying the paper racks nervously. This was a commonplace reaction. The awesome selection that attracts seasoned scrappers makes beginners throw up their scissors in despair.
“Hi, you look like you could use a little help.”
She tucked her purse firmly under her armpit and continued to gaze about her aimlessly.
I followed her line of sight. “Pretty overwhelming, isn’t it? My first visit to a scrapbook store I bought one sheet of paper, folded it, put it in my purse and walked out. The other customers doubled over with giggles.”
Her body relaxed. “I’d heard this is easy. And fun. But how can that be when there’s so much to choose from? Where does one begin?”
“Why not tell me about your project?”
Serena Jensen hoped to make an album for her mother. “She’s in a home for people with dementia. She’s stuck in the past. The caregivers, of course, don’t know what a wonderful and exciting life she had before the Alzheimer’s. I put a large photo of Mother in her youth on her apartment door. The nurse and the helpers responded so favorably that I thought I could do more along the same line. Maybe if there was an album about Mother’s life, it would encourage providers to see her as the woman she was. Especially on those days when she is, uh, difficult.”
“Wow. What a great idea,” I said. Actually she wasn’t the first customer who’d done this, but I’d totally forgotten about this strategy for improving the quality of life for the elderly. “And what a loving way to remind everyone to treat your mother with dignity.”
Serena’s lower lip trembled. “Do I have to do it all myself? I’ve never been handy with scissors. Mother gave up teaching me to sew! Even though I’m retired, my schedule is very busy. Between taking care of my husband, watching the grandkids, teaching Sunday School, playing golf, and volunteering at a thrift shop—” She stopped and blushed. “I hope I didn’t imply my mother isn’t important to me.”
“Mrs. Jensen—”
“Call me Serena, please.”
I introduced myself, and she interrupted with, “You must be Sheila’s daughter-in-law! She’s been telling all of us how talented you are. I should have thought to ask her where you worked. Imagine! Sheila swears you are a creative genius. A really sweet girl, too. And pretty. Which you are.”
Well, blow me down, Popeye. Sheila said all that about me? What a pleasant surprise.
“That is so kind of you to say. Now why don’t you have a seat? We can start by choosing an album style. As for the pages, you can do as much or as little as you wish. I can do the interior work, if you prefer. See? This will be easy. You just needed a little guidance.”
Not only did Serena Jensen prove to be the bearer of compliments, she was also the midwife of a great idea. After she left, I contemplated how best to approach retirement homes and independent living communities. I jotted down ideas about teaching memory album making to residents and their families.
The growling of my stomach made me look at my watch. Mert should have been by an hour ago to pick up Guy. I dialed her number.
“I know,” she answered without any greeting, “I’m coming. I jest spent another half-day being questioned by the police about Yvonne. I’ll swing by a little later, if it’s okay-dokey with you. With all this hassle from them cops, I’m running way behind.”
Why, I wondered, did the police continue to be so interested in her?
HOW TO USE SYNECTICS TO GENERATE CREATIVE SOLUTIONS
Developed by William Gordon, the name “synectics” means the fitting together of seemingly diverse elements. Creativity is, quite simply, combining old ideas in new ways. This is a simple version of the process.
1. Select at least three different colors of paper or index cards.
2. Select three topics from the list below.
• Garden tools
• Holidays
• Foods
• Relationships
• Car parts
• Nouns
• Headings in the yellow pages
• Headings in the classified section of a newspaper
Once you’ve selected your topics, write words associated with those topics. Do this as quickly as possible without pausing to think. Now put all the words associated with one topic on a particular color of cards or paper. (For example, all the car parts would be written or printed on blue index cards.) Do the same for two other topics.
Shuffle each color group. Pick one card from each color. Read the word out loud and write the trio down.
Ask yourself, “What analogies can I make between my problem and these words? How are these words different from my problem? Can any combination of these words be used to solve my problem?”
Go through the same procedure with another three cards.
If nothing comes to you, don’t despair. Sometimes your subconscious needs a bit more time to sift through the cards and work out ideas!
TEN
MY BUSY SOCIAL CALENDAR fully occupied my thoughts as I drove to Sheila’s. The barbecue at Mert’s on Sunday afternoon would be fun. She was a terrific cook, and her son Roger was a sweetie who treated Anya like she was an equal, not a pesky kid. But Opera Theatre? Brrrr. I shuddered. Getting gussied up always makes me nervous. I feel like an imposter. I worry I’m making some mysterious fashion faux pas that’s going to land me in Glamour magazine under the “Fashion Don’ts” heading.
Maybe I’d luck out, and Sheila wouldn’t find a suitable dress.
In fact, when I pulled into her drive, you couldn’t tell my mother-in-law had been shopping for formal wear at St. Louis’ toniest stores. Her linen slacks were splattered to the knee with mud, and her crisp white blouse was polka-dotted with more of the same. Both hands clutched an active garden hose. She knelt to poke the nozzle into a mole tunnel. A geyser of mud, water, and grass shot out the other end of the tunnel. The yard was looking more and more like a construction site.
As I approached her, Sheila grunted at me! Grunted! Her war on nature was turning her into an animalistic predator. I stifled a giggle and said, “Any luck shopping?”
“I’ll show you.” She let go of the hose.
That was a mistake.
Evidently Sheila had never taken a hose management course. The metal nozzle rose like a cobra ready to strike. Before I could grab it, the healthy spray of water doused both of us, blasting Sheila squarely in the face.
The hose took off across the lawn, gyrating and spewing a strong stream of water.
Sheila followed it with weary eyes. She raised muck-covered hands to wipe her face and muttered, “Shoot.”
I ran down the offending hose before twisting the sprayer shut. Dropping the hose in the mud, I walked to the faucet and turned off the flow. Squeaky, squishy sounds followed me as I picked my way back to where Sheila stood, pawing bits of leaves and dirt from her mouth.
“Shoot,” she repeated. “That does it. Next thing you know, I
’ll be cussing like a sailor.”
“May I offer an idea? Try ordure. It’s a new word I learned today.”
“That’s a heck of a lot more useful than anything I’ve learned today. Did you know a mole’s fur grows straight up? That way he can go forward or backward in a tunnel and not get dirt in his hair.” She stepped back to evaluate her experiment in drowning critters. “This is so not working. I need a new plan.”
So not working? My daughter’s pre-teen jargon was infiltrating my very proper mother-in-law’s speech patterns.
A few minutes later, we were mostly toweled off. Sheila stripped to her lace undies in the center of her vast and elegant master bedroom and slid on a silk kimono. From her closet, she withdrew a gown worthy of Cinderella.
“So that’s what you’re wearing?” My voice dropped to a hush. The garment was breathtaking. A gold halter top extended into a beaded bodice. Below the waist tumbled a waterfall of chiffon over satin. A matching sheer shawl draped over the shoulders. Sheila reached into her closet and withdrew a pair of open-toed gold sandals.
“You’ll look like a fairy princess,” I said, turning to my mother-in-law and smiling. “This is absolutely gorgeous, Sheila. A star could wear this to the Oscars.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “Gold isn’t my color. I’m wearing turquoise. This is for you.”
I backed away. “I couldn’t, I mean, it’s too grand, and I couldn’t carry it off.” Tears threatened to overwhelm me. My mother had never gone shopping with me or for me. In fact, no one but my late husband, George, had ever purchased any clothing for me. Correction: I now wondered if Sheila had been his wardrobe assistant all along. Running a tentative finger along the bodice, I mentally calculated the cost of this finery.
“This is too much,” I stuttered. “I can’t accept it. You spent too much money.”
Anya gave a brisk knock and stuck her head around the door. “Hey, Mom, aren’t you going to try that on? Isn’t it too cool? Nana searched for days to get the right outfit for you. With a little sun, you’ll look like a goddess.”
I continued to step away as though the dress were a living thing. I shook my head. “I couldn’t … I can’t.”
Sheila huffed. “Don’t be silly. Let’s see how it fits.”
Conscious of my own tattered panties and ratty bra, I did as I was told. Sheila sat next to Anya watching me. “You’ll need the appropriate foundations. What size bra and panties do you wear?”
Anya made a disgusted sound. “Nana, I’m thinking Spanx.”
I had no idea what she meant. I turned around slowly to view myself in the huge double-mirrors flanking Sheila’s closet. My gaze swept from my feet upward. The woman who looked back at me wore an elegant, slender column of gold from shoulders to toes. I pushed back my damp hair and tried to imagine an appropriate style.
“Don’t worry about your hair.” Sheila studied me. “The dress is perfect, and the staff at Spa La Femme will make you … worthy.”
“About that,” I began, slowly unzipping the gown. “It won’t take them long, will it? Dodie may need me in the store.”
Sheila took my arm so I could step out of the dress. She slid the gown onto a padded hanger and into a plastic zip-up bag. “She and I have already talked. You’re covered. A car will pick you up at eight a.m. When you’re finished, my driver will bring you from Spa La Femme to my house, and we’ll attend the function together. We should make quite an entrance. It’s always easiest to walk in with someone you know. Besides, I want to enjoy all the admiring looks you’re going to get. I’ve told my friends you are coming.”
I mentioned meeting Serena Jensen.
“Serena and Bob will be there. She’s a wonderful woman, and I’m not surprised she’s figured out a way to help her mother.”
“It was easy to talk to her in the store, because we had scrapbooking to discuss, but … what will I say to other people? People I don’t know? I can’t very well begin a conversation with, ‘Hi, my name is Kiki and I’m a scrapaholic.’”
“Oh, Mom, honestly.” Anya flounced out of the room. An odd odor followed her. Probably some sort of mole repellent, I reasoned. Surely she wasn’t doing drugs? Just one more item to add to my worry-list. Placing my new shoes in their box, I braced myself for Sheila’s response. She didn’t have much patience with my lack of social confidence.
Instead of the pep talk or chastising that usually followed my whining, she handed me a brown paper package. “Open it.”
Inside was the audio version of Barbara Walters’ How to Talk with Practically Anybody about Practically Anything. “Making small talk is a skill, not a God-given talent. It’s silly for you to be nervous. You need to conquer this and be a good role model for your daughter.”
I must have looked dubious. I sure felt that way.
Taking the wrapping paper from me, Sheila spoke firmly. “You can and you will do this. No arguing.” And to my surprise, she gave my shoulder a tiny squeeze. It wasn’t much, but it counted as the first spontaneous affection she’d ever shown me.
A catch in my throat gave me trouble talking. Even five weeks ago, I would have never imagined this day. Sheila and I had come such a long way. Impulsively, I threw my arms around her. She stiffened. I turned her loose quickly.
“Thank you,” I whispered. “Thank you.” I pulled back to see doubt form in those clear blue eyes.
“Yes. Well. You’d better wait to thank me until after Opera Theatre.” And she turned away.
ELEVEN
ANYA SETTLED INTO THE car and gave both Gracie and Guy some loving. “I think Grandma’s lost her mind. All she thinks about is those moles. She asked me to go to the Internet and find ways to kill them. I think they’re pretty cute, actually.”
“Anya-Banana, what’s that I smell on your clothing?”
My kid scrunched up her face. “Cocaine? Heroin? For goodness sake, Mom, I’ve been at a science lab all day except for hanging around with my grandmother. Hello? I have no idea what you’re smelling on my clothes, but it’s not dope if that’s what you’re thinking.”
We didn’t have time to pursue the subject because Mert pulled up right behind us. The hefty slam of her truck door left no question about her mood. “Iffen I had more money, and a good lawyer, I’d sue all of them. Those no-good, eraser-brain St. Louis police! They’d be off my butt in a hot Missouri minute. As it is, they’re bound and determined to bug the heck outta me, because they ain’t got any other good ideas about who killed Yvonne.”
Okay, she was ticked. I got it. Her rural roots were showing, big time. I led her into the house. Once she settled at the kitchen table, I poured her a tall, cool glass of tea. As I got one for myself, I asked, “But why you? There were a lot of folks around when Yvonne died.”
Mert’s eyelashes were typically clotted with mascara, but today more hairs than usual were stuck together—a sure clue she’d been crying earlier. A listless motion of her hand accompanied a weary voice, “It’s complicated. How about you order us a pizza on my dime, and I’ll ’splain it.”
While we waited for the food to come, I gathered Guy’s belongings. The comical fellow seemed to know his visit was over. He whined a lot.
Over a thin-crust veggie pizza, Mert told me what the late, great Paul Harvey dubbed “the rest of the story.” Seems Yvonne did more than simply let Mert go. The woman accused my friend of stealing a diamond necklace. A few weeks into the investigation, the jewelry showed up in a pawn shop over in Illinois, a prime spot for Old St. Louis to hide financial problems. According to Yvonne, this proved Mert tried to sell the jewelry. The pawn shop owner shared his records with the police. A man’s name and address were on the forms. The police could find no link between the mystery man and Mert.
Reluctantly, the Gaynors dropped charges. Even so, the woman trash-talked Mert to her entire neighborhood and beyond.
“She got me fired from a part-time cleaning job at Perry’s company.” Mert rubbed her face with her careworn hands.
“Most all my income was gone. I had to start from scratch. And it was hard because people depend on your references.”
When I hired Mert many years ago, I’d done the same, checking her references before giving her the run of my home. “But that happened, when?”
“Twelve years ago.”
“Why would you wait until now to get even?”
Mert turned a ripe cherry red. Now I’d seen two things this day that I’d never expected: Sheila cussing and Mert blushing. I needed to write this in my diary!
Her white-frosted fingernails worried the seam of her black jeans. “All’s I can figure is it’s because Johnny is back. See, my brother was sent to Potosi for robbing a convenience store.”
I forced myself not to show surprise.
“I guess the cops think now my little brother is out, he’s encouraging me. Who knows?” She continued, “Maybe because Johnny’s on parole, my whole family’s on their radar. All I can say is, my brother was a young man who made a bad choice and paid dearly for it. Broke my parents’ hearts. And, since his hearing and all, the law’s been watching us close like. My whole family got tarred with the brush Johnny was carryin’. It about killed all of us. See, he promised to quit hanging around with this bad element. Then, one night when he’d had a couple of beers at a bar, a couple of his old friends—including a cop’s son, mind you—-asked if he wanted a ride home. He said yes, so’s he could leave his car and not get a DUI. They swung by a convenience store, and next thing he knows, they got guns out and they’re inside whooping and hollering.
“Johnny ran in after them, yelling, and he says they turned the guns on him and forced him back into the car. The cops got them afore they’d went two miles. Johnny told the police everything. But when it went to trial, the judge was up for re-election, and he didn’t want to be called soft on crime. Said Johnny was to blame. Huh,” she said and shook her head. “The cop’s kid got off with a hand slap.”
She turned her eyes away. “I been meaning to tell you. Especially before you and Anya come to my party. I’ll understand if you don’t want to come over on Sunday.”
Cut, Crop and Die Page 11