Three Days in Iuka MS, Part One

"Iuka is built on the site of a Chickasaw Indian village. The name "Iuka" comes from the name of one of the chieftains of the village." - Wikipedia

I hadn't seen my old pal, Carolyn for a loooong time.  She invited me to come and stay with her in her wee house in Iuka, Mississippi.  I was eager to meet her new (sort of) husband, Frank.  He had a major stroke a few years ago, although he has come quite a long way since then.  Still, he has a few "quirks" ... let me hasten to add that they are the most adorable quirks and when I think of them, they still make me smile, some two weeks after my visit.  


Curiously, Frank's brain thinks more in images than in complete sentences, so you have to play this "fill in the blank" game with him.  A typical conversation with Frank goes something like this (and you have to imagine each word spoken with great emphasis) ... Frank:  "Work!  Boilermaker!  Talented!  Exercise!  Work!  Money!"  Carolyn interprets:  "Yes, honey.  You are an extremely talented boilermaker and if you keep doing all your exercises, you will get well enough to go back to work and make lots of money!"  Frank, nodding emphatically:  "Yessir!  Yessir!"  He says "yessir" to everyone, man, woman, or child.


This first morning there, I walked into the living room in my shorty nightshirt.  Apparently too much leg was showing.  "OHHHH, NOOOO!!! DON'T LOOK!!! NEKKID!!!" Frank yelled, his good hand covering his eyes.  I'm still laughing over that one.


Frank is a bit Obsessive-Compulsive.  Carolyn is not sure whether he was always that way and he just hid it real well or if it's just what he has to do to cut down on his own confusion.  At any rate, EVERYTHING must be in its proper place at all times.  If he goes looking for something and it isn't where it's supposed to be, he is not a happy camper.  I didn't realize all this at first.  On my first night there, I went looking for a blanket after everyone had gone to bed and found one near his chair in the living room.  So I took into the guest bed room and covered up with it.  Nighty-night!  Not good.  Unbeknownst to me, Frank gets up early (4:30), makes coffee, and sits in his recliner under his blanket to watch t.v.  Oops!  No blanket.  It wasn't that he minded sharing his blanket, but it bothered him no end not being able to figure out what he had done with it.  Everything.Must.Be.In.Its.Place.  Period.  When Carolyn and I got up that morning, we were met with the query, "Uh ... BLANKET?!"  Wasn't hard to fill in the blanks on that one.


Each morning, Frank very sweetly made me coffee ... but if I left the room even for a moment, I would come back and the coffee would be gone.  Okay, I see how it works now ... dishes gotta be washed and dried IMMEDIATELY.  That first morning I had to tell him that I was a slow drinker and I promised to tell him when I was really, really finished.  He nodded and replied, "Yessir!"  Funny thing, though.  Every time I glanced over at him, I could see him repeatedly checking out my coffee cup from the corner of his eye to see if it was empty yet. Frankly, I was afraid to ask for another cup.  Didn't wanna mess up the regular program too much, ya know!


At one point, I left my cell phone on an end table.  I walked back into the room just in time to see him picking it up and taking it into the kitchen.  I followed him just to see what he would do with it.  He put it on top of the stove.  Actually, this sorta made sense because on the wall next to the stove was a key ring rack.  When he turned around and saw me, he said, "PHONE ... KEYS ... GO ... DOOR!"  Made sense to me.  When you get ready to leave, your phone and your keys will be right here together by the door.  I said as much to him, just to make sure I was getting it right.  "Yessir, yessir.!"  Hey, I was actually starting to get the hang of this.  Simple really ... just fill in the blanks and don't leave anything laying around.  I must say, Frank's fastidiousness has paid off for Carolyn.  He cleans like a demon.  "THERAPY,"  he says.  Their house is spotless ... I mean spic and span!  Leaving Carolyn time to pursue her art, which at the time of this writing is quilting.  Beautiful work, I hafta say.  Wish I'd thought to take a photo of it.

Carolyn has recently lost quite a bit of weight.  Knowing this, I brought her some clothes that I was no longer wearing.  Most of you know by now that my closet is full to bursting with "diva" garments.  Sparkle, glitter, fringe, feathers, etc.  Carolyn is a bit more conservative than I am, but I figure all women have a little diva in them, so I encouraged her to try them on anyway.  She finally settled on something to wear on our outing that day and went into the living room to show Frank.  "What do you think?" she asked.  "LOUD!" he replied.  Oh, well ... chuckle.


And what does any of this have to do with jewelry design?
Stay tuned for Iuka MS, Part Two.






  

What My Daddy Told Me ...

Did I ever tell you that I was painfully shy when I was a child? Daddy was always trying to bring me out of my shell. He told me I was smart, he told me I was sweet, he told me I was funny, he told me I was beautiful. He told me again and again to just get out there and be myself - that I was absolutely wonderful and that people would like me just as I was. Still, for a long, long time I had such difficulty getting out there and making new friends. You wouldn't know it to look at me now, but I was terrified to speak up or do anything even just the slightest bit overt for fear of calling attention to myself.

Now, of course, you can't shut me up and, to be quite frank, I now find that attention is a good thing! Shy? Me? Never!! I have my Daddy thank to for that.


An old friend of Daddy's (and now mine) reminded me today that I was always the apple of Daddy's eye and that he adored me completely.  Mama has told me time and time again that he was the best father a little girl could have wished for.  I believe her.  He spoiled me absolutely rotten!

Odd then, that when Mama first learned she was pregnant, he was so angry.  I have always believed that there was a lot of fear underneath all that anger.  They had only been married a short time.  They were young and had very little money. But after a time, Daddy grew accustomed to the idea of being a father and became quite excited at the prospect.  After a run of bad luck in his life, he was certain that God was going to bless him with a son.  Yes, he was DEFINITELY going to have a boy.  A boy to play ball with, fish with, do guy stuff with.  A son to carry on his name, to continue his legacy.



Back then, there wasn't testing available to determine the sex of an unborn child (I'm just a little horrified that this will likely give you some idea of my age).  On the day of my birth, the nurse came out and told him that he had a little girl.  He was furious!  And that made the nurse furious ... she said, "Mr. Dutton, if you don't want her, I will gladly take her home with me!" Needless to say, my mother was terribly hurt and upset.  When Daddy finally came into the room, Mama said, "Do you want to hold her?"  With an exasperated sigh, he said nothing, just flung his arms out.  The nurse placed me in his outstretched arms. Mama found it quite disconcerting that she suddenly seemed to have disappeared - he only had eyes for me.  She told me that from that moment on, I had him wrapped around my wee little finger.

Did I mention that Daddy was a photographer?  He took lots and lots of photos of me.  I tended to be quite the serious child, but he did managed to make me laugh every now and then.

I lost Daddy in a tragic accident many years ago.  I was sixteen years old.  My memories of him are still so vivid.  In looking back, I can now see how he made his life all about me.  Every place he took me was designed to teach me something, help me grow, make me happy, and ultimately make me a better person.  He went back to college ... not just to help himself attain a better job, but to give me a better life.  And going back to college was very, very difficult for him because he was deaf.  Just a few weeks after his death, his master's degree came in the mail.  The year that he died, he had been elected to the office of President of the Alabama Association for the Deaf.  I was soooo proud of him and over the years have wondered if, where he is, he is able to see me, have some awareness of me and my life, and have I given him cause to be proud of me?

A friend who came to church to hear me sing some years back told me, "Lisa, if your Daddy was sitting right here in this pew, his heart would be so big and full of joy and pride and love, there would be no room for anyone to sit there with him."  I asked her, "Do you think he can hear me?"  She replied, "Absolutely!"   I never forgot that.  Because, yes, I believe in heaven and I believe that he is there.  I believe that I will see him again.  And for no other reason than I have a gut feeling about this, I believe that love is so powerful and transcendent that somehow the good stuff filters through between here and there.

And all this brings me to an amazing thing that happened to me recently.  I find myself pondering it, turning it over and over in my mind like an especially treasured gift ... especially today.  This past February on Valentine's Day, John (my husband) was taking me out on a date.  If you only knew how rarely this occurs, you would understand how utterly thrilled I was. And not just any date. No! We were in the car on our way to the historic Alabama Theatre to see Casablanca.  John always gives me the most wonderful cards on these special occasions.  It set me to thinking about the handful of cards from my Daddy that my mother saved up for me.  I have them stashed away in a box.  Sometimes I have the overwhelming urge to take them down and look through them.  They always make me smile.   They made me smile today.

Anyway, I told John that on Valentine's Day, I would always get a card from Daddy that would invariably begin or end with "To the Sweetest Little Girl in All the World."  I said to John, "You know, I can't help but wonder if he ever thinks of me or misses me even now."  I confess, I like to think so.  Oh, I hope so.

A few days later, I was spending the night at Mama's. Oddly, she and my stepfather decided to sleep in the guest room and put me in their master bedroom.  I had such a hard time getting to sleep that night and found myself wandering around looking for a book to read.  Now, I'm not one to snoop through Mama's things, but I found my eye drawn to a decorative little box sitting on her dresser.  It was a pasteboard box that I had decoupaged and decorated for her as a gift for Mother's Day some years before.  I thought to myself, "I wonder if she is keeping any of the jewelry I have given her in there."  I opened the box and peeked inside.  There was one sheet of half-folded stationery in there and I could see my Daddy's distinctive writing on it.  I couldn't believe what I was seeing.  I reverently lifted the sheet out of the box and opened it up.  It was a letter that he had written to me when he was away at school.  I was five years old.  Here's how it began:

"Dear little Lisa,   It has been a long time since I have seen you but I have not forgotten you.  I think of you everyday and miss you very much."

There.  I had my answer.
I guess miracles do happen.

I miss you, too, Daddy.
Happy Father's Day.

And just what does this all have to do with jewelry, fashion, and all things Diva? Only this.  At the bottom of the letter, Daddy writes, "I am going to send you a pretty pocketbook so you will have something nice to take to church Easter."

Luv & Diva Hugs to All ... Lisa

Cowboy Boots, Diva Feet, and Loooong Toes

I don't have a single pair of practical shoes in my closet.

Well, except for maybe my hiking boots, and even they have a coupla shiny charms hanging off them.  I know, I know.  I just can't seem to help it.  I like dressing up ... even when I'm dressed down, you will invariably see some quirk of my Diva--ness in evidence.  

Workin' outside in my baggy overalls?  One side has to be unbuckled and dangling and the cuffs have to be stylishly rolled up to reveal my awesome footwear.  Oh, and there simply MUST be dangly earrings dripping coyly from my earlobes.  I don't often put my hair up.  Mostly when I'm working outside or around the house.  But I have the coolest diva hair barrette ... it's absolutely dripping with fake pearls.

I come by it honest, really I do.  Just check out this photo of me as a child at Kiddieland.  There I am in my grubby play clothes, wearing a shiny pair of white patent leather shoes, courtesy of my mama.  They even have a wee little heel on them.  Diva baby shoes!

I don't have a single pair of classic black pumps to wear to church or other "dress up" occasions.  I wear my cowboy boots.  Never mind that I wear them with jeans, shorts, sundresses, and even my pj's.  Yes, I must be honest.  I have a couple of the cutest night gowns and when I adorn  myself with the just the right jewelry and accessories, I wear them out in public.  Oh, yes, I do!!   Top it all off with the pearl hair clip and my wicked diva cowboy (girl) boots, and I have quite the ensemble.  No one would ever know unless they saw the "Cacique" label inside the neckline ... well, that, and I do tend to take great pride in announcing it quite boldly.  "This?  Why thank you!  But I must confess, I'm wearing my nightgown!" The surprised expressions are just priceless.  I mean, why not?  No, no, I'm not talking slinky lingerie here - nothing indecent.  Just a pretty little night dress.  If it works, I say, "Go for it!"  I believe passionately that one of my purposes here on earth is to help people streeeetch their imagination.  Why, I once had a friend who used to make the most wonderful skirts and wrap dresses out of fringed bedspreads!  Why wake up every day and wear the same old boring clothing and walk in the same old boring rut wearing the same old boring shoes.  Create an adventure for yourself!  Wearing my nightgown out in public makes feel quite adventurous!  And my diva cowboy boots help me carry it off with confidence!  One of my dear friends once told me, "You don't just wear clothing or outfits.  You wear costumes!"  I can live with that.  But I digress (yes, you will see me doing a lot of that here).



I wasn't always so brave, bold, and adventurous.  I'll just say this straight out.  I have long toes ... very long toes ... abnormally looooong toes.  When I was younger, I simply refused to go barefoot or wear sandals out in public.  On the few occasions when I did work up my nerve and let my toes show, I would invariably look for some means to hide them - under the table, behind a long skirt, in the sand.  Why?  Because I just couldn't bear up under the scrutiny, the incredulous stares, the rude whispers.  Fine, you can laugh.  I still don't think it was my imagination.  Know why?  Because of the comments.  Oh, the comments I would get!  They made my toes curl, quite literally.  They ran along the lines of ....

"Those are the absolute longest toes I've ever seen!"  (Yes, I've never seen toes longer than mine)
"Your toes look just like fingers!" (True.  My second toe is nearly as long as my little finger)
"Can you pick up things with your toes?  Can you spread them like your fingers? (Yes, actually, I can)
"Can you swing from tree limbs with those things?"  (No, but I admit they are practically prehensile)

The list goes on.  Just forget about me even thinking of wearing toe rings or ankle bracelets.  They brought all that dreadful, unwanted attention right down to my feet!  For many years, I hid my shameful toes from public view each summer inside a succession of hot, closed-up shoes.  Thus began my utter fascination with cowboy boots.  I figured if I couldn't diva up my ankles and toes, I would just fancy up my feet and legs with the coolest boots I could find.  That went over very well!  No one noticed the absence of sandals (um, except for the time I wore my boots to the beach).  They could only stare in wonder and profound appreciation at my red-hot high-heeled cowboy boots.  Boots with braid, boots with fringe, boots with angel wings & red hearts, boots with lacy socks showing above the top, boots with charms hanging from the pull-on loops!  So many compliments I received ... and I DO love compliments!  Did I ever tell you that?  Not that they validate me or my existence in any way, of course.  But a little appreciation, a little acknowledgement, a little recognition for one's efforts is just so nice, don'tcha think?



But, Good Lawd!  My feet were hot!  I live in the deep, deep south.  And my feet were HOT, lemme tell you!  The bad kind of hot!  Fast forward to just a few years ago.  I suddenly saw myself as a wee bit older, a good bit wiser, and caring a whole lot less what everyone thought about me or my toes!  I began collecting and filing away little sayings about toes that I could bring out when the appropriate occasion arose.  For instance, when confronted with the raised eyebrow or questioning stare, I could point my nose up in the air and say loftily (if a little defensively) ...

"Long toes are indicative of an extremely intelligent mind."  (Hey, I'm pretty smart)
"Long toes are a sign of a highly passionate nature."  (It's true, ask my closest friends)
"Long toes are a genetic trait seen in royalty."  (My ancestors once owned a castle in Scotland)
"Long toes are the sign of a sick mind."  (Oh, wait - that one was my husband's)

Bottom line:  as a fabulously free-spirited diva type, I no longer feel the slightest bit of self-consciousness at the occasional raised eyebrow when I wear my sandals.  I now revel in the most amazing sense of foot freedom!  I paint my toenails the brightest, glittering colors!  I adorn my feet with the blingiest open-toed shoes!  I wear great quantities of the shiniest toe rings!  My feet have blossomed ... my mind has expanded ... aahhhh .... freedom at last!  See me here, wiggling my toes ecstatically in the frigid breeze of the car's air conditioner.

I now have only one last parting remark to make about my toes.  Most of my friends have the cutest little stubby short toes.  They remind me of cute little baby animals.  But, you see, I am a fully grown, fully realized diva and "cute" and "little" just aren't words that describe me or my toes.  So, yes, they are very long, but they are also very elegant.

But wait, I am supposed to be promoting my fabulous jewelry here in this blog of mine!  So what's the tie-in?  I have been crafting the most wonderful quirky wraparound bracelets made with a fabulous mix of antique buttons and beads.  As I sat marveling over this finished bracelet today, it suddenly occurred to me, "Wouldn't this make marvelous ankle bling?"  Hmmmm ....

P.S.  Mama told me she would give me money to help buy new cowboy boots if I promised never to wear my well-worn black ones again.  But I just can't.  Beat up or no ... they are so comfortable ... and still oddly cool!

Diva in the Making: The Early Years

It's not my fault, I tell you!  They made me this way.

My mother has asked me repeatedly over the past coupla decades, a litany of bothersome questions.  They run the gamut of, "When are you going to start dressing more conservatively?" and "When are you going to get a shorter, more sedate haircut?" and "Don't you think you're showing a little too much cleavage?"  To top it all off, she is constantly (even though she continues to remind me of my advancing age) walking behind me on our public outings, pulling the tail of my shirt down ("I can see your bottom!"  horrors) or yanking the front of my blouses and dresses up ("Too much cleavage!  I hope you wouldn't wear something like this to church!").  Just last week, when we were walking into The Olive Garden to have lunch, I made just a wee little joke at her expense and she popped me on the hiney right in front of the hostesses and wait staff!  They all laughed.  Okay, okay ... when she asked where the restrooms were, I pointed to the sign and said, "Well, it says 'ladies' but you can go in anyway."  To make it all the more ridiculous, you have to imagine that I am a large woman and she is quite petite.  But she didn't hesitate to whack me ... I mean, she IS my mother after all and I guess that gives her a certain amount of license.  

My Mama (below).   A true southern, lady.  Methinks she has just a bit of the diva thing going on herself!

Did I digress again?  This, too, is all my mother's fault.  She can't just make a simple statement or give you a straight answer to a question.  My husband has a little story he likes to tell about my mother, and it's quite apt.  Ask Lera what time it is and she'll say, "Well, first there was the Creation and then there was Stonehenge and next we have the sundial and then came the little swiss clockmakers." It takes her quite some time to work her monologue all the way up to the Timex watch and what time it actually is. You get my point.

I think I take after my mother.  This used to bother me.  Used to.  Anyway (oops, I did it again) ... the point is, that I'm not likely to change, Mom.  And you can blame yourself and grandma.  Just look at this picture (top).  Grandma made the dress and you dressed me in it!  Even my cousin, Larry, just doesn't seem to know quite what to make of me.  I mean, just look at all those fluffs, flounces, and laces!  Again and again I have told Mama that I am not likely to change, "Just you wait ... when I am old, I shall wear my tiara to the grocery store!"  Yes, I know, many of you have heard me say this already.  But be warned ... I'm not exactly sure yet when I will have reached that perfect stage of "old" but I am shopping for tiaras already. Really, I am.  And once I find one, don't be surprised if you see me already wearing it.  Why not?  Why wait?  Time's-a-wastin'!  Meanwhile, I will just adorn my neck, arms, ears, etc. with my own fabulous arty creations. Oh, and hopefully, adorn everyone else's necks, arms, and ears, as well.

Here I am, Mama ... sporting a little smirk on my face ... wild hair, scandalous cleavage, and all!  So, just go ahead and keep nagging me ... if you weren't here to do it, I know I'd miss it terribly.

Timothy Adam Told Me I HAD to Blog

Sounded simple enough.  In his book, "How to Make Money Using Etsy" he gives some great advice.  Starting a blog sounded like a simple first step ... NOT!  Who knew it would be such a harrowing, mind-boggling experience?  Oh, you can laugh ... but let me tell you, just trying to do the simplest thing led to a horrible domino effect of ... do this (I link to it), do that (I link to that, too), now do this other thing (yet another link to yet another explanation).  By the time I clicked, and clicked, and clicked and ... well, honestly, I couldn't even remember just exactly what it was that I was trying to do to start with.

Really, now.  I'm a patient person, not given to temper tantrums, diatribes, crying fits, wild gesticulations ... that's just not me.  But last night, after four grueling hours of working on my blog design and all its requisite accompanying links, buttons, gadgets, widgets, and urls, my right eye began to twitch and my jaw was aching from all of the violent teeth grinding.  Then started the insane eye-rolling, huffing & puffing, Italian sign language, foot stamping ... well, you get the picture.  My whole look and demeanor underwent a most unbelievable and horrifying transmogrification ... truly, a sight to behold.  My sweet greyhound, Ranger, was terrified.  I had to sit down and drink several mimosas last night to calm down.  Oh, and watching the first Bourne movie helped.  What is it about Matt Damon in that particular role?  I feel certain that if he had actually been here last night, he woulda had me blogging in no time at all!

But I digress.  After two days of such unprecedented aggravation and subsequent awful behavior, I have taken a deep breath and now find myself sitting here feeling all sorts of relieved.  Know why?  'Cause I am realizing that a blog, this being my first one, is a great place to vent.  By the time anyone actually starts finding me and, even better, bothers to read the thing, this particular rant will likely be waaay back in the archives ... what will one day come to be known as the infamous Lilah Broxton annals.

But wait!  I am here to promote my jewelry/artwear designs, right?  Talk about my craft, art-filled journey, right?  Well, just bear with me because life does have a way of happening and it will constantly intrude and overlap into all areas of ... well, life.  Whew!  I feel better now.  I know Timothy Adam would've advised me to start off differently.  I'll try to do better, really I will.

Here's a photo of me & The Range-Man, relaxing after a grueling day of blog design.