Starry, Starry Night

Margaret & Dick Janes
Surprise 40th Anniversary Party
12-8-82

Dad Christmas 1976

Dad had a business appointment in a client's home one evening.  The client had just remodeled his home.  He showed Dad a room with sparkles on the ceiling.  This must have been the beginning of the "popcorn" ceilings.  Dad was fascinated by the glittery substance on the ceiling, and he said it looked like a star filled desert night.  He told me that someday he was going to have a ceiling like that.

Dad began buying a box of stars each time he went to the store--you know, the kind you put on a first grader's good spelling test.  Those were in the days when you had to lick the back of the stars.  He had a huge amount of stars before he told me his plan.  He said that when he got enough stars, he was going to "surprise" Mom and put them on the ceiling of their mobile home.  Dad was sick, and I knew that he wasn't going to live long enough to actually follow through with this, so I opted to keep my mouth shut about it.  Dad was a dreamer, and what was the harm in a little dream if it made him happy?

One day not long after Dad died, Mom told me about all the stars she had found among Dad's things.  She wondered what on earth he was planning to do with them.  I told her that I knew.  When I told her his plan to "surprise" her, she was furious with me!  "Why didn't you tell me?!  I can't believe you were actually going to let him DO that!"  Hey, Mom, it's not like he could actually follow through with it.  Man, oh man, was she mad at me--and doubly mad at Dad!

My sister, Cheri, was teaching Kindergarten at the time.  I don't know how many years she used those stars, but I'm quite certain that she never had to buy another star.

Apparently, starry nights are all in your perspective.  If you have a great imagination, anything can be a beautiful desert starry night.  Let me tell you, Dad did not lack for imagination.

Stained Glass Curtains

My Stained Glass Curtains

I was about six years old when my parents bought a new house.  At first, they couldn't afford to buy curtains for the sliding glass door in the family room, so Mom retrieved her collection of fabric scraps.  Mom made patchwork curtains for the sliding glass door.  They were supposed to be a very temporary solution, so she didn't even line them.  When the sun came through those curtains, it was magic!  The whole room lit up!  It was like a beautiful stained glass window.  We all loved them so much, that Mom left them there until they completely rotted away before replacing them.

I always said that someday, I would have "stained glass curtains" in my house.  We built the addition to our home the winter of 1986 - 1987, I believe.  For the first time, we had a sliding glass door.  I didn't have a collection of sewing scraps because I'm not the sewing wizard that my mother was, but I bought some fabric to make curtains.  I wanted all the colors of the rainbow.  I wanted them to last a long time, so I bought white muslin and lined them.  I thought they were beautiful, and I was very proud of them.  I loved being in that room!

As my children became older, however, they referred to my work of art as "gay" curtains.  It's was very odd to me that "all the colors of the rainbow" meant something completely different to my children.  About a year ago, I finally had to replace those old curtains.  It was a sad day for me.  The curtains I made this time around are from one fabric.  It was a much more expensive fabric than my original curtains.  I lined them with better fabric, as well.  I like them.  They go with my family room. quite nicely -- but nothing could ever replace my stained glass curtains!

Kids, laugh all you want -- but sunshine coming through the colors of the rainbow still make me happy.  Mom, thanks for teaching me that beauty is seen in many ways -- and it doesn't have to be expensive.  I miss you.

Patterns

Sometime during my first grade year, I spent some time with Nana Janes in Portola, California. Nana was not staying at her home that week; she was taking care of the Knotty Pine Motel for a friend who was on vacation. The lobby of this place was knotty pine, and was gorgeous! I've loved knotty pine ever since, and have dreamed of buidling a knotty pine bedroom.















(Picture from here: http://www.redcrestresort.com/-- my favorite getaway spot.)

Nana Janes was an early riser, and she didn't realize that I also arose with the sun. She was very prim and proper. She woke up early in the morning so that she could dress in front of a wood stove to keep warm. The first morning I was there I startled her when I caught her dressing in front of the wood stove. I continued to wake up early every morning that week, but Nana was always dressed. She must have set an alarm prior to sunrise the rest of the week to get some privacy.

I remember Nana's hands. There were patterns in the lines on her hands. I remember wanting to take a crayon and connect some of the lines to see if I could make a picture--but I didn't dare ask her.

Years later I looked at my Dad's hands and saw those same patterns. I remember thinking that it must be "a Janes thing." The other day I found myself staring at my own hands at those same patterns. What I used to think was a fascinating jigsaw puzzle, turns out to be "old" skin. There's nothing intriguing about it at all. I don't mind having "old" skin; I've earned every wrinkle and every gray hair. I do find disappointment in this little discovery, however. I'm not sure why, but something I thought was "special" about my family just bit the dust.

Early morning seminary for me (and later my children) spoiled the fun of getting up early in the morning. Dragging myself out of bed is the norm these days. I'd better not build the knotty pine bedroom I've always wanted to build after all. Maybe it wouldn't be as "special" as the memory.

Think How Much Worse You'd Feel if You Were an Elephant

I've been ill the last couple of weeks, and at each stage of this bug I've been reminded of my Dad. Last week when I was using up a box of Kleenex, my Dad's voice popped into my head, "Think how bad you'd feel if you were an elephant." Later, as it moved into my chest and lungs, I heard him say, "Think how bad you'd feel if you were a gorilla." And then as it moved into my throat and neck, "Think how bad you'd feel if you were a giraffe."

Phase II hit last night. I could almost feel his left hand holding my stomach, and his right hand holding my head. And for just a tiny moment, I thought I heard Mom gagging in the background. Mom always had a weak stomach for such things. In the middle of the night I longed for the Lysol smell that used to linger as Dad disinfected everything in sight. I was too sick to do much disinfecting and was really missing someone to do it for me.

About 4:00 a.m., stretched out on the couch completely spent, Dad's favorite scriptures were playing in my head as if he were reading them to me himself -- and maybe he was. I also could hear him telling me, "Mind over matter." No matter how many years he studied the Book of Mormon, there was a part of him that was still Christian Scientist.

Tonight, as I'm trying to figure out what I should eat, I'm longing for Dad's homemade milkshakes. There was something magical about Dad's milkshakes that made everything feel better.

I can't help wondering what Dad's calling is on the other side of the veil. Nurse? Babysitter? Ice cream scooper? Compassionate service? All of the above?

Thanks for being there last night Dad.