Tag: appreciation

My Mother, The Hairdresser

Published on by Danielle Dayney24 Comments

When I was young, my mom worked at the K-mart salon, making a living giving perms to the elderly while they were shopping.  I would go to work with her, watching her flawless beauty as she mingled with clients.  She was elegant then, with long hair that reached the bottom of her shoulder blades in waves like the ocean cascading against the sand.

Her hair, dark and lovely, was unusually long.  On warm days, she would pull it back in a loose braid at the nape of her olive colored neck, keeping her bangs feathered and full of Aqua Net, a style she couldn’t quite let go of.  In the evenings, she would drag me, by the hand, over to the couch so I could brush her long locks as she watched television.  I would fill it with colorful barrettes, pretending I was the stylist and she was my client.  Of course I wanted to be just like her.

One summer day, her Irish temper ran to a boil and she impulsively chopped every bit of it off.  We both stood in the kitchen, a mane at our feet, and cried, mourning the change.

Eventually, and for reasons unbeknownst to me, she left that job at K-mart and started styling hair in our kitchen.  My mom would wash clients’ hair in the same porcelain sink that she cleaned our Tupperware, never once dropping the Virginia Slim hanging from her burgundy lips.  Gold bracelets rattled as she scrubbed, then rinsed the suds with the faucet. I watched her long fingers, painted brightly, as she permed, trimmed and shaved, always in aww of her artistic flare.

After many more years, one more child, and a nursing degree, my mom eventually stopped doing hair.  Though she loved hairdressing, she thought that nursing, and helping people, was her true calling.  And it was.  Her kind-hearted, selfless nature made her the perfect kind of nurse.  Unfortunately, not long after she started nursing, she also found out she had cancer.  By the time the doctor spotted it, in her routine colonoscopy, it had already metastasized, and overtaken her body, spreading from her colon to her liver and her lymph nodes.  Though she was against it, she started aggressive chemotherapy to salvage what she could of her body.  My mom was devastated because she could no longer practice nursing.

In the end, the chemotherapy only delayed the inevitable.

Four years later, on the day that she died, cancer and the poison of her drugs forced everything about her, including her hair, to change drastically.  It was no longer thick and flowing, but instead brittle and matted to her ashen skin.  Her eyes were closed tight, as she slept away the pain with a morphine drip.  I used her brush to gently untangle her thinning brown tufts and move them away from her eyes, though I don’t know if she could feel my presence.  I wanted so much to remember how it was to be on our couch as a child, filling her waves with colors of the rainbow, but the papery, unnatural feel of her hair was forbidding me.  Still, I let my fingers linger there, wishing for a different outcome.

Despite my mom being gone more than four years, I think of her often.  When I think of her, it’s sometimes as the hairdresser, or sometimes as the nurse, but always as the most beautiful woman; selfless, loving and easy to get along with.

And today, more than ever, I want to be just like her.

Morning Flight

Published on by Danielle Dayney19 Comments

Photo courtesy of Llywelyn Nys

The rising sun had yet to meet the sky, and hues of pink changed the clouds to delicious cotton candy.  She shut the door quietly, trying not to wake her father, then flipped yesterday’s braids behind her, and tiptoed quickly off the deck.

Wet grass slipped between her bare toes as she ran toward the towering tree.

Once there, her small hands tugged at the ropes, pulling herself to sit on the wood, hand-carved by her papa.  She tipped her head, purple nightgown soaring behind her like a cape. Her toes touched the coveted sky.

Often, she dreamt of flying.

Baby Steps

Published on by Danielle Dayney15 Comments

Arms outstretched; fists white-knuck-ling.

Small feet are stum-bling.

She wants to take steps today.

 

Hair disheveled; voice mum-bling.

Girl starts a’ tum-bling.

Falling down won’t ruin her day.

 

Getting up; she’s still stru-ggling,

Short legs are fum-bling.

Fixed to take first steps today.

 

Crackers out; tummy’s grum-bling.

Wood floor starts rum-bling.

Steps are coming straight this way.

 

She’s close; crackers crum-bling.

And Mom starts bum-bling.

Baby took first steps today!

 

Photo courtesy of Liane Metzler on Stocksnap.io

Su-Su-Summer Time

Published on by Danielle Dayney16 Comments

Yes!

It’s finally here and I couldn’t be happier: warm weather.  And with warm weather comes summer.  And with summer comes barbeques, short shorts, cold drinks, crystal clear pools, shady umbrellas, bottles upon bottles of sunblock, and laughter.

So.Much.Laughter.

I’ve always enjoyed the sticky days that summer is known for.  Growing up, I’d spend it laying out on my parent’s back deck, with my mom and sister, while listening to Kiss FM on my battery operated boom box.  The scorching deck would blister a bare foot, so we kept flip-flops at the ready; only going barefoot on the fiery wood as we danced our way from the rubbery fold-out chairs to the refreshing pool.  My mom would happily watch my sister and I as we splashed around in the pool, goofing off, making whirlpools, playing Marco-Polo and attempting underwater headstands. She only jumped in occasionally to cool off, and spent most of the day slathering on fresh coats of tanning lotion and relaxing as she glistened in the sun.

I can still smell her Hawaiian Tropic SPF 5, if I close my eyes.

It’s been four summers since she passed away, but I still remember every detail about those days.  She would lay there, smoking her cigarettes and painting her nails a bright shade of red.  She was a bronze goddess, effortlessly gorgeous with long dark hair, a thin curvy waist, and her favorite black bikini.

I wanted to be just like her.

And I tried to be.  I would soak up the sun’s hot rays after drenching my pale body in tanning lotion and saturating my hair with lemon-scented Sun-in.  But instead of being sun-kissed, I ended up with burnt, painful skin and orange hair, year after year.

I didn’t care, because I was happy.

During my twenties I rarely saw water during the summer, but instead I would spend warm days at baseball games with my husband, rooting for the Tigers.  We would sip frosty beers and munch on Hebrew National hotdogs as we baked, shoulder to shoulder, under the rays of the July sun.  The smell of buttery popcorn would fill our noses, making us crave the salty treat.  If the Tigers were away, we would day-drink limey vodka gimlets at outdoor bars with friends.  We’d laugh and talk as jazzy house music filled the air. We had no real responsibilities, no kids and no cares in the world.

Life was good.

Today, again, summers are different. Summer days are now spent chasing little ones at the wading pool with big beach hats and SPF 50. Or at the beach, sweaty and covered in sand. At home, we spend breezy afternoons on the swing, finding shapes in the clouds, coloring with sidewalk chalk on the blacktop, or sharing drippy popsicles that leave our fingers sweet and sticky.  My husband and I spend cool nights on the back deck with glasses of crisp white wine as we watch the fireflies blink, and hear the crickets sing.

These summer days are my favorite, so far.  They make me reflect on where I came from, what I’ve gone through and what kind of woman I have become. They make me appreciate the past, while staying present, and also looking forward to what the future may hold.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to go pour myself a glass of Pinot Grigio and listen to the crickets.

Summer is awesome.

Photo courtesy of  Ann Demianenko at Unsplash.

This week I revamped an old piece that you can find here.  Hope you like my changes!

 

Journey to a Magical Place

Published on by Danielle Dayney24 Comments

I watched my daughter, young and slender with a head full of short blond waves, staring out the kitchen window at the falling rain.  I could see the boredom in her blue-green eyes, reflected against the window pane and my heart ached.  La Nina left its dingy mark on my tiny town for nearly thirty days, making her toys begin to fade from bright colors to pastels.  Her happy dolls were now depressed.  Her Legos preferred to be in a puddle, rather than built into magnificent structures.

I walked over to my daughter and gently placed my hand on hers.  She looked up to me and smiled brightly.

“Hey, Momma.  Whatcha doin’?”

“Hey, Sweetie.  I was actually just thinking that we need a little adventure.  What do you think?”  Her smile spread even farther, reaching her ears.

“What kind of adventure?” She raised up onto the very top of her tippy-toes, getting as tall as she could manage.

“Well…” I said, thinking for a moment, “I think we should go on a surprise journey to a truly magical place.”  She clasped her hands in front of her freckled face and jumped in excitement.

“Let’s do it!”

We quickly loaded into the van, trying to stay dry by running between the drops.  Our seatbelts clicked as we harnessed ourselves in securely, ready to embark on our rainy-day excursion.

“So where are we going, Momma?”

“Well, let’s see,” I looked at her eager face in the rearview, “the place we are going can set you free from reality, like leaving this rainy day behind.  You can let your ideas can run wild, taking whatever shape your mind will allow.  You can visit far away cities, countries, or even planets.  Then, magically, it can bring you back to Earth when you’ve been traveling in the cosmic, dark blue space for far too long.  It can help you learn to dance, cook, and knit.  It can offer you new and magnificent ideas as well as ones you’ve heard time and again.”

“Tell me more!”

“Okay, sure.  The place we are going brings hope and love in times of depression.  It gives us power at our weakest hour and supports us when we think we’ve got no one on our side.  At this place, you can be a superhero, a doctor, a racecar driver or maybe even a rock star! It’s a splendid place of fairytale, a marvelous place of modernity and a noble place of history.”

As we pull into the cement slab parking lot and look up at the building made simply of red brick and grey mortar, I am reminded of many days spent at a place like this, as a kid.

“The library!”  Excitement spilled over each syllable as my daughter kicked her feet in delight.  “Yay!”

As a child, I loved going to the library with my mom.  It was an old building made of stone, reminiscent of a castle or old church with cathedral ceilings and oversized arched windows filled with stained glass.  Inside was quiet and smelled of forgotten paper, pinched together between bindings, and filled with the promise of joy.  It was my favorite place; I always chose to borrow books from series like Baby Sitter’s Club and Sweet Valley High, or anything R.L. Stine (to this day, I love a good thriller).

This library was much newer, round in shape and filled with maple wood trim, but still it had that same papery smell I remembered.  I could envision my mom picking and choosing her newest novel from the recent returns, right by the librarian.  She liked to find gems there.  I could hear the beep of the beige boxy computer as it checked out each book to a new renter, eager to learn something new, or dig into an old favorite.

I brought my eyes back to my kid, today, now rummaging through the hard-bound children’s section. Taking her time, she read titles and carefully decided on several that she liked.   She walked through the aisles of paperbound treasures filled with bedtime stories, yet to be read, and lightly touched a few familiar titles.  Slowly, she gathered even more books to borrow.

By the end, her chosen stack of Star Wars and princess themed books almost reached her eyes, which were gleaming with excitement.  My daughter walked up, plopped her stack of books onto the check-out counter, and offered me her biggest grin.  The trip to the library had turned her undeniable boredom into an opportunity for exploration.  I patted her gently on the head, hoping that one day she’d remember the papery smell, the beep at the check-out counter and the feeling of time spent with me on our journey to this magical place.

“Let’s go, Momma!” she said excitedly.  “I have some adventures to begin!”

Photo Courtesy of Gaelle Marcel on Unsplash

Detroit has a Heartbeat.

Published on by Danielle Dayney21 Comments

My home is Virginia, but I spent five years living in Detroit, Michigan and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss it once in a while.

Detroit has a heart that pounds through your chest like an old beat-up sledgehammer.  It’s dirty and noisy, but still powerful and captivating.  During my years residing there, I was in love with the energy; it was palpable and irresistible, dragging me toward it like a moth to a flame.

Sometimes as I would drive up 95 North, back to my sunny loft on Adams Avenue, the city’s skyline would seem to unfold before like a children’s pop-up book. First I’d see old Tigers’ stadium and the Michigan Train Station, both eerie skeletons full of deterioration.  Then the skyscrapers would come into view, a mix of ornate pre-war facades and newer structures with the sharp angles made of steel and glass.

I couldn’t help feeling like I belonged there; a misfit amongst other misfits.

The reasons why Detroit scares off most people at first glance are evident as you walk down Woodward Avenue and witness abandoned buildings, littered sidewalks and too many folks left to rot without homes.  This feeling is multiplied outside of downtown, where hundreds, if not thousands, of homes have been torched or vandalized, leaving the streets looking like a war zone.  The vacant-ness feels dangerous and maybe even terrifying.

Yet if you dig deeper and find a moment to enjoy the beauty amongst the chaos, then you see what makes Detroit special.  For instance, try standing in front of The Spirit of Detroit.  You will see the amount of pride Detroiters carry for their city.  It’s tangible, as solid as the Joe Lewis Fist.  Go to DEMF and you will feel it in the air as the music vibrates your soul.  Attend a Tigers’ game and you will hear it at Comerica Park when the crowd goes wild over a home run.  Go to any one of Detroit’s amazing restaurants and you can taste it in the food.  Take one look at the casino lights and you will see it there as bright as day.

The Motor City is alive.

The people there are built from hard work, passion for the arts and a zest to persevere through any circumstance.  They have seen enough turmoil, grief and depression to make them close up shop more than anyone would care to mention, but their tough skin and big hearts have carried them through.  The people of Detroit fight hard and love even harder.

They stay true to their city for a reason.

 

Photo courtesy of Leroy on Stocksnap.io

One Little Birdie

Published on by Danielle Dayney11 Comments

It was an ordinary spring day; full of sunshine, puffy clouds, and a light breeze that smelled faintly of flowers. My window was down and my short, dark hair was snapping back and forth, lightly stinging my freckled cheeks. Tortoise colored sunglasses covered half my face and kept the sun’s rays from reaching my blue eyes and the smile on my face touched my ears; a sign that all was right and beautiful in the world.

The black leather on my minivan’s seat was getting just enough sun to be warm to the touch, radiating heat onto my bare shoulders. It reminded me of the sticky humidity that comes with summer. My girls, one and five, were giggling happily as I sang along to the 90’s hip-hop song drifting from the speakers.

I knew each word with precision, of course.

I signaled to switch lanes, cautious that I was clear, and checked my blind spot. As I turned my head back to facing front, a small, shiny Civic darted across three lanes like a silver bullet and cut my black swagger wagon off.

On instinct, I gasped, whaled on my horn, and slammed on my brakes sending freshly bought produce sailing through my vehicle, now coming to an abrupt stop. A bottle of delicious red wine rolled all the way to the console, still wearing the white plastic bag and somehow brand new baby wipes ended up in my lap.

My eye’s rushed up to the rear-view and thankfully my girls were still smiling. “Are you alright?” I asked Reagan.

“Yep,” Reagan answered. They barely even noticed. Knowing we were fine and dandy with all limbs in tact, the New-York-angry-driver in me took over.

I cautiously pulled my black-on-black Dodge next to the Civic and offered my biggest grin to the driver, a girl wearing obnoxiously massive hoop earrings. This woman and her stupid choice could have easily turned my good day sideways, but thankfully she didn’t.

I passed her and, still providing a full smile, I gave that idiot the bird.

Reagan saw my finger and asked, “was that the sign language for ‘no’, Momma?”  Her voice pure and sweet with innocence.

I laughed and responded, “it was something like that.”

It was still an ordinary Spring day; full of sunshine, puffy clouds, and a light breeze that smelled faintly of flowers.

By the grace of something greater, all was still right in the world.

Photo courtesy of Lily Lvnatikk on StockSnap.io

Time again.

Published on by Danielle Dayney11 Comments

I pushed myself out of bed this morning and blinked, closing one eye to focus on the bright red numbers staring back at me.  It was only 4:48 a.m.

I still had time.

With a fresh tear already stinging my sleep-deprived eyes, I stumbled down the stairs, covered in pillow-y soft carpet.  The feel of it made me want to find my covers and return to a state of slumber, but I pressed on.  I moved one foot in front of the other until I found the bottom of the stairs, the cold dining room floor and my little sister standing with bags packed beside her.  I grabbed her, hugging her tight so the smell of her shampoo would linger a bit longer.  I had to talk my mind into letting her go from that hug because, like always, I knew my heart would be empty when she was gone.  Miles and miles stretch between us and kids, spouses and careers keep it that way.  We do our best to keep the girls close, but the little time we make never seems like enough.

The only words my mouth managed were, “I love you.”  I swept hot tears away with my finger while still in her embrace.  I didn’t want her to see me cry again.  I cautiously let go of her, taking note of her dark chocolate eyes and her long, caramel colored hair.  Her half smile gave way to something, either lack of sleep or sadness, but I couldn’t make it out at the early hour.

Quickly waving, I walked back up the stairs and found my dark, warm bed.

But my arms and legs couldn’t find the comfort between those blankets anymore, now made of sandpaper instead of soft cotton.  My eyes kept drifting open to thoughts left unsaid, hanging in the air like ghosts.  The makings of a hole were already starting to appear in my heart, a fleshy wound from not being near her.

My head was swimming and I needed to see her with my eyes, now wide with anticipation, one more time before she left to board that plane.

I jumped back out of bed and shuffled quickly down the stairs with a racing heart, but when I reached the bottom of the stairs, something was different.  The only thing waiting for me this time was the cold wood floor and a dark, empty space, much like the one now forming deep in my heart.

The only sounds were those of a clock ticking, tick-tock, tick-tock, the dishwasher running, swish-swish, swish-swish, and my heart pounding furiously in my ears, bang-bang, bang-bang!

No sister.

No tiny niece.

Only me, my girls sleeping soundly in their respective rooms and my home, now returning to it’s everyday routine.  I sighed, defeated by time, once again.  I pulled out my laptop, poured a steamy cup of coffee and began to write.

 

The Doves Have Cried

Published on by Danielle Dayney2 Comments

When I heard the tragic news of Prince’s passing today, I literally could not believe it. My heart has been aching all day for his family but, even more than that, for the world. His death affects people from one end of the Earth to the other. Prince’s music has spanned decades, brought barriers down in the recording industry and his sound almost exclusively could have defined the eighties.

I can remember dancing around my dining room while my mom played Raspberry Beret and Little Red Corvette on our stereo cassette player long after the albums were released. We would be wearing our stone-washed jeans with white Keds and t-shirts tied in knots at our hips. I’m sure my long brown hair was in a side ponytail and I was probably missing a tooth or two.
I had a Purple Rain movie poster hanging above my bed even though I’m pretty sure I wasn’t even allowed to watch the movie at the time.
And I’m sure many people have belted out Kiss with Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, because I know I have on more than one occasion.
The remix of When Doves Cry was epic in Romeo and Juliet and Party Like it’s 1999 has always, always ALWAYS been the go-to song for New Year’s Eve at any party I’ve ever been to.
Ever.
This was the music that molded and shaped me in my formative years. I ate it up like candy back then and still, to this day, I have a physical and emotional connection to Prince and his music, much like Madonna, Michael Jackson and Whitney Houston.
This kind of music transcends generations and he is the definition of what pop music is and should be.

It breaks my heart that we have lost another global pop icon and even after the dust settled this afternoon, I still have trouble grasping that Prince, like so many other influential artists from my childhood are not here any longer to continue making music.

Photo is courtesy of Buzzfeed.

 

First Breath Without Her (YeahWrite Microstory #262)

Published on by Danielle Dayney10 Comments

FlowerShe closes her eyes, drawing breath deep into her lungs.

The aroma of fresh cut grass touches her nose, a reminder that life doesn’t end with death.

A solitary tear escapes her eyes as her cheeks tingle with warmth from the sun.