You Can't Judge a Book by Its Cover

It’s true what they say: you can’t judge a book by its cover. There were days that you would not know Mama had leukemia at all. The day she dressed like a Harley chick at a tacky tourist party or strutted on a makeshift fashion cat-walk for a fundraiser in her honor were days you wondered if she had too many screws loose instead of too many white blood cells. But, I lived for those days. I wanted those days to be the norm.


My favorite part of her illness were the days when she was the silliest. Mama was always a performer, but it seemed that she turned it up a notch when she was diagnosed. Maybe it was the chemo. Shortly after I arrived back in Wilmington after graduation from Carolina, her friends started having these hilarious parties: the tacky tourist gig, the tacky Azalea Festival Garden party a country and western party. Everyone came in costume and armed with an act. Mama channeled Tammy Wynnette and Madonna - fortunately, not at the same time. Maybe it was the chemo.  


My favorite party was a springtime tacky tourist event. Our family, including Shelley, came as a family just in from biker week in Myrtle Beach. We all dressed in black and leather. We all had alternate egos. Mama was Spike, mainly because her cropped hair stuck straight up thanks to some gooey product that I doubt ever graced the hair of a real biker. I channeled my hippie ego as Ramblin' Rose, a hard-core, steal your face biker chick.

I have one family portrait from that party. We are all striking a pose, flexing our muscles or growling. There is a playfulness in our toughness. Maybe we were practicing for the year to come.