The Champ

This was written in June 1998 and broadcast as a commentary for KUNI Iowa Public Radio.  My drawing is of my mother Betty Milner, the champ. "Betty, at the Walker 1980" is pen and ink.  I recently found it in her files.

My shirt? You like it?  I got it half price.  My shoes?  Oh, they're new.  I got them on sale.  I learned this from my mother--to get stuff for cheap.  Full price is for spineless creatures without grit.  Good stuff is cheap stuff.

As a child, I traipsed behind my mother through discount stores searching through piles of disheveled merchandise.  We also shopped high-end department stores in the adjoining suburb. We'd walk determinedly past the tantalizingly displayed full price goods to the jammed sale racks in the back.  My mother perused the goods with a keen eye.  If an aberration in quality was detected--an undone seam, unmatched plaid, or unsymmetrical lapels, my mother would let loose her practiced indignation on the closest salesperson, making a jab for an even lower price.  Nailing a deal was triumph.

While my mother's shopping stamina was astounding, her indecisiveness was painful.  Once home, she brooded over the rightness of her purchase, at times continuing to search for a like item at other stores to convince herself that she had the cheapest of the best.  We stood on what seemed like endless return lines.  Even though she had post-graduate training and a professional career before she became a full-time homemaker, her value and competency as my father's helpmate seemed hinged on her shopping prowess.  The money she saved was the prize. Her quest for the quintessential bargain was insatiable.

When I visited my then 78-year-old out-east, we hadn't shopped together for two decades.  My time was limited.  I was willing to do the unthinkable: pay full price.  At the cashier, my mother looked pained.  The woman ahead of us had presented a coupon that entitled her to 10% off.  Before I knew it, my mother pulled one of her legendary punches, finagling the same 10% off for me--without the coupon!  I left the store with the clothes I needed and a discount I was ambivalent about.  My mother left like a champ leaving the ring.

Gathering Mother's stories

Betty Milner, my mother, died on August 31, 2007.  Over the years, I have written about her.  I have drawn pictures of her.   Now is the time to gather these imprints and maybe generate some new ones. Her life is mine to share. 

Venus at the Checkout

This originated as a commentary, written and broadcast on KUNI Iowa Public Radio, in 1997.

Piercing the pale upper rim of her navel is a small ring.  From the ring dangles a teardrop of black onyx.  It jiggles seductively each time she passes an item across the food co-op scanner.  The turquoise digital numbers blink and beep with each swipe.  Her tight jeans are slung precariously just above where her pubic hair would show.  Her cropped tank top reveals an ivory midriff.  Her gem-caressing orifice entrances me as she pulls through my 2% milk, one-a-day menopausal vitamins, full-fat mango yogurt, Kalamata olives with pits, and French goat cheese.

Her black shiny fingernails hold up to my riveted gaze a plastic bag bulging with green leaves.  “Spinach or lettuce?” she asks in a monotone.  Her full lips, painted chocolate brown, part, revealing exquisite teeth.

“No, arugula.  Can’t get that where I come from.  Have to come down here to Iowa City,” I chortle.  Unimpressed, she reaches to look up the key code to punch into the register.  An intricate tattoo of chain intertwined with thorns bands her right upper arm.  Her eyes, black like her nails, are opaque with mysteries, secrets, a lifetime of illusions to peel away.  She is twenty-one—Venus in thick lugged combat boots at the checkout.  She is a drink seeking a glass.  A body seeking a soul.  Thirty-five years ago, I was she.  But instead of the bolt and pierce club, it was the braless, anti-lingerie sect, with big hair, lace-up leather boots, and unshaven armpits.  It was the same struggle to define oneself before others do.  It was the fashion of countering convention.

A gallon tin of extra virgin olive oil and a tube of exfoliating, gardeners’ hand cream are the last through.  “Paper or plastic?”  She looks past me, as if I were on the other side of a mirror.  She sees only herself.  I am invisible.  At 56, I have the privilege and the pleasure of being the unseen observer.