By Lauren Green
1982 was the year I noticed boys. It was also the year I got drop-arm eye glasses and wrap-around dental headgear. I started my first journal that year, too; which was a good thing. I don’t care how confident you are, 80s-era eye glasses and absurd dental apparatuses are unwelcome accessories for any middle school kid, especially ones interested in boys. As such, I spent a lot of time writing in my journal. My very first curly-cursive entry reads: I can’t believe my ears. Lana just called to ask me if I would sit with her. I’m so happy — even if I was only second pick. I wish I could lose some weight!!! Bye!
I cringe feeling the insecurity just beneath those words. Forty-three years later, my heart aches for that little girl that was me. But even so, in spite of the angst of that season, I’m entertained every time I read through that old journal and revisit my pre-teen self. Thankfully, life looks different today. I like only one boy, the glasses have been replaced with contacts and praise be, the headgear is long gone (leaving behind, I have to admit, some relatively straight teeth). That twelve-year-old girl is no longer around, but she is a layer of me.
Currently, that first diary is tucked in my attic, along with enough follow up annals to fill two plastic bins. The journals from middle school, high school and college are mostly filled with the same overarching themes. This stinks. I’m fat. I love him. I hate him. Nobody understands. Different details; same story. One thing surprisingly missing from most of those school-day entries was any mention of my parents. Growing up, my mom and dad were involved, engaged and loving. But obviously they weren’t interesting enough for me to write about. That has changed.
My dad is gone now, so I find that a large percentage of my journaling is spent ruminating about my mom. The same questions run through my head on auto-repeat. Is she OK living alone three states away? Will she ever move to Texas? Is she taking care of herself? Maybe writing down my concerns fuels unnecessary worry and creates undue stress. I don’t know; but one thing I do know is that my mom is not getting any younger. Neither am I.
Which was what recently prompted us to take a trip together. For years, my mom and I thought about going on a European river cruise. The summer of 2025 we finally made it happen. For eight days we floated down the Rhine River from Amsterdam to Basel. With a boat full of fellow passengers, we ate fabulous food, played silly games and immersed ourselves in the towns and villages we passed along the way. Each day an educational walking tour was part of our itinerary. On our first day we toured the windmills of Kinderdijk, south of the Netherlands. We oohed over the giant moving structures and we awed over the intricate canal system. We also dawdled. Later that evening, the ship’s activities director tactfully announced the formation of a new tour group: specially created for those who, as she put it, enjoyed a more thoughtful pace. She dubbed the group the Luxury Leisures.
My mom is mobile, but as of late, walking distances can be challenging. As such, we were quick to sign up with the Luxury Leisures. The next morning, our slower (but thoughtful) group huddled around the guide assigned to us for the day. Mark was many things; a soft-spoken Brit, a published author and a quick-witted fountain of knowledge. Mark was not, however, intimidated by our distinctive group. We consisted of ten adults, three canes, one wheelchair and no telling how many undisclosed joint replacements. Eagerly, we shuffled around him; and he did not flinch.
Instead, Mark led our group with patience and attention. Our restrictions and limitations showed themselves throughout the morning, but Mark remained steadfast. As a historian, I suspect he recognized that all things work (and stop working) to form beautiful deep patinas of age and experience.
Now I don’t know if any fellow Luxury Leisures survived the trauma of 6th grade headgear, and I certainly don’t remember if I ever got to sit next to Lana back in 1982, but I bet Mark would have reassured me that even these achy historical details are treasures, building value with each passing year.
Lauren Green and her expanded family of five have called Southlake home for over 18 years. You can reach her at laurenwebbgreen@gmail.com.