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SMILES: Where do they come from?

carriesuepepper • Sep 22, 2010

The smiles come from the inside.  I hear people remind me to SMILE and when I hear them, a slight smile usually floats up and turns up the corners of my lips – and, for a moment, I do feel happier.  When I call my Hawaiian friend, Ray, and at the end of his voice message, I hear him say, smile, I always feel better.  I hear people say, when you see someone without a smile, give them one of yours , so where do all these smiles live and how does one get to the place where that cheery countenance is easily brought on?

What am I doing when the smiles come?  When they just appear on my face without being forced or reminded?    Peaceful smiles come at the water’s edge, when I can hear the water rushing by or sliding in on the sand, rippling at my feet.  Perhaps the trick is to smile first and then seek an emotion within or a stimulus without that will keep it there – or remind it to come more often.  I used to be annoyed when people would say, SMILE, Carrie, but now, usually while I’m driving, I will feel my face and it’s not smiling.  It’s tight and sometimes even scowling and I think, this feels terrible , I don’t like this feeling, and I smile and try and let go of whatever is keeping me gloomy or worried or far away.  Sometimes my expression is just serious because I am deep in thought and searching for a word or a perfect line of dialogue, or most of the time I am thinking about something that DOESN’T make me happy – why do I do that?  Programming, habit. 

Letting go, being light, those are things I am learning to do.  Letting my body float in warm blue water, letting my mind reject anything ugly or negative and turn on the magnet that attracts all the good, the smiles and the brightness and the beautiful out there in the world – and inside me.  Inside, there is a place and the canvass looks like this: 

There are acres of grass blowing in a soft wind and there is a journal and a pen and there is a clock that allows me all the time in the world to fill that journal with all the thoughts and stories I’ve held onto for my whole life, and when that journal is full, another will appear and it, too, will be filled – there are no restrictions, not time or money or physical pain.  There is only a warm soft wind and grasses blowing and ink flowing out – and far out, on the horizon, there is a blue ocean twinkling in the sun and I am at peace.

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By Carrie Pepper • 30 Nov, 2023
Out on my morning walk, street signs acted as memory joggers. Perhaps they were nudges so that I could remember, and be grateful for, these two women who were there for me as a kid. BRADFORD was the first sign. Grammy Bradford. I never called her anything else and I have no idea what her first name was, but I do remember she was there to tend to me when I was little while my mother went off to work at her government job "in procurement," which she hated. I know nothing, really, of what she did there, but I do remember the room. It seemed there were hundreds of desks in this huge room, no partitions. Dark grey desks and heavy black telephones. I visited her there a few times and she'd give me tablets and pens to keep me busy. I was ALWAYS thrilled to have a tablet and a pen! What she did there is a mystery to me, but when she and my father would argue, which was often, she'd always say, "I want my own money," and so off she went to work every morning at the Defense General Supply Center. He told her she didn't need to work, that he could support her, but, again, she wanted her own money. Back to Mrs. Bradford, Grammy. She was a bit on the heavy side (which I thought made for the best, most cuddly hugs) with long grey hair that she wore up with tons of bobby pins. She always wore a floral bib apron with large pockets and she'd fill them with pears when we'd go to that special corner of our back yard. Oh the smell! Those yellow pears and the carpet of yellow leaves. Memories of Grammy Bradford brought back memories of Thelma Massenburg. She looked exactly like Aunt Jemima (OH FOR HEAVEN'S SAKES, we can't say Aunt Jemima anymore!) Recently a friend told me he'd made pancakes and I asked what kind of syrup he used. When he said, "Pearl Milling," I thought it sounded kinda cool, but when I looked it up I found out it was the new name for Aunt Jemima syrup. SERIOUSLY? Anyway, she was wonderful. She cleaned our house, scrubbed the floors and walls and worked harder than anyone I'd ever seen. I loved her. She always wore a bandana tied around her head. She lived in a tiny reddish tar papered house with ten children. Who knows where they all slept! She was diabetic and I was a little stinker and liked to tease her with Hershey Bars. I'd wave one in front of her nose and she'd smile and say," "You bad, chile." The last time I saw her she was in the hospital and her eyes were very, very yellow. Liver disease. The scarf that was always wrapped around her head was gone and I am sure that I could hear her say, "You bad, chile," although she probably didn't. Thank you my sweet Thelma. My Aunt Jemima.
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