Life Sketch For Donna Joy Handy

Donna Handy was born December 18, 1930 in Stockton, CA.  She was the only child of Walter and Freda Jacoby.  She married Frank on October 16, 1949. They had three rotten kids.

I’ve been called to do a lot of life sketches in my life.  And, there are times when you just can’t tell the real story.  Being in a house of God is one of those times.  So, please bear with me as I try give you the G-rated version of one the most awesome people I’ve ever had the pleasure with which to share this great journey we all call life.

The best kind of people are the ones that come into your life, and make you see the sun where you once saw clouds.  They make you laugh.  They are once in a lifetime people.

I’m supposed to tell you about Donna.  I could tell you about when she was born, what great art she could spin on a sewing machine, her jobs, how much she loved history and Heritage Hall.  I could tell you all of those things, but you’ve already read her obituary, and you’re probably here today because you knew her and all of that anyway.

I never met Frank, but I always knew how much she loved him.  That’s the thing about Donna—you always knew EXACTLY what she thought.  About everything.   And, I guess at the end of the day, a life sketch is really about the fine print and the telling the story about the people we are blessed to have known.  Because, really, we are all blessed to have known someone like Grandma Donna.

I have to preface this story I'm about to tell you about Donna.  Back then, I wasn't the type of girl your momma looked forward to you bringing home.

The first time I met Donna, Bill and Becky were putting in the foundation for their house across the street.  I’d gone over to her kitchen to help put together lunch.  I was pulling hot dogs out of the package, and she said, “So, do you do Brian’s laundry?”  I wasn’t quite sure how to answer. I mean, it's this little gray haired lady, and we weren't married.

I thought for a second, and said to myself, “Well, we might as well get this out of the way right now.” And I replied, “Heck, no!  He’s capable.”  

Without missing a single beat or even blinking, she piped off with, “Well, good.  You won’t have to find those wrappers he always left in his pockets when he used to bring it to me.”  

I got really good at laundry.

And, that is the thing everybody loved the most about Donna.  You never knew what was about to come out of her, but you always knew it was going to be a straight-up riot and honestly what she thought.  I think all of us liked to get her good and riled up about something, then after she’d give her piece, we’d say, “Tell us what you REALLY think!”  It was rhetorical of course, but she never failed to, THEN, really let you know exactly how the cookie crumbled.

Donna liked to know what was going on.  She used to sit on her porch and watch all the happenings of Dubois while drinking coffee and feeding peanuts to the squirrels.  She loved it when Becky was an EMT and had the radio, because then she had ALL the information.  I thought one year that the best gift ever would be to buy her a police scanner for Christmas, and Brian said, kidding of course, “Oh, that would be fabulous!  Snoop Donna Donna over there; we’d have to get her binoculars too!” And, her nickname was born.

For the last few years, our family Thanksgiving tradition has been to go to the Sandpiper for dinner.  Becky, Bill, and Craig would drive her to town, and Donna loved it.  We always get the same waitress; she has become part of our tradition--and this last year as she got ready to order, the waitress said, “Can I guess?  You want halibut ‘without any crap on it’ and a hot fudge Sunday later?”  She always cut right through the crap, and she never held back.    

Donna was baptized on August 17^th, 2014.  She held a picture of Frank next to her heart.   

She signed her own cremation order, so no one could change how she wanted things.  She left a note and double underlined that everyone had to keep it short at her funeral.  And, as the funeral director stated, we are all willing to face each other in the night, but not following Donna’s orders and having to deal with her at the witching hour would be more than we could handle.

That was Donna—a  straight shooter through and through.  The Annie Oakley of opinions.  But, mostly, she was a great friend, companion, mother, grandmother and wife.  Labels are arbitrary.  She was a great human.  A true person in a world constantly trying to make us be something we are not. And that is character, and character is what really defines a life.

I sat with her family last night, and as we shared crazy stories, I realized how much we are influenced by those once in a lifetime people.  I’m a firm believer that our greatest comforts lie in our memories.  So, give this family your stories.  Share them today.  Those are the things that really define a life. 

Song of Songs, Chapter 8 verses 6-7 tell us: “Set me as a seal on your heart, as a seal on your arm; For stern as death is love, relentless as the netherworld is devotion; its flames are a burning fire.  Deep waters cannot quench love, nor floods sweep it away.  Were one to offer all he owns to purchase love, he would be roundly mocked.”   Love is really the only thing that lasts, and sharing our love today is a better reflection of a life than any of my words could provide.

She had charm, and she was the sweetest little bit of spunk.

Many of this world’s greatest souls live their lives without glamour and social prestige, and without headlines. Yet, their individual histories are examples of life lived and filled with meaning. Donna’s lasting legacy is her family. To her family, she is one of the noblest of  spirits. She is at peace knowing we all sat in her yard and laughed.  

To end with Shakespeare, “Now cracks a noble heart.  Good night sweet [lady], And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.”

Thoughts on the Edge of 40

I opened my email this afternoon and was flooded with a bazillion ways to lose weight.  I could describe a thousand ways that I’m SO beyond tired of people wanting to talk about my weight.  Or my hair.  On the verge of my 40^th birthday, and having returned from an amazing conference titled “Conversation with Exceptional Women” put on by the Sun Valley Institute, I’m seriously pondering midlife, my size, my worth. What have I accomplished?

An older lady in the audience asked a question that got me thinking--dangerous.  She asked why we put old women on the shelf and how to avoid becoming invisible.  It gave me goosebumps.

I immediately thought of Amy Schumer’s skit, “The Last Fuckable Day.”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XPpsI8mWKmg  Because it really, truly seems sometimes that when we are no longer deemed ‘fuckable’ in this society, we have somehow lost our worth.  A poignant question came to mind—the superpower question, “Would you rather be invisible or be able to fly?”  I don’t want to be invisible.  I’ve always wanted to fly. Not in the I-want-to-fly-in-sky kind of fly.  Fat girls don't get that luxury.

 I want to fly in the successful metaphorical sense.

I want to do good in this world.  I want to learn, and read, and cause great waves of change.  I want justice and peace and love.  I want to be good at the things I choose to do.  I want to be valuable to the world.

I considered all the times I felt my sense of self-esteem soar and a sense of validation at the word “pretty.”  All the hours spent in front of the mirror getting the mascara to unclump, waxing, hating my hair, loathing my nose.  Cussing at the scale every.damn.morning.  All the aunts telling me I could be ‘pretty’ if I just did this or lost 15 pounds.  

Now I laugh at 15 pounds. 

And I thought about being invisible.

I thought of my grandmothers, and I started noticing the older women I passed on the street.  I wonder about their friendships and loves.  The people that held them when they cried.  I looked at their laugh lines, and wondered about the times that made them laugh.  I looked deep into the furrows of their brow, and pondered the worries that were carried there over the years.  I want to sit down with them over a Black Velvet and coke, and have the kind of conversations I used to have with my grandmothers.  Those soul-searching conversation when the wisdom and caring of women who have struggle give us so much hope and faith and just an overwhelming sense of being loved.

We all struggle.  Everyone.  Struggle is gender neutral.  But, women have it different, and older women truly understand that.

Someone had the balls to tell that woman that to avoid invisibility, she needed to volunteer.  “Go read to children,” they said.  A group of radical feminists tells her to “enjoy your grandchildren.”  And all I can think is, “WTF?  THAT’s invisible.”

Invisible is thinking I have to look 20 when I’m a month from 40.  It means I have to be a size 10.  It means I have to be ‘fuckable.’  Because, let’s face it, when a woman is fuckable, it means she’s meeting someone else's standard of what a woman needs to be.  It means that when I retire, I’m supposed to smell like rose toilet water, make great cookies, volunteer to read at the museum, and goddammit, know my place. 

I’m supposed to grow big dahlias and wonderful roses and wear purple hats with red shoes. 

Wait a second. WTF?

On the edge of 40, my great epiphany, that I should have known, but never really believed, is that my worth is not tied up in what anyone thinks is good to look at.  That silences us.  It ignores us.  It invalidates our feelings and thoughts and actions that have the possibility to really make the world a better, safer, more civilized place. When a woman is sexualized, and her worth is about her shell, that’s when she is really, truly invisible.

Invisible is thinking the size of my ass is more important than my intelligence.  Invisible is silencing myself, because someone else will eventually say what I’m thinking.  Invisible is being polite and not getting uppity, or upset, or passionate about things that fucking matter.  Invisible is not eating when you’re hungry, so that, God forbid, you don’t take up too much fucking space. 

Invisible is not getting angry.

And maybe, just maybe, the scariest thing about being an unfuckable woman is being like the Cinderella team that makes the final—you don’t have one thing to lose anymore.  You get wrinkled and stretch marked.  You belch.  You pee when you sneeze.  No one is looking, so they might as well HEAR.

I read the papers.  I look at the past and the fights older women fought so I could have the opportunities I have had.  I look to the future for my daughters, and I tear up.  People still believe, actually BELIEVE with every atom in their bones, that my daughters don’t deserve bodily autonomy.  My daughters aren’t supposed to be able to decide when and how to have children.  Or how many.  Certain people think my children should not learn about Henrietta Lacks, because a cervix is pornographic.  

On the edge of 40, invisible is being silent about things that really matter.  I can’t tell you the times I have embarrassed my daughter for speaking when she thinks I shouldn’t.  “It’s not a big deal,” she would say.  

On the edge of 40, my proudest moment was when she said, “Mom, you’ve always stood up and not backed down for what you believe in.”  

On the edge of 40, I refuse to spend the next half of my life invisible.  I might not reach my dream of making sure everyone has clean water, or saving the world like I thought could at 25.  Hell, right now, I’m doing good to save homework and get the laundry done.  But, I won’t be invisible.

On the edge of 40, I’m going to be loud.  I’m going to take up space.  I’m going to call bullshit when I see bullshit.  And, I’m going to do it, so that my daughters know they are worth so much more than being fuckable.   

They deserve to be visible.   

Transparently visible.

And they deserve to be heard.  They deserve a listening ear. 

They are worth so much more than the mask of 'lookability' that hides who they are and what they think and value.

The world needs them visible.