Sitting at my typewriter, tears of self-pity began to run down my cheeks. My best friend had driven off into the sunset. My husband was immersed in a fresh challenge. My boys were busy making new friends. I was at home alone with a whole day stretching before me and nothing productive to do. I had just written an amusing column, but I had no publishing outlet.

I was depressed. I recognized the malady, even though I am normally a sanguine person. My first bout of despondency came in the form of the baby blues. When Josh was born, the blues blindsided me. I expected nothing but elation, even though I had read of postpartum depression. Surely someone with my upbeat personality would not suffer from such a condition. Luckily my mother came to stay with us for a few weeks after Josh's birth, and my attack of the baby blues was short lived. When the gloom returned after Zach was born, I recognized it and developed some coping mechanisms to combat it. Now, I revived my stockpile of depression-fighting weapons: laugh a little; live a little; look outside yourself and help a little.

I went into the living room and took out a book of humorous stories my parents gave me for Christmas, but I'd been too busy to read. The first few made me smile a little, but when I read about a disastrous wedding, I laughed so hard that tears ran down my face.

Every minister has wedding stories. No wedding is without its gaffe. While the event is happening most people refrain from laughter, but afterward, in the retelling, the humor in the incident becomes clear. While David had pastored for only five years, we already had our share of amusing stories. At his first wedding, the best man was secretly in love with the bride. In order to get through the pain of the event, he got soused before the ceremony. When the time came to exchange rings, the inebriated groomsman refused to give up the wedding band. David had to pry it from his reluctant hand. At another, the brother of the bride, a groomsman, fainted dead away just as the David began the vows. The ceremony halted while he was revived.

The most memorable, though, was one held in the borrowed sanctuary of another church. Both the bride and groom came from sizeable families. Our church was too small to hold the expected crowd and so they arranged to use a large facility in town. The sanctuary was beautifully decorated for the evening ceremony, with candelabras lining the aisle down which the bride would glide. As she and her father started down the candlelit aisle, her train caught on the first two candelabras. They tumbled forward, creating a domino affect. While the oblivious organist played on, the bride's train, some of the gauzy decorations, and the carpet caught fire. Pandemonium ensued. An usher rushed to do a tap dance on the bride's train. Groomsmen beat out flames with their tux jackets. Guests fled in every direction.

After multiple fires were extinguished, the groom rescued the evening by taking the bride's hands, looking into her tear-filled eyes, and singing, "We got married in a fever."

As relieving laughter flooded the auditorium, he told her, "I'm about to promise to love your for better or worse. We just got the worst out of the way."

The vows were eventually exchanged in the church garden with a borrowed spotlight focused on the bride in her singed finery beside a groom in rolled up shirt sleeves with no jacket.

The laughter over the story I read reminded me of our comical experiences. Having laughed a little, I felt better. My natural endorphins were flowing.

Since I didn't know anyone and had no a vehicle, I wasn't sure what I could do to live a little. Then I spied Josh's roller blades. Even though he was only in the second grade, his feet were already almost as big as mine. I wore a size two shoe. We'd bought the new in-line skates slightly large so that he wouldn't outgrow them immediately.

I strapped on the skates, assuming that roller blading would be like ice-skating on cement. Even though I hadn't ice-skated for years, I was certain it would be like riding a bike – unforgettable. I definitely lived a little that morning.

I began tentatively. I stood on wobbly legs, holding on to the edge of the house. I glided a bit. When I raised my foot slightly to propel myself forward, "Whoosh." Both feet flew out from under me, and I landed flat on my backside. Cement is harder than ice.

Determined, I struggled upright. I held on to the garage door and made my way slowly back and forth until I had my skate legs. Growing bolder, I ventured away from the safety of the door. Round and round the driveway I went until I felt confident in my ability to control the wheels. Finally, I started down the sidewalk. I skated past two houses and around the corner, planning to make the block. I forgot that turning would require that I maneuver downhill. Realizing my mistake, I tried to brake, but the toe brake was a joke. I began to pick up speed. Frantically, I looked around for some way to slow my progress. The yards on both sides were empty. No fences were available to grab onto. I tilted my foot forward to try to decelerate and caught it in a crack in the sidewalk. I careened forward, arms windmilling. Roller blading became a contact sport. I skinned my palms, elbows, and knees. I had lived enough. I took off the roller blades and hobbled home in my sock feet.

After soaking in a tub of warm water, I whipped up a batch of chocolate chip cookies. I took some of the boys' brown lunch bags and decorated them. I put a dozen cookies in each decorated bag. With a shoulder bag full of cookie sacks, I went down the street knocking on doors, looking for someone to help a little. Only three of my neighbors were home. The first was a home health nurse who was heading out to an appointment. I gave her some cookies to take with her. The second was a young mother with two toddlers. She was trying to get them down for a nap. I gave her two bags of cookies and promised to call another day when it wasn't naptime. The third was an older gentleman with a twinkle in his eye.

When I knocked on his door, I heard him call, "Keep your pants on, I'm coming."

I expected a grouch. Instead, a wiry, white-haired gentleman using a walker opened the door. His face beamed with an inviting smile.

"I thought you must be the postman, bringing me some more bills," he said. "I don't get many visitors, and the only angels bearing cookies are usually girl scouts."

Here was my opportunity to help someone a little. I lifted his veil of loneliness for a while and at the same time eased my own.

When my boys came bursting through the door after school with exciting stories to tell, I had warm cookies and milk waiting. My self-pity was gone. I would like to be able to say that it was vanquished forever, but then I wouldn't be human. I admit I threw the occasional pity party at different junctures in my life. The lessons I learned when faced with the baby blues proved resilient. Laughing, embracing life, and helping someone in worse shape than me always chased away my blues.

#

While reading, Faith began to hum and then she burst into song, changing the words to a song she heard Mama sing many times, "That's the Glory of Love."

"Laugh a little, live a little, lift someone's spirits a little, that's the story of, that's the glory of life."

She could identify with Mama. Faith had graduated at the end of the fall term, but decided not to seek full-time employment until after the wedding. She'd expected wedding preparations to fill the time not spent at her part-time job. Now that wedding preparation had come to an abrupt halt, without classes Faith found that she had time on her hands, time that allowed her to descend into self-pity.

"The pity party has ended," she said aloud. "It's time to live a little."

Picking up her cell, Faith dialed Josh.

"Hey, bro. I'm going over to Mama's and start packing up her clothes and things to take to the Salvation Army."

"Are you sure you're ready to do that?"

"Yeah, I think I am. I've been reading her journal. Evidently one of Mama's blues banishing weapons was helping out someone in need. She would want needy women to benefit from her demise. I'll leave the jewelry and stuff for all of us to go through when Zach gets here, but none of us can wear most of the clothes."

"Okay, but if it gets too depressing get out of there."

"Don't worry, bro, I'll find a way to 'laugh a little, live a little, lift someone's spirits a little,'" she sang the phrases.

"Someone's in high spirits."

"For now. If they plunge, I'll call Ivy. We'll take in a tear jerker."

"I'll never understand women."

Armed with boxes, Faith opened her mother's house. Still humming "That's the Glory of Love," she stood in the living room and looked around. Every knick-knack, every picture had a story. Faith knew that if she looked behind them, she would find the story taped to the back.

After Daddy died, Mama realized that the stories of the individual pieces could easily be lost if something happened to her. Faith thought it morbid when Mama began taping the stories to her keepsakes, but now she was glad she had. Walking over to the wall, she lifted down the crosscut saw painted with Norman Rockwell scenes. On the back she read, "One of a kind. Painted by a talented prisoner who made a tragic mistake early in life. While incarcerated, he was diagnosed with cancer. He died behind bars, but he lived free – freed by the blood of Christ. David and Sydney Lander selected the pictures. The top photo, children shooting marbles, reminded us both of carefree childhood days."

Each of the eight miniatures had a story about why it was chosen. Faith grinned when she reached the bottom. A boy stood atop a chair placed on a table, shaking a Christmas gift retrieved from the top shelf of a closet. The explanation read:

"Josh and Zach were incorrigible gift searchers. No matter where I hid their presents, they would find them. One year I even hid them at Ann's. While Josh was over playing with Allen, he convinced him that they should search for Allen's Christmas gifts. With them, he found a bag labeled 'hold for Syd.' Inside were Josh and Zach's Christmas treasurers. The boys did not know the meaning of Christmas surprise."

Faith hung the saw back on the wall and proceeded into the bedroom. Mama had two large walk-in closets. In Faith's mind, her parents' banter echoed.

"If you notice," Daddy had said to a friend viewing the house for the first time, "both of the huge walk-in closets in the master bedroom contain women's clothes. Syd has so many clothes, she banished me to the closet in the spare room."

"Now you know that's not the whole story," Mama protested. "He had to get up before I did. I put his clothes in the other room, so he wouldn't wake me up when he got dressed."

Because both closets were overflowing with Syd's fashion treasurers, people tended to believe David's version of the story.

Quickly and efficiently, Faith boxed her mother's dresses. Maybe it was from growing up in the north, but Syd never cared for dresses. She wore them only when she felt it was an absolute necessity. Consequently, Faith felt no sentimental stirrings as she boxed.

She did remember the stories Daddy told of Syd's trend-setting fashion ways. At that first country church, Mama flouted convention and wore slacks on Sunday night.

At the 'pounding,' a southern tradition where members gave the new preacher a pound of something edible as a welcome, Syd wore pants. As she entered the room, a young girl said, "Grandma, you said we weren't allowed to wear pants in church."

Grandma quickly tried to shush her grand-daughter with, "This is the fellowship hall, not the church."

"Well, she just came from the church," the guileless child pressed her point. Silence reigned in the building.

Going over to the child, Syd squatted in front of her.

"Some people won't wear pants to church because they're showing respect for God. They wouldn't wear pants to meet the President of the United States, because they would dress up for him, to show him respect. God is much more important than the President, so if they won't wear pants around the President, they won't wear them around God. Since I would wear dress pants if I met the President, it's okay for me to wear them in God's house. Every person decides what is respectful for her. I would never wear short pants to meet the President, so I won't wear them to church. Since you're young, your grandma gets to decide what is respectful for you. When you're older, you can make that decision for yourself."

The grandmother muttered, "Thank you."

The gathered congregation let out their collective breaths. The pounding was saved.

A few weeks later, a young couple came to visit with their parents.

"I didn't know y'all wore pants here now," the girl said to Syd as she stood outside the church.

"Y'all might be stretching it," Syd answered. "So far I'm a y'all of one."

The next week, the couple came back. The young woman had on a pair of slacks. That evening they joined the church. Evidently rigid dress codes had been keeping them away. Gradually the younger women followed suit. Eventually some of the older generation began to wear an occasional pants ensemble. By the time the Landers left five years later, the women were free to wear slacks to both morning and evening worship services.

After the dresses, Faith efficiently disposed of Syd's slacks and blouses. Only when she came to the racks of vests and blazers, did she slow her pace. Mama had some fashion distinctives. Daddy jumped from hobby to hobby, but Mama went through fashion phases. When she entered a new phase, she kept the items that distinguished the previous style. Just as fashion in general tended to be repetitious, Mama knew that she would eventually return to a previous fad. What she once considered chic would become 'Syd vogue' again. The only fashion she retired was her sweater collection. After moving back to Louisiana, she realized that the sweaters she accumulated in Montana were too much for the southern climate. Keeping the ones made from cotton and a few others, Mama reduced her sweater collection from 75 to 15. Her other fashion collections: blazers, vests, hats, ponchos, shoes, bolo ties, and brooches all numbered upwards from 75.

Blazers were a staple, really. They never became passé. Mama was cold-natured. Even in the south, she always carried a blazer. Stores, restaurants, theaters – all kept their air conditioning too high for Mama's comfort. If Mama removed her ever-present blazer, you knew the room was hot.

At home Mama and Daddy reached a thermostat compromise. During the day while Daddy was away, Mama kept the house at 80 degrees in the summer, 74 in the winter. A half-an-hour before he came home, she would adjust the thermostat for his preference, 74 in the summer and 68 in the winter. She would don a sweater or take out an afghan.

Some of Mama's blazers were artistic classics. She had a colorful art deco print that Faith always loved. The beaded men's sport coat Aunt Joni had given her and the hand-painted one from Aunt Dinah were also jewels. Faith slowly went through the blazers and set aside the ones she wanted to keep.

The vests also took time. Syd collected about 200 vests over the years. Most she bought at second hand shops. Mama was a famous second-hand shopper. When Faith was in high school, Syd wrote a column detailing her second-hand addiction. The local TV station owner read it. As a result, he produced a documentary called "Revitalizing Your Wardrobe on a Shoestring." The camera crew followed Mama to several thrift stores and filmed her tips for the thrift shopper. It was such a hit that they did a second special called "Decorating Your Home on a Shoestring."

"I'm sorry I was embarrassed, Mama," Faith murmured. "When your column came out, it was bad enough, but to have your Mama known as the Junk Queen of Channel 17 was a bit much."

Going out the door of the closet, Faith swung it partially shut so she could read the column printed on a sheet of thin metal that was framed and mounted on the door.