I was asked to write a newspaper article on my friend, Judy Beard, on the closing of her beloved boutique and her retirement from the public domain. Normally, words for people I adore come easily for me. For Judy, I cannot find words big enough.
In the book of my life, Judy fills an entire chapter. All I can think to do is to dip my hands in and
pull-out fistfuls of memories and life lessons to splash across the page. No margins, no indentions, no particular
style of writing – just thousands of words sprinkled like stars across a
mid-night sky. And then some.
In my mind, I lassoed the heavens and pulled down the stars. I tugged hard on my heart to squeeze out the thoughts. I sat at my laptop for the longest time
searching for words to describe my oldest friend, mentor, therapist, prayer
partner. The one who has always had my
back. The one who picked me up when I
fell down. Who dressed me up when I was a country girl from Senatobia and told
me to dress for the career I wanted and not for the $14,000 a year job I already
had. My secret keeper. The one who knows
me inside and out. The one who is on my
side always but also tells me flat out when I make a mistake.
I realized that words are cheap and my love and admiration for Judy Beard, my friend, and the newspaper article about one of Hernando’s best known and most successful business owners are two very different stories. Read the story about the business woman in the newspaper if you want; this one is straight from my heart.
I was 20 years old when I first passed through the doors of
the historic building on the Hernando square that was home to Judy’s shop, Center
Stage Fashions. I had just gotten a new
job at the Hernando Bank and I had no professional clothes and no money to buy
anything. I had just moved into a duplex
paying a whooping $175 a month rent with only the bed and dresser from my room at
my parents’ house. No other furniture, not
even a refrigerator. I kept milk for cereal
in an ice chest on the kitchen floor. I washed towels and linens at the local
laundromat. I ate a ton of Spaghetti-o’s. But, by golly, I had a public
relations job at the bank.
I couldn’t buy a cup of coffee, much less new clothes for a
bank job. I first went in to Center
Stage because Judy was a friend of my parents and I knew her name. In desperate need of something to wear to
work, I found not only clothes but also a plan to get me outfitted for a new
life. Judy took a chance on me and gave
me a $100 credit line to buy two suits, one brown and one gray, two blouses,
one white and one red, and a sweater. She
showed me how to mix the seven pieces of clothing to make different
outfits. I was set for Week 1 of my new
job. I will forever remember the
kindness she showered on this poor naïve 20-year-old.
After I paid off that $100, she let me charge $100
more. Soon enough, I had clothes to
dress for two weeks without wearing the exact same thing twice. I thought I was the best dressed girl in
Hernando.
Although I had no idea at the time, those first few years I
received so much more than a new wardrobe.
Encouragement. Self-confidence. A
strong work ethic. Determination. A never-quit attitude. A true and life-long friend. A mentor.
I remember walking across the street wearing my gray suit
and red blouse one day and a lady in town stopped and said, “Oh, it’s you,
Martha, I thought you were somebody.”
On that day in that time of my life, that well known woman’s
unkind words devastated me. I WAS trying
to be somebody. I was trying hard. I
went immediately to Judy’s shop, head hanging like a kicked puppy, just to hear
her say, “Martha, you ARE somebody.”
YOU ARE SOMEBODY. Everyone needs someone in their life to tell
them they are somebody. Judy told me
that in a million different ways over many years until I finally believed
her. Just one of the many gifts my
friend has given me.
Last week Center Stage stood virtually empty. Gone were the
edgy and on-trend clothes that made this boutique so unique. After almost 46
years, Judy turned off the lights and locked the massive old doors for the last
time. Earlier that day, ladies – young
and old, many dear friends and some people I never met - streamed in to bid
farewell and happy retirement to Judy and her precious daughters, Cindy and
Lisa.
I was not one of them.
I was not quite ready to let go of the place where I purchased
my honeymoon trip attire and talked nonstop about wedding plans. Where I bought professional clothes when I
was eagerly climbing up the career ladder. Where I tried on glittery skirts and sparkling
tops for galas and social dinners, while she talked me in to actually
going. Where I bought big tops and
stretchy pants when I was pregnant.
Where I grabbed shorts and t-shirts for Drew’s soccer games and band
trips.
Parties. Graduations. First jobs. Weddings. Baby showers. I cannot remember a time in my adult life when
Judy was not there to guide me. When I was struggling to find my way, to build
a career, a family, a life – I spent hundreds of Saturday afternoons with Judy
trying on clothes in the back of the store (my personal dressing room) while
she quietly poured in to me wise words and gentle advice. Her standard response
to any difficult situation? “We’ll just
have to pray about that.”
Judy’s face was the
first one I saw when my daddy died. She was
at my door with a chicken and rice casserole and arms stretched wide enough to
hug us all. She dabbed steady sweet tears
with her ever-present white tissue while she washed dishes at my sink.
When Drew was little, Judy had a special place for him in
the shop. One of the dressing rooms had
books and stuffed animals and there were always snacks and apple juice for my
little one. Miss Judy has been in my son’s
life since the beginning and he has enjoyed many of her cheesecakes, pies and
special treats.
I have cried hard hot tears, shared my greatest fears, and celebrated
my biggest victories with her. She
listens. She hears me.
Many, many times, Judy would get on her hands and knees to
pin a hem on a pair of pants for me, old fashioned red pin cushion on her wrist,
straight pin between pursed lips, telling me to stand up straight and she would
hem the pants so I could wear them with heels or flats. She always made sure my clothes fit me
perfectly.
Many of my friends are mourning the closing of our dress
shop, but for me it was never about the clothes.
It was my safe place. My soft
spot to land. The place where I could strip
away all the things that were not really who I am and be just me. And, that was
ok.
Although I know that our deep discussions about life
(mainly mine) and visits over peanut butter crackers and coffee will not retire
with her, I want Judy to know, I need for her to know, how much she has meant
to me in this crazy mixed-up thing we call life.
As much as all the big sparkly beautiful words I can squeeze from my heart.
And, then some.
