Never have I been involved with such a riotous group of women as the “Steel Magnolias” in our heyday. This friendship formed, oddly enough, after church choir rehearsals on Wednesday nights. Off to Pizza Hut we’d go for Cokes and/or pizza, depending on our fickle dieting. We’d rehash our weeks, talk about kids and husbands, but most of all we’d laugh. We’d laugh because, even though life is tough, it’s pretty funny too. Over the years we have seen each other through loss of parents, struggles with children, divorce, an amputation, a pregnancy scare at age forty-seven, numerous health issues, and the list goes on.
We called ourselves the “Steel Magnolias” (SMAGS for short) because we watched the movie together once and thought the “tough, yet soft” implication applied to us as well. Periodically we’d argue over our characters—everyone wanted to be Julia Roberts and no one wanted to be mean ole’ Shirley MacLaine. Since I was the youngest of the group, I usually staked my claim on whatever character I wanted, but I probably resembled Daryl Hannah who changed from prudish to worldly-wise right before our eyes.
The friendship grew from Pizza Hut and movie nights (oh yeah, there was “The Color Purple” night where we all wore purple and served purple snacks) to some pretty awesome Christmas gatherings. We started to hunt for gifts that had magnolias on them and, over the years these items became easier to find; we believed that we single-handedly were responsible for the rise in magnolia popularity. We had magnolia candle holders, photo frames, magnolia-scented everything, and photographs of magnolia trees taken on vacation. Imagine the delight of finding magnolia brand toilet paper and buying it for six of your best friends!
But . . . the queen of magnolia gifts was Lori. She went a little crazy. Her entire home was decorated with magnolias—curtains, bed spread, you name it. She gave each of us sets of magnolia china (no, I’m not kidding), umbrellas, and hand-made Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls with magnolia clothing. I’ll never forget the year of the shiny, quilted, and totally unflattering magnolia bath robes. We all looked so over-weight in those that I don’t believe we ever took a picture.
Steel Magnolias still exist, but we’ll never be what we once were. One of us has moved away, but a few Christmases ago she sent all of us magnolia travel bags, probably hoping we’d travel out to Las Vegas and visit. And Lori, well she’s no longer with us either, we lost her on the 4th of July several years ago after chronic health problems. We knew that her health wasn’t good, but we were still shocked, devastated, and even a little mad that she had the nerve to die. But oh, the stories we told at her funeral—the pastor had to cut us off.
It’s not a cliché to say that we are comforted by her memory. Lori left us with so much . . . I’ll write more about her later. Often, when we’re together, we tell Lori stories and oh, how we miss her! But for now, every time I use my china, every time I see that shapeless polyester robe in my closet, every time I look at the magnolia cross-stitched table cloth, or the embroidered apron I received after her death, I remember and I’m grateful.
