One of our grand-daughters' loves the story, "Cinderella", especially the Disney version where the fairy godmother makes Cinderella's wishes come true. She points at the godmother's picture and says, "That's my 'Tiki' ", which is what she calls me. My heart just about burst when our daughter told me that, because that is exactly what I want our grandchildren to think about me. After raising four children and always putting their needs above my own, it is one of life's joys to be able to grant wishes, no matter how absurd or sometimes outrageous those wishes seem to their parents. I think that I've earned that status!
My own mother was the epitome of the indulgent grandmother. Right out of the gate, she declared that her grandchildren were going to be spoiled rotten by her and until she breathed the last breath, she held true to her word. Mom had no siblings, nor any indulgent grandparents. What she did have was a gaggle of aunts, because her mother was one of eight daughters born to very strict German/French parents. The aunts and their spouses filled the grand-parent void and indulged my mother somewhat, but it wasn't the same as having real loving, prone- to- spoiling grandparents and Mom knew that. So, when our children came along, all bets were off and I knew as well as welcomed it. Mom and Daddy were wonderful parents and fabulous grandparents. We let them indulge our children and we looked to them for parenting advice. My own grandparents, Mom's parents, had been the real deal. It's the way we are and I don't apologize for it. We love our children and when they have children of their own we spoil them, period!
Figuring out the parent thing is tough. You worry over every little thing and, of course, you want to do the right thing with your children. Everyday is a new challenge. Should breakfast be yogurt and fruit or eggs? Does he/she need a sweater or jacket? Is this fever worth a doctor visit? When should we begin potty-training? Is she/he getting the right care? Just the grooming rituals, like brushing their teeth was cause for ten deep breaths and a calming mantra. The food worries and battles over vegetables were enough to send me screaming into the street! Thank God, we were young enough to keep up with the daily trials! All of that and then there was school and a whole new set of worries and joys began. I wouldn't trade a minute of it, although at the time, the slogan for the bath product, "Calgon, take me away!" held a lot of promise for me.
The grandparent mode is a welcome relief from the grind of parenting! You get to leave the worries of the daily grind to your own well brought up children. Ice cream for breakfast? How about that on top of a brownie? Goldfish crackers with apple juice and a few Hershey kisses for dinner? No problem! The crackers are at least whole grain, right? Here's the big secret; It's their parents responsibility to feed them the healthy stuff, monitor their bed time, make sure that they brush and floss, get the required shots, and do their homework. I've been there and done that. As a grandmother, I want to be the Bibbity Bobbity Boo Grandmother who provides the haven and grants the wishes! Our children have their own ideas about child rearing and we both respect that, but our house is the funhouse where pumpkins _can_ become magic coaches! I think that after the years of struggle and grinding out the healthy stuff; I've earned that.
I look at this wonderful journey like this: There are 365 days in an average year. Of those days, we may have the grandchildren in our home, let's say, for the sake of argument, 25 times. If our own kids have done their parenting jobs well, that means that in the time span of less than a month, the grand-darlings get brownies for breakfast and stay up later than usual and magic happens! We all need a little magic, right? I want them to look forward to our magic days and realize that what takes place here isn't the routine of home but the grand ball where Cinderella isn't banished to her room and every young boy is Prince Charming. Referring to another fairy tale, if I were writing the story of Hansel and Gretel, the house in the woods would be made of real gingerbread and together we'd eat the candy right off the roof and then dance in the woods in our jammies! Red Riding Hood would bop the Big Bad Wolf in the head and she and Grandmother would spend the afternoon making sugar cookies into wolf shapes and happily eating them with cups of cold coke. You see, Grandmothers and Grandfathers alike are special people and they live by special rules. They have become more child-like themselves and know that there are some battles worth fighting about and some, well, not so much. Real problems and controversy can be left at home, but here in our special place the grand-darlings are all that matters for the little slice of time. My hope is that they will always remember, long after "Papa" and I are gone, that had our unconditional love and ice cream for breakfast. Dreams and wishes come true Bibbity, Bobbity, Boo!
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Episcopalian
I should have gotten back into the bed and tried getting up again. Maybe then I would have gotten up on the "right" side! Okay, having said that I can move on to the subject of my ill- tempered morning.
First, let me say that I am an Episcopalian and have been for over forty years. As I've told anyone who'd listen, I started going to the Episcopal church while I was the President of my Methodist Youth Fellowship. The simple reason had not a thing to do with beliefs or doctrine, but everything to do with guys. The ones at the Episcopal church were better looking than the Methodist ones that I had grown up with. Hey, I was only 15 and the Episcopal church was two doors a way from our house! Add "lazy" to my sins because I could walk to the Episcopal Youth Community meetings. Now add the fact that my husband is an Episcopalian and really good-looking and you get my point. No, he was not at the EYC meetings two doors away; he came into my life a bit later.
I will assume that the reader doesn't know how we Episcopalians work in order to state my case. So, back to this morning; First off, we at St. Paul's are making an attempt to be more "earth-friendly". We've had classes to educate us on saving the mother planet and are working hard to reuse and recycle. We are also into preserving our own heritage and the structures where we worship. So, taking all of that into account you can imagine my consternation when I saw that in the bulletin this morning the Prayers of the People was printed along with the usual service notes and notices of upcoming events. What is that about I asked the man seated next to me (a former Baptist minister, I might add)? He told me that the extra printing was to be more "welcoming" to our visitors. What? We have a gazzillion dollars invested in books named, The Book of Common Prayer, and they are right there in front of each one of us beside the Hymnal! The bulletin even has pages listed for each of the books, Hymnal on the left of the page and BCP on the right. Must we assume that all our visitors are morons and can't read the bulletin? A simple line stating that fact could be inserted at the top of the page and we'd save a lot of paper and ink.
Next, the sermon was insightful but too long. Do priests go to speech classes? Having made a point and delivered a perfect and to the point closing statement our beautiful, well-spoken young priest continued for another five minutes or so. My kids think that I am an adult with Attention Deficit Disorder, so this part of my post may have more to do with that than our priest's sermon. My brain should never be left to its own devices! It tends to wander and get lost.
Communion followed and my frustration mounted. Who are these people? When offered the chalice, they waited for me to tip it for them. Not that I mind doing so, but really are they all fallen-away Catholics? It's like feeding baby birds!
Being an Episcopalian in the truest sense of the word means adopting the practices and the traditions to the fullest extent. We offer classes to educate and explain the beliefs. Again, a simple explanation of the way to receive the bread and wine is all that is needed. For those of you still with me on this; allow me to explain. With palms open and up cross your right hand over your left, making a cross (funny how that works). If you happen to be left-handed, reverse that. Now, when the chalice is extended to you, grip the bottom of it and gently tip it to your mouth. Sip a bit of wine and say a soft or silent "Amen" and you are finished. If in doubt, ask one of us and we can help. We are very "welcoming".
Another nit I'd like to pick is the habit of referring to areas of the nave as the lectern side or the whatever side. The areas are clear to most of us and should be to our visitors. Try this exercise; Pretend that you are God looking out at your flock. Behind you is the high altar with the cross prominently displayed. Now, lovingly reach out to the flock. The flock, seated in the nave, looks to God (you, pretending) and they see to their left your hand. This, my friends, is the right-hand-of-God side, or the Gospel side of the church. On the left hand of God is the Epistle side. The sermon this morning was delivered from the Epistle side of the church. Doesn't that sound better and more "churchy"?
I apologize to anyone reading this for sounding off about what is probably considered trivial stuff. I will defend myself by saying that I take my religion seriously and love adhering to the traditions and customs. I/we are a welcoming group. The plaque above the doors says it perfectly, "A place of worship for _all_people". Maybe being a Baptist or Methodist is a little easier. There aren't books to juggle nor kneelers to dodge in those places. Did I mention confirmation? That is a subject for another time and place.
However, being a Christian as well as an Episcopalian takes some work.
I am willing to juggle and dodge, secure in the knowledge that all over the world others of our brothers and sisters are doing the same thing and saying the same words so beautifully written in The Book of Common Prayer. To our visitors, that is the small red book right in front of you! You are welcome!
First, let me say that I am an Episcopalian and have been for over forty years. As I've told anyone who'd listen, I started going to the Episcopal church while I was the President of my Methodist Youth Fellowship. The simple reason had not a thing to do with beliefs or doctrine, but everything to do with guys. The ones at the Episcopal church were better looking than the Methodist ones that I had grown up with. Hey, I was only 15 and the Episcopal church was two doors a way from our house! Add "lazy" to my sins because I could walk to the Episcopal Youth Community meetings. Now add the fact that my husband is an Episcopalian and really good-looking and you get my point. No, he was not at the EYC meetings two doors away; he came into my life a bit later.
I will assume that the reader doesn't know how we Episcopalians work in order to state my case. So, back to this morning; First off, we at St. Paul's are making an attempt to be more "earth-friendly". We've had classes to educate us on saving the mother planet and are working hard to reuse and recycle. We are also into preserving our own heritage and the structures where we worship. So, taking all of that into account you can imagine my consternation when I saw that in the bulletin this morning the Prayers of the People was printed along with the usual service notes and notices of upcoming events. What is that about I asked the man seated next to me (a former Baptist minister, I might add)? He told me that the extra printing was to be more "welcoming" to our visitors. What? We have a gazzillion dollars invested in books named, The Book of Common Prayer, and they are right there in front of each one of us beside the Hymnal! The bulletin even has pages listed for each of the books, Hymnal on the left of the page and BCP on the right. Must we assume that all our visitors are morons and can't read the bulletin? A simple line stating that fact could be inserted at the top of the page and we'd save a lot of paper and ink.
Next, the sermon was insightful but too long. Do priests go to speech classes? Having made a point and delivered a perfect and to the point closing statement our beautiful, well-spoken young priest continued for another five minutes or so. My kids think that I am an adult with Attention Deficit Disorder, so this part of my post may have more to do with that than our priest's sermon. My brain should never be left to its own devices! It tends to wander and get lost.
Communion followed and my frustration mounted. Who are these people? When offered the chalice, they waited for me to tip it for them. Not that I mind doing so, but really are they all fallen-away Catholics? It's like feeding baby birds!
Being an Episcopalian in the truest sense of the word means adopting the practices and the traditions to the fullest extent. We offer classes to educate and explain the beliefs. Again, a simple explanation of the way to receive the bread and wine is all that is needed. For those of you still with me on this; allow me to explain. With palms open and up cross your right hand over your left, making a cross (funny how that works). If you happen to be left-handed, reverse that. Now, when the chalice is extended to you, grip the bottom of it and gently tip it to your mouth. Sip a bit of wine and say a soft or silent "Amen" and you are finished. If in doubt, ask one of us and we can help. We are very "welcoming".
Another nit I'd like to pick is the habit of referring to areas of the nave as the lectern side or the whatever side. The areas are clear to most of us and should be to our visitors. Try this exercise; Pretend that you are God looking out at your flock. Behind you is the high altar with the cross prominently displayed. Now, lovingly reach out to the flock. The flock, seated in the nave, looks to God (you, pretending) and they see to their left your hand. This, my friends, is the right-hand-of-God side, or the Gospel side of the church. On the left hand of God is the Epistle side. The sermon this morning was delivered from the Epistle side of the church. Doesn't that sound better and more "churchy"?
I apologize to anyone reading this for sounding off about what is probably considered trivial stuff. I will defend myself by saying that I take my religion seriously and love adhering to the traditions and customs. I/we are a welcoming group. The plaque above the doors says it perfectly, "A place of worship for _all_people". Maybe being a Baptist or Methodist is a little easier. There aren't books to juggle nor kneelers to dodge in those places. Did I mention confirmation? That is a subject for another time and place.
However, being a Christian as well as an Episcopalian takes some work.
I am willing to juggle and dodge, secure in the knowledge that all over the world others of our brothers and sisters are doing the same thing and saying the same words so beautifully written in The Book of Common Prayer. To our visitors, that is the small red book right in front of you! You are welcome!
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Good- Bye to Belle
Dogs are as much a part of my life as are my children. Loosing a pet is sometimes compared to the loss of a child. Having known several people who've experienced a child's death; I can say that I cannot really agree, but the grief for both is long-lasting. That is the part that I can agree with.
Last week, Belle, our little terrier mix started having intestinal problems. We dutifully took all the steps that one would when dealing with a sick dog. I didn't, however, call the vet. Deep in my heart I knew that she was dying and I hoped to keep her comfortable and at home until the end came. I prayed that she would go to sleep and not wake up. My prayers were answered, but not the way that I had hoped.
For several days we gave her Pepto-Bismol because I had read an article online about using it on dogs. She improved enough to eat and drink as usual, but the problems came back. We bought a nutritional supplement which she hated, but we kept dosing her hoping it would help. It didn't.
Yesterday morning she woke up and as I picked her up, she squealed and stiffened. I think that she had a small stroke, but afterward she rallied a bit. I knew that it was time for help so I called the vet. All day I watched and waited, wanting to savor every minute that we had with her. Belle slept curled up beside me while I checked my e-mail and read the newspaper. Unlike our human counterparts, she never complained about her ailments.
At the appointed time, we wrapped her in an a towel and made the short trip to the vet's office. On the way there, Gene said that he thought that maybe she had a virus or a bug of some sort. Hope, as is said, springs eternal. I just held her while silent tears rolled down my face. Pulling myself together I carried her into the waiting room. Now, anyone who has ever known her, would have marveled at Belle! She was never a lap dog nor was she a snuggler. That is until yesterday. She let me hold her close to my heart while we waited. Our time finally arrived and we took her into the examining room. Dear Dr. Jenni told us what we both knew; It was time to let her go. So, yes, my prayers were answered. Belle slept in our arms until her little dog heart stopped beating.
I've heard it said that one's hearing is the last sense to go. Remembering that, I told Belle how much we loved her and what a great friend to us she'd been for her 16 years of life. I don't know if she understood any of those words, but I said them anyway.
We will miss her, of that I'm sure. We already do. Her dish is banished from my sight as is her bed (rarely used since she slept at my feet in our bed). I looked for her when I took a shower because she always waited for me on the bath mat. There is a hole in my heart where once lived a fuzzy little terrier. Good-bye my sweet baby, Belle. We will love and miss you forever.
Last week, Belle, our little terrier mix started having intestinal problems. We dutifully took all the steps that one would when dealing with a sick dog. I didn't, however, call the vet. Deep in my heart I knew that she was dying and I hoped to keep her comfortable and at home until the end came. I prayed that she would go to sleep and not wake up. My prayers were answered, but not the way that I had hoped.
For several days we gave her Pepto-Bismol because I had read an article online about using it on dogs. She improved enough to eat and drink as usual, but the problems came back. We bought a nutritional supplement which she hated, but we kept dosing her hoping it would help. It didn't.
Yesterday morning she woke up and as I picked her up, she squealed and stiffened. I think that she had a small stroke, but afterward she rallied a bit. I knew that it was time for help so I called the vet. All day I watched and waited, wanting to savor every minute that we had with her. Belle slept curled up beside me while I checked my e-mail and read the newspaper. Unlike our human counterparts, she never complained about her ailments.
At the appointed time, we wrapped her in an a towel and made the short trip to the vet's office. On the way there, Gene said that he thought that maybe she had a virus or a bug of some sort. Hope, as is said, springs eternal. I just held her while silent tears rolled down my face. Pulling myself together I carried her into the waiting room. Now, anyone who has ever known her, would have marveled at Belle! She was never a lap dog nor was she a snuggler. That is until yesterday. She let me hold her close to my heart while we waited. Our time finally arrived and we took her into the examining room. Dear Dr. Jenni told us what we both knew; It was time to let her go. So, yes, my prayers were answered. Belle slept in our arms until her little dog heart stopped beating.
I've heard it said that one's hearing is the last sense to go. Remembering that, I told Belle how much we loved her and what a great friend to us she'd been for her 16 years of life. I don't know if she understood any of those words, but I said them anyway.
We will miss her, of that I'm sure. We already do. Her dish is banished from my sight as is her bed (rarely used since she slept at my feet in our bed). I looked for her when I took a shower because she always waited for me on the bath mat. There is a hole in my heart where once lived a fuzzy little terrier. Good-bye my sweet baby, Belle. We will love and miss you forever.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Surprises!
Some members of our family love surprises. In fact most of us do. I think that the tradition started a long time ago with my parents. Those two people loved to spring surprise parties and surprise, somewhat extravagant gifts, on each other and their children. One of my special memories was the Christmas that Daddy bought Mother a new car. He was about the to "bust" with excitement when he told me how we were going to pull off the surprise. The plan involved a fairly complicated hiding of the new wheels in a garage that belonged to the church two doors away from our house. Daddy hid the car, a sporty yellow Chevy, in the garage a few days before Christmas and gave my sister and me the ribbon to decorate it. Janet and I sneaked over there and pulled the ribbon around it and attached a big red bow on the roof. On Christmas morning, Daddy snuck out of the house in the dark and drove the car into the driveway beyond the front porch and past the dining room windows so that Mom couldn't see it. As was our custom, Daddy would always go into the living room to "check and see if Santa had come" while we slept. Daddy would always say, "No, he hasn't come yet, so go back to bed." We knew he was joking! We'd storm into the room and exclaim over all the loot and then we'd settle down to open presents. Mom would always be the last to open hers. That Christmas, Janet and I could hardly contain our excitement as she opened the usual stuff; clothes, new pjs and so on. The last gift was handed to her by Daddy and as she opened a box of silky panties a set of keys on a shiny new keyring fell out. Mom held them up and asked Daddy what they were for. Daddy just laughed his deep chuckle and told her that maybe she ought to check outside for what Santa had left for her. Mom did and was beside herself with excitement. In our pjs, we took the new car for a spin around the block! Daddy was grinning from ear to ear because no one enjoyed surprising his loved ones more than my Daddy.
The tradition continued well into our adulthood. Once, a month after our move to North Carolina, over six hundred miles away from home, my parents decided to surprise us with a weekend visit. Gene was working late and I had had an especially trying day. The move and getting everyone settled into our new home far away from our friends and family, had left me very lonely and unsettled. After getting the three children fed, bathed and into their pajamas, I told them that they could watch a little TV before bedtime. They were happily watching TV in the den, so I told the oldest child to keep the two younger ones quiet just long enough for me to take a quick shower. A promise of buttered popcorn sealed that deal and on my way to the shower, I casually reminded him to not open the door for anyone, except of course Mimi and Papaw! ESP? You guessed it! When I got out of the shower, there they were on our front porch. Happy Birthday to me, for a few days later it really was my birthday. Surprise!
Next month is my husband's birthday. For months I've been contemplating what I could give him that would really please him. Racking my brain for the perfect gift became an obsession. I finally decided on something that I hope he will love. He doesn't have a hobby or at least one that he spends time doing because between coaching baseball, working and raising four kids with me, there never seemed to be enough time nor money to devote to a hobby. His family _is_ his hobby. Time spent with us is what he loves best, so I'm giving him time. With my trusty laptop I've booked time for us. We can't take the whole gang along for this time, but maybe next year we will.
My parents are both gone from me, but their tradition of surprising each other lives on. They taught me a lot about spending "date" time without kids and enjoying each other, so for his birthday this year, I've planned a weekend in New Orleans followed by a cruise. I hope he likes it. I have been daydreaming for weeks about strolling hand and hand with him through the French Quarter, as we did many years ago before we had children. He loves to "people watch", so I'm sure we'll do a lot of that during that week too. We don't have to be anywhere in order to spend time together, but a trip together is a reminder of the time before the race began. Time is the most important gift I can give him. Our daughter jokes that he gets out of sorts when he doesn't get enough "Linda time", so I hope that this gift will give him what he wants most! I'm crossing my fingers and hoping !
Happy Birthday, Honey. I love you more today than I did over forty years ago when I first saw you on that hot summer night. You out-shone all the stars then and you still do. Even with all the craziness, I'd do it all over again. May you have many more birthdays and always with me!
XOXOXOXO always,
L
The tradition continued well into our adulthood. Once, a month after our move to North Carolina, over six hundred miles away from home, my parents decided to surprise us with a weekend visit. Gene was working late and I had had an especially trying day. The move and getting everyone settled into our new home far away from our friends and family, had left me very lonely and unsettled. After getting the three children fed, bathed and into their pajamas, I told them that they could watch a little TV before bedtime. They were happily watching TV in the den, so I told the oldest child to keep the two younger ones quiet just long enough for me to take a quick shower. A promise of buttered popcorn sealed that deal and on my way to the shower, I casually reminded him to not open the door for anyone, except of course Mimi and Papaw! ESP? You guessed it! When I got out of the shower, there they were on our front porch. Happy Birthday to me, for a few days later it really was my birthday. Surprise!
Next month is my husband's birthday. For months I've been contemplating what I could give him that would really please him. Racking my brain for the perfect gift became an obsession. I finally decided on something that I hope he will love. He doesn't have a hobby or at least one that he spends time doing because between coaching baseball, working and raising four kids with me, there never seemed to be enough time nor money to devote to a hobby. His family _is_ his hobby. Time spent with us is what he loves best, so I'm giving him time. With my trusty laptop I've booked time for us. We can't take the whole gang along for this time, but maybe next year we will.
My parents are both gone from me, but their tradition of surprising each other lives on. They taught me a lot about spending "date" time without kids and enjoying each other, so for his birthday this year, I've planned a weekend in New Orleans followed by a cruise. I hope he likes it. I have been daydreaming for weeks about strolling hand and hand with him through the French Quarter, as we did many years ago before we had children. He loves to "people watch", so I'm sure we'll do a lot of that during that week too. We don't have to be anywhere in order to spend time together, but a trip together is a reminder of the time before the race began. Time is the most important gift I can give him. Our daughter jokes that he gets out of sorts when he doesn't get enough "Linda time", so I hope that this gift will give him what he wants most! I'm crossing my fingers and hoping !
Happy Birthday, Honey. I love you more today than I did over forty years ago when I first saw you on that hot summer night. You out-shone all the stars then and you still do. Even with all the craziness, I'd do it all over again. May you have many more birthdays and always with me!
XOXOXOXO always,
L
Sunday, September 11, 2011
9/11 Reflections
Has it really been ten years? Ask anyone who was alive then and they can probably tell you where they were and what they were doing when the towers fell. You don't even have to say; What towers? We all know. I am really no different and my personal story is not earth-shattering nor especially enlightening.
We were having work done on the plaster ceilings upstairs. Several days before the 9/11 attacks, one of the workmen reported that our ancient dryer in the upstairs laundry room was was heating up all by itself. The next day, the repairman pronounced it dead. So on the morning of September 11, 2001, I was getting dressed in our bedroom after seeing our baby boy, then high school freshman, off to school. I remember watching Katie and Matt talking on the "Today Show" and then the first announcement and news break that a plane had hit the World Trade Center. They switched to the coverage and then a few minutes later, another plane and the news kept getting worse. You know the rest of that story. Well, I was in shock of course, but I continued getting dressed and drove to Sears. Inside the store no one was doing anything but watching the floor model TVs . I stood with the idle salesmen and cried while I made a dryer selection. Back at home the workmen had stopped pulling down the old plaster ceilings and together we watched in horror as the morning became mid-day and the nightmare continued. I found a a small American flag, a leftover from the 4th of July parade, and stuck it in a flowerpot on the porch.
Those who know me well know that Tuesdays are a day apart from the rest of the week. Tuesdays are reserved for a lunchtime ritual known as lunch with the "Bazaar Babes". There are 11 of us now, but then there were 12. We had planned to be at a restaurant, but decided instead to gather at our friend, Ann Griffen's, house. Ann, a victim of MS, had a large TV on which we continued to stare at the events unfolding.
Back at home, I passed by the little flag and swallowed the lump in my throat. The freshman was at home by then and had questions about the day. I didn't feel comfortable answering them, but tried instead to assure him that he would be safe no matter what. Isn't that what mothers do? He had a soccer game that night and the schools had decided to go ahead with it despite the events of that day. He went upstairs to his bathroom to shave and dress for the game. I was sitting at the computer looking at the pictures of the towers falling of people jumping to their deaths and of firefighters trying desperately to save people and loosing not only that battle, but of dying themselves. Suddenly this man-child ran out of the bathroom and said, "Mom, I need a candle, quick!". Stunned, I asked why. He said that he'd heard at school that someone had posted a request on the internet for everyone to hold a lit candle high at an appointed hour in respect for the lost lives of the day. So with a bit of shaving cream clinging to his chin and without a shirt on his still hairless chest, this sweet man-child of ours stood on the steps of the sidewalk in front of our house and held a lighted candle in one hand and the little flag in the other hand. Behind the cover of the front door I wept as only a mother can. Proud, questioning, frightened, and struck dumb, I hugged him to my chest and stifled the urge to scream. The next day, I picked out the color for the front door and by 5 o'clock that day our door sported two coats of a color named "American Beauty". It just seemed right as did the new large American Flag hanging from the porch .
9/11 changed us all. We are more fearful now. We experience more delays when we travel now. We no longer trust the way we did before 9/11. We have evolved in many ways and not all of them are bad. We, as a nation, I like to believe, are more patriotic. Our hopes are are realistic and grounded. Call me a "Pollyanna", but seeing a skinny, man-child holding a little candle and an American flag proudly on the steps of a humble, but proud home will do that to you.
God Bless America and all our sons and daughters!
We were having work done on the plaster ceilings upstairs. Several days before the 9/11 attacks, one of the workmen reported that our ancient dryer in the upstairs laundry room was was heating up all by itself. The next day, the repairman pronounced it dead. So on the morning of September 11, 2001, I was getting dressed in our bedroom after seeing our baby boy, then high school freshman, off to school. I remember watching Katie and Matt talking on the "Today Show" and then the first announcement and news break that a plane had hit the World Trade Center. They switched to the coverage and then a few minutes later, another plane and the news kept getting worse. You know the rest of that story. Well, I was in shock of course, but I continued getting dressed and drove to Sears. Inside the store no one was doing anything but watching the floor model TVs . I stood with the idle salesmen and cried while I made a dryer selection. Back at home the workmen had stopped pulling down the old plaster ceilings and together we watched in horror as the morning became mid-day and the nightmare continued. I found a a small American flag, a leftover from the 4th of July parade, and stuck it in a flowerpot on the porch.
Those who know me well know that Tuesdays are a day apart from the rest of the week. Tuesdays are reserved for a lunchtime ritual known as lunch with the "Bazaar Babes". There are 11 of us now, but then there were 12. We had planned to be at a restaurant, but decided instead to gather at our friend, Ann Griffen's, house. Ann, a victim of MS, had a large TV on which we continued to stare at the events unfolding.
Back at home, I passed by the little flag and swallowed the lump in my throat. The freshman was at home by then and had questions about the day. I didn't feel comfortable answering them, but tried instead to assure him that he would be safe no matter what. Isn't that what mothers do? He had a soccer game that night and the schools had decided to go ahead with it despite the events of that day. He went upstairs to his bathroom to shave and dress for the game. I was sitting at the computer looking at the pictures of the towers falling of people jumping to their deaths and of firefighters trying desperately to save people and loosing not only that battle, but of dying themselves. Suddenly this man-child ran out of the bathroom and said, "Mom, I need a candle, quick!". Stunned, I asked why. He said that he'd heard at school that someone had posted a request on the internet for everyone to hold a lit candle high at an appointed hour in respect for the lost lives of the day. So with a bit of shaving cream clinging to his chin and without a shirt on his still hairless chest, this sweet man-child of ours stood on the steps of the sidewalk in front of our house and held a lighted candle in one hand and the little flag in the other hand. Behind the cover of the front door I wept as only a mother can. Proud, questioning, frightened, and struck dumb, I hugged him to my chest and stifled the urge to scream. The next day, I picked out the color for the front door and by 5 o'clock that day our door sported two coats of a color named "American Beauty". It just seemed right as did the new large American Flag hanging from the porch .
9/11 changed us all. We are more fearful now. We experience more delays when we travel now. We no longer trust the way we did before 9/11. We have evolved in many ways and not all of them are bad. We, as a nation, I like to believe, are more patriotic. Our hopes are are realistic and grounded. Call me a "Pollyanna", but seeing a skinny, man-child holding a little candle and an American flag proudly on the steps of a humble, but proud home will do that to you.
God Bless America and all our sons and daughters!
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Tiki camp
He smells just like sunshine, or at least what I think sunshine must smell like. We moved through our week of "Tiki camp" at the speed of light. He wanted me to cook with him, but changed his mind. We travelled to Mississippi and he rode, yes really, two horses. On one he even managed to ride bare-back! His Tiki was amazed as she watched with a lump in her throat. We swam; he ate catfish for the first time; we "muggled". We picked up his baby sister so that she could make brownies with us. She cracked eggs and "I stir" the batter. The museum held us in its grasp with the Fed Ex plane which he "flew" for me. He climbed the climby thing so high that I feared he might freeze there in the upper region and I'd have to get help to reach him. He swam down so deep at Patty's pool that he touched the drain. He stopped my heart many times during our week of "camp". Whether my heart stopped from fear for his safety or just the love I have for him, I don't know, but stop it did.
Leaving him, his sister and his mommy and daddy is about the hardest thing I do. We all cry and then I drive away. Two hundred miles later, I still cry, but know that Tiki camp can happen again, just not soon enough for Tiki.
Leaving him, his sister and his mommy and daddy is about the hardest thing I do. We all cry and then I drive away. Two hundred miles later, I still cry, but know that Tiki camp can happen again, just not soon enough for Tiki.
Best Friends
Ok, the term "best friend" is a misnomer. Maybe the more important phrase should be "lifetime friend". Best friends shift with life. One minute the friend knows everything about you and ditto you to her, and then bam; life changes and you have to look her number up to tell her something important.
Lifetime friends are more rare and precious. They know where the bones are buried, who supplied the shovels and who put the dirt on the casket. I am very lucky to have a few of the lifetime kind in my friend arsenal. I really believe if I asked one of them to take out someone they might do it. That statement was a stretch, but I like to imagine it anyway.
Like tonight for instance; I called up a LTF and told her that Bauchmann would never be elected because she was on national TV today wishing Elvis a happy birthday! Today, by the way, is August 16th, 2011. Anyone with a brain knows that Elvis died on August 16, 1977! The LTF on the line understood right away the lunacy of the remark from Bauchmann, because 34 years ago it was with her that I travelled to Graceland and climbed the wall to see just who (besides us) had come to Memphis to honor The King. The event is etched into my brain along with the night we pushed my mother's car out of the driveway in order to sneak out for a joy ride in a much gentler Memphis of the late '60s. Life with a friend like that is bliss, sisters.
Some people only have memories of friends. The here and now ordinariness of their everyday lives are not worthy enough for sharing. They re-visit their glory days, drink a little wine and go home until the next gathering. I think that is sad. Days with friends should be ordinary as well as extraordinary.
I love that I can see or call my LTF and pick-up right where we left off the last time we talked or saw each other. One LTF has known me and almost everything about me since we were six years old. We don't let pettiness nor miles separate us. That is a LTF.
Is there a message anywhere in this? No, not really. I was just feeling especially low after being back in my growing-up home last week. This time we didn't climb any walls nor push a car out for a sneaky joy ride. What we did was enjoy each other's ordinariness. Oh, there was a, "Who's bossier battle?" which was not resolved by the time I left, but that can wait for another time. With any luck at all we can wage the battle for many more years.
Lifetime friends are more rare and precious. They know where the bones are buried, who supplied the shovels and who put the dirt on the casket. I am very lucky to have a few of the lifetime kind in my friend arsenal. I really believe if I asked one of them to take out someone they might do it. That statement was a stretch, but I like to imagine it anyway.
Like tonight for instance; I called up a LTF and told her that Bauchmann would never be elected because she was on national TV today wishing Elvis a happy birthday! Today, by the way, is August 16th, 2011. Anyone with a brain knows that Elvis died on August 16, 1977! The LTF on the line understood right away the lunacy of the remark from Bauchmann, because 34 years ago it was with her that I travelled to Graceland and climbed the wall to see just who (besides us) had come to Memphis to honor The King. The event is etched into my brain along with the night we pushed my mother's car out of the driveway in order to sneak out for a joy ride in a much gentler Memphis of the late '60s. Life with a friend like that is bliss, sisters.
Some people only have memories of friends. The here and now ordinariness of their everyday lives are not worthy enough for sharing. They re-visit their glory days, drink a little wine and go home until the next gathering. I think that is sad. Days with friends should be ordinary as well as extraordinary.
I love that I can see or call my LTF and pick-up right where we left off the last time we talked or saw each other. One LTF has known me and almost everything about me since we were six years old. We don't let pettiness nor miles separate us. That is a LTF.
Is there a message anywhere in this? No, not really. I was just feeling especially low after being back in my growing-up home last week. This time we didn't climb any walls nor push a car out for a sneaky joy ride. What we did was enjoy each other's ordinariness. Oh, there was a, "Who's bossier battle?" which was not resolved by the time I left, but that can wait for another time. With any luck at all we can wage the battle for many more years.
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