The decorations are packed away and stored in the basement. The wreath is gone from the door and the leftover candy canes look a little silly on the "treat tray" in the kitchen. We are still looking for "Prince Charming's" shoe. By the way, "Cinderella" is naked, so I wonder if that might have something to do with the missing shoe. Yes, Christmas is officially over; Even for us, The Episcopalians. A new season in the church year has begun. We call it, The Epiphany. For me it means moving from celebration to enlightenment. So what could this mean? It means that I miss my children and grand-darlings filling the house with laughter. It means that with all the disfunction in our world, for a sliver of time we found peace.
Those weeks of Advent (the 4 weeks leading up to Christmas) are filled with anticipation as well as preparations. I cook, shop, plan and wrap the gifts. Lists and more lists are made. I pull out the recipes for all the special things reserved for holidays and, yes, make another list. My usual frugality is dismissed and my hedonist self takes over my body and my brain.
Christmas morning arrives, as it always has, no matter the weather, as a bright and shining day filled with love and laughter. My heart swells! The grand-darlings are united in their delight and the children are best buddies as they call-up memories of Christmases past. We sometimes loose a few tears over the ones we've loved and lost and will miss always. This is a quilt, I think, made up of scraps and bits of the present and the past all woven together to spell, family. It is who we are.
Epiphany. What will this year be like? Enlightenment and discovery? Sadness? Loss? New friends? I think that it will be all those things and more. The one certain thing is that time will move on and these days it seems to move even faster than it did when I was a younger person. Change will take place because as my mother used to say, "When things stop changing; You'll be pushing -up poppies!" I'd rather not be pushing- up poppies this year because there is so much more to do! There are more lists to be made and more preparations for the celebrations of family. I am so very blessed.
Happy Epiphany to all and to all a Good Year!
Monday, January 9, 2012
Friday, December 9, 2011
The Real "Help"
I recently saw the film, "The Help". Having read the book, I can truthfully say that although a good read as well as a fine movie, the book and film left gaps in the real stories of "The Help". I am also sure that there are a million or more sites where one could read similar stories. So in the interest of preserving, for my kids, a bit of family history, I offer this little story.
I grew up in a multi-generational household. Mother was an only child of a working mother and an alcoholic father. Her father had been a successful banker who had built a nice house in a new neighborhood for his young family. Her mother had a very nice career working for doctors, since she'd been denied a nursing education by her own father. That is another story for another time. The stock market crash happened and my grandparents, like so many others, lost their home and most of their money. Granddaddy had enough cash left to buy another house in an older, but still "good", neighborhood, so they moved. Both of my grandparents worked, so Mom was the original "latch-key" child. She told stories of learning to cook by pulling a chair up to the gas stove in order to light the pilot before cooking dinner for her parents. By today's standards, my grandparents would have been reported to the social services department! They didn't have hired "help" until much later. After Mom and Daddy married, they stayed on in the same house with my grandparents, because as Mom said, my grandmother needed them. Granddaddy was a handful during his drinking days, I was told.
That brings me to the blessed event, my birth, two years after my parents wedding. Mom had gone to a junior college and was working when I was born, so what was there to do but hire someone to "look after" the baby? With all the adults in the house at their jobs all day, the care and feeding of me was left to a series of "maids". They were never called "house-keepers" in those days. I remember a few of them; most notably the one who hid me from her "friend" . She also made long-distance phone calls to a northern city, resulting in a very large bill which she didn't pay. Needless to say, Pearl didn't make it in our house. Reflecting on it now so many years later, I can only imagine how my parents must have agonized over childcare! Perhaps, our sons and daughter can relate when searching for good daycare people or places for our grand-darlings.
Enter Annie O'Neill, our "help", and Mom's lifeline. Annie became a fixture in our home because not only was she bright but trust-worthy and kind as well. I remember watching her as she walked from the bus stop with all the other maids into our little cove. They were a happy group, laughing and talking carrying brightly colored parasols to their jobs. Annie's parasol was red and I thought it was swell. Back then I knew all of their names, for whom they worked and, most important what they cooked! Their names are lost to me now, but I can't forget their foods. Mrs. Carruthers' maid made fabulous cookies and invited the neighborhood children to tea parties with Alberta. You see, Alberta was a grown woman, who I realize now, had Down's syndrome. She would hug us and offer tea and cookies on her lawn. Some of the kids were afraid of her, but not I. The cookies were too good to pass up! Annie didn't cook much. Mom loved to do that, so Annie did other stuff. After my sister was born and my grandmother retired; life changed. Mom was at home all the time, having given up her job and Annie didn't come everyday anymore. I don't remember missing her at first because I had a baby sister, Mom and a grand-mother to dance to my tune. However, on the days that Annie did come, I knew that the two ladies of the house would be out for the day. Mom and Mama would dress-up, put on their gloves and hats and head to "town", leaving me screaming while Annie held me. Town was the mysterious place where they shopped and had lunch, only returning in time for Annie to catch her bus. Those days with Annie were spent following her around while she did all the housework. Sometimes she'd sit with me to show me a book or tell a story. My favorite story was about the "other little girl" at the other place where she worked. That story always raised the green-eyed monster in me, because the "other little girl" always did what she was told and minded her manners. She, unlike me, didn't take her shirt off when she got too hot nor did she give her mother and maid "hissy fits'. I always promised to do better, but miserably failed. Years later Mom told me that the "other little girl" never existed and that Annie made her up to keep me in line! Annie would work like a house afire to get everything done in time for us to do the ironing so that she could watch her "stories". I say "us" because Santa had brought me a small ironing board and a real miniature iron (it really heated up). Annie taught me to iron Daddy's handkerchiefs while we watched "The Edge of Night" and "The Guiding Light". Soon, I was as hooked as she was and we talked about the ups and downs of the families on that small screen in our living room. Again, I ask; What would today's parents think bout a four-year-old's passion for a fictional family? On the ironing front, which I never mastered, to this day I can't iron anything but flat napkins and tea towels! I also no longer watch "stories", also known as soap operas.
Annie had one son whom she called, Brother, I have no idea why. Her husband, although not Brother's father, was named Pops. He worked for us too, but on a limited basis because of his bad heart. After an almost fatal attack one spring, Pops, moved to California to live with his daughter. Annie was sad but confessed that they were never formally married and she couldn't take care of him the way his family could. We, the whole family, visited him in California and met his daughter and his family. Reporting after the visit to Annie about how well Pops looked and how happy he was; we never heard about him again. Annie didn't mention him and we were told never to ask about him. Brother was Annie's only child, but it was no secret that she pined for another baby. One Saturday when I was about 8 years-old, Annie called to say that she'd be coming by for a visit and that she had a surprise. The surprise was a little baby girl! The baby had been left in Annie's care while her mother moved to Mississippi. Annie hoped that the mother wouldn't come back to claim her child, but she did and Annie's heart was broken. We never asked about the baby either. Mom said that it would make Annie cry, so we never mentioned the baby again. We became her "babies. No matter how many times we sang, "Annie is the Queen of Africa", a song we made up just for her, she didn't scold us. Not until I was a college student do I remember being scolded by Annie. She would tell me repeatedly to unload the dishwasher, or stay out of the peas she'd cooked for Daddy's supper, or to hurry-up and get out of her way so that she could get to the ironing and her "stories"!
The years during the civil rights struggle are as vivid to me now as they were 50 years ago. Annie was vocal in her disapproval of all things "uppity", whatever that meant. I remember hearing her talk with my mother about the craziness in her neighborhood. She couldn't understand the rioting and burning. The year, 1968, was the worst. The sanitation workers' strike brought hate right to our front doors. Dr. King arrived in Memphis to offer his help in resolving the differences. On one of the most awful days Annie came with Mom to get us out of school. I am ashamed to admit that I was a bit embarrassed to have those two women come to my high school and put me in the car! It wasn't about race at all but the fact that I was almost 16 and ready to embrace change since, of course, I knew everything! Mom wanted Annie to stay with us, but she wouldn't hear of it. Mom drove her home that night through a neighborhood already beginning to riot. I realize now what guts it took for my very southern lady of a Mama to do such a brave thing. Many years later Mom confessed how scared she'd been. Daddy fussed, but Mom felt that she had to see Annie home safely. That night Daddy loaded a gun, which I didn't know he had. It probably wouldn't have worked since it was an old rifle of his father's, but it might have frightened someone. By then end of that horrible week, Daddy installed a new lock on the front door. I think we were the first in our cove to have a deadbolt lock. Dr. King's murder brought shame to our city. Annie didn't say much accept that maybe he should have stayed away and let Memphis work it out. While we went to school with the National Guard acting as crossing guards and lived under a curfew for what seemed years, Annie religiously came to work and did her best for us. I wonder if she mourned Dr. King's death or ever felt that she couldn't openly grieve for fear of our disdain. I'll never know.
When I got engaged Annie threw herself into the preparations for the wedding as much as Mom did. She came more often and was more vocal in her opinions than she'd been in the past. Her fear was that I wouldn't "cotton' to being a housewife because I'd shown no interest in cooking, ironing, nor any other of the "housewifey stuff". In her infinite wisdom she warned me to not let my "man" use a condom because doing so was like having sex in a raincoat, she said. I'm sure that I must have blushed and was rendered speechless by that remark. On my wedding day, Annie and Mom were with me as I put on the billowing white gown. She placed the vail on my head and she and Mom held hands and shed a few tears. Mom asked her what they'd do without me to take care of and Annie announced that she was retiring. Mom gasped and I felt the air sucked out of the room. Annie quickly assured my mother that she wouldn't be disappearing entirely but would come back when mom needed her help. True to her word when things got a little hairy on the home front, Annie would appear and set everything right again.
Mom never replaced Annie. Their was never anyone who could fill her shoes. We loved and respected her despite our racial differences. The south in the fifties and sixties was a very divided place, but at Overland Place we didn't really notice. I can say in all honesty that we had prejudices and that everything discussed at our dinner table was not without mention of those issues. However, we were taught to respect all people despite their color. That may seem to be somewhat of a mixed message but to us, my siblings and me, it was a message heard and understood.
My parents and Annie are gone now. They lived their lives in their time and passed on their wisdom and traditions to us. To this day I cringe when a hat is placed on the bed because Annie said that that was bad luck. All the superstitions and myths that Annie lived by are lost now. I admit to being a modern mom and didn't pass them on to my kids. If I could remember them all, I'd tell them. Even without the superstitions, I am the person I am because of the care I received from those who loved me. Annie does deserve some credit for that, but she wouldn't agree. Of that I am sure. She would say that she was just doing her job. I wonder what that "other little girl" would say to that?
I grew up in a multi-generational household. Mother was an only child of a working mother and an alcoholic father. Her father had been a successful banker who had built a nice house in a new neighborhood for his young family. Her mother had a very nice career working for doctors, since she'd been denied a nursing education by her own father. That is another story for another time. The stock market crash happened and my grandparents, like so many others, lost their home and most of their money. Granddaddy had enough cash left to buy another house in an older, but still "good", neighborhood, so they moved. Both of my grandparents worked, so Mom was the original "latch-key" child. She told stories of learning to cook by pulling a chair up to the gas stove in order to light the pilot before cooking dinner for her parents. By today's standards, my grandparents would have been reported to the social services department! They didn't have hired "help" until much later. After Mom and Daddy married, they stayed on in the same house with my grandparents, because as Mom said, my grandmother needed them. Granddaddy was a handful during his drinking days, I was told.
That brings me to the blessed event, my birth, two years after my parents wedding. Mom had gone to a junior college and was working when I was born, so what was there to do but hire someone to "look after" the baby? With all the adults in the house at their jobs all day, the care and feeding of me was left to a series of "maids". They were never called "house-keepers" in those days. I remember a few of them; most notably the one who hid me from her "friend" . She also made long-distance phone calls to a northern city, resulting in a very large bill which she didn't pay. Needless to say, Pearl didn't make it in our house. Reflecting on it now so many years later, I can only imagine how my parents must have agonized over childcare! Perhaps, our sons and daughter can relate when searching for good daycare people or places for our grand-darlings.
Enter Annie O'Neill, our "help", and Mom's lifeline. Annie became a fixture in our home because not only was she bright but trust-worthy and kind as well. I remember watching her as she walked from the bus stop with all the other maids into our little cove. They were a happy group, laughing and talking carrying brightly colored parasols to their jobs. Annie's parasol was red and I thought it was swell. Back then I knew all of their names, for whom they worked and, most important what they cooked! Their names are lost to me now, but I can't forget their foods. Mrs. Carruthers' maid made fabulous cookies and invited the neighborhood children to tea parties with Alberta. You see, Alberta was a grown woman, who I realize now, had Down's syndrome. She would hug us and offer tea and cookies on her lawn. Some of the kids were afraid of her, but not I. The cookies were too good to pass up! Annie didn't cook much. Mom loved to do that, so Annie did other stuff. After my sister was born and my grandmother retired; life changed. Mom was at home all the time, having given up her job and Annie didn't come everyday anymore. I don't remember missing her at first because I had a baby sister, Mom and a grand-mother to dance to my tune. However, on the days that Annie did come, I knew that the two ladies of the house would be out for the day. Mom and Mama would dress-up, put on their gloves and hats and head to "town", leaving me screaming while Annie held me. Town was the mysterious place where they shopped and had lunch, only returning in time for Annie to catch her bus. Those days with Annie were spent following her around while she did all the housework. Sometimes she'd sit with me to show me a book or tell a story. My favorite story was about the "other little girl" at the other place where she worked. That story always raised the green-eyed monster in me, because the "other little girl" always did what she was told and minded her manners. She, unlike me, didn't take her shirt off when she got too hot nor did she give her mother and maid "hissy fits'. I always promised to do better, but miserably failed. Years later Mom told me that the "other little girl" never existed and that Annie made her up to keep me in line! Annie would work like a house afire to get everything done in time for us to do the ironing so that she could watch her "stories". I say "us" because Santa had brought me a small ironing board and a real miniature iron (it really heated up). Annie taught me to iron Daddy's handkerchiefs while we watched "The Edge of Night" and "The Guiding Light". Soon, I was as hooked as she was and we talked about the ups and downs of the families on that small screen in our living room. Again, I ask; What would today's parents think bout a four-year-old's passion for a fictional family? On the ironing front, which I never mastered, to this day I can't iron anything but flat napkins and tea towels! I also no longer watch "stories", also known as soap operas.
Annie had one son whom she called, Brother, I have no idea why. Her husband, although not Brother's father, was named Pops. He worked for us too, but on a limited basis because of his bad heart. After an almost fatal attack one spring, Pops, moved to California to live with his daughter. Annie was sad but confessed that they were never formally married and she couldn't take care of him the way his family could. We, the whole family, visited him in California and met his daughter and his family. Reporting after the visit to Annie about how well Pops looked and how happy he was; we never heard about him again. Annie didn't mention him and we were told never to ask about him. Brother was Annie's only child, but it was no secret that she pined for another baby. One Saturday when I was about 8 years-old, Annie called to say that she'd be coming by for a visit and that she had a surprise. The surprise was a little baby girl! The baby had been left in Annie's care while her mother moved to Mississippi. Annie hoped that the mother wouldn't come back to claim her child, but she did and Annie's heart was broken. We never asked about the baby either. Mom said that it would make Annie cry, so we never mentioned the baby again. We became her "babies. No matter how many times we sang, "Annie is the Queen of Africa", a song we made up just for her, she didn't scold us. Not until I was a college student do I remember being scolded by Annie. She would tell me repeatedly to unload the dishwasher, or stay out of the peas she'd cooked for Daddy's supper, or to hurry-up and get out of her way so that she could get to the ironing and her "stories"!
The years during the civil rights struggle are as vivid to me now as they were 50 years ago. Annie was vocal in her disapproval of all things "uppity", whatever that meant. I remember hearing her talk with my mother about the craziness in her neighborhood. She couldn't understand the rioting and burning. The year, 1968, was the worst. The sanitation workers' strike brought hate right to our front doors. Dr. King arrived in Memphis to offer his help in resolving the differences. On one of the most awful days Annie came with Mom to get us out of school. I am ashamed to admit that I was a bit embarrassed to have those two women come to my high school and put me in the car! It wasn't about race at all but the fact that I was almost 16 and ready to embrace change since, of course, I knew everything! Mom wanted Annie to stay with us, but she wouldn't hear of it. Mom drove her home that night through a neighborhood already beginning to riot. I realize now what guts it took for my very southern lady of a Mama to do such a brave thing. Many years later Mom confessed how scared she'd been. Daddy fussed, but Mom felt that she had to see Annie home safely. That night Daddy loaded a gun, which I didn't know he had. It probably wouldn't have worked since it was an old rifle of his father's, but it might have frightened someone. By then end of that horrible week, Daddy installed a new lock on the front door. I think we were the first in our cove to have a deadbolt lock. Dr. King's murder brought shame to our city. Annie didn't say much accept that maybe he should have stayed away and let Memphis work it out. While we went to school with the National Guard acting as crossing guards and lived under a curfew for what seemed years, Annie religiously came to work and did her best for us. I wonder if she mourned Dr. King's death or ever felt that she couldn't openly grieve for fear of our disdain. I'll never know.
When I got engaged Annie threw herself into the preparations for the wedding as much as Mom did. She came more often and was more vocal in her opinions than she'd been in the past. Her fear was that I wouldn't "cotton' to being a housewife because I'd shown no interest in cooking, ironing, nor any other of the "housewifey stuff". In her infinite wisdom she warned me to not let my "man" use a condom because doing so was like having sex in a raincoat, she said. I'm sure that I must have blushed and was rendered speechless by that remark. On my wedding day, Annie and Mom were with me as I put on the billowing white gown. She placed the vail on my head and she and Mom held hands and shed a few tears. Mom asked her what they'd do without me to take care of and Annie announced that she was retiring. Mom gasped and I felt the air sucked out of the room. Annie quickly assured my mother that she wouldn't be disappearing entirely but would come back when mom needed her help. True to her word when things got a little hairy on the home front, Annie would appear and set everything right again.
Mom never replaced Annie. Their was never anyone who could fill her shoes. We loved and respected her despite our racial differences. The south in the fifties and sixties was a very divided place, but at Overland Place we didn't really notice. I can say in all honesty that we had prejudices and that everything discussed at our dinner table was not without mention of those issues. However, we were taught to respect all people despite their color. That may seem to be somewhat of a mixed message but to us, my siblings and me, it was a message heard and understood.
My parents and Annie are gone now. They lived their lives in their time and passed on their wisdom and traditions to us. To this day I cringe when a hat is placed on the bed because Annie said that that was bad luck. All the superstitions and myths that Annie lived by are lost now. I admit to being a modern mom and didn't pass them on to my kids. If I could remember them all, I'd tell them. Even without the superstitions, I am the person I am because of the care I received from those who loved me. Annie does deserve some credit for that, but she wouldn't agree. Of that I am sure. She would say that she was just doing her job. I wonder what that "other little girl" would say to that?
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Ordinary
This morning, before we left to make the arduous drive back to North Carolina, I combed Caroline's hair. As I pulled the brush through her hair I remembered how I had done this so many years ago for her mother. Those sweet little curls twinning around my fingers almost made my heart stop. Where had the years gone? We put a pink bow in her hair and she hugged my neck. Her baby smell and her chubby little fingers clutched at me and I was transported back to the time when I was the young mom rushing to get out the door and on with the business of the day. This morning there was no rush for me. I wanted to stop time in its track and treasure the moment, but she had to go to day care and we had to come home.
Her brother, newly fond of 'Spiderman", wanted his hair combed like Peter Parker, so I obliged. We even gave it a shot of Papa's hairspray to hold the look. He, unlike his sister, knows how far away we live from him. We both cried and said we'd count the days until he comes with his family for Christmas. He and his mom will make a paper chain for the 19 days until he gets here to the blue house. He told me that he'll tear off a link everyday. While his parents enjoyed a night out last week, we had written his letter to Santa. This morning he reminded me to make sure Santa got it. I promised that I would. A quick hug and a kiss and he and his sister were whisked away for school and day care. The house was quiet and I cried.
I wish that I could see our grandchildren more often. Everyday would be fine. You see, while you are in the middle of child-rearing, it's hard to enjoy the everyday ordinariness of life. Sure we celebrate and remember the big stuff, like piano recitals, baseball games, soccer, and graduations, but the everyday rituals, like hair-combing are lost in the shuffle. I wish I had not hurried through those rituals because that is now what I miss the most!
It is my hope that my children will slow down and enjoy, maybe even relish, the ordinary, everyday stuff. There will never be another time for "Peter Parker" hair or bright bows. Once it's gone the precious time is gone too. Pretty soon. like our older grand-darlings, their hair will be colored and grown-up in style. They will pick their own clothes and nothing you might suggest is the right thing. Time moves on. Teen agers make sure of that.
Today, make time for the ordinary. Relish it and remember it. All too soon the craziness of the daily rituals disappears and the house is quiet.
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Being a Grandmother
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!
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!
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
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