Jesus and Oreos have gotten me through the last four months. Actually, I didn't come up with that tag line. It was suggested in a comment on a status update that I posted the other night. My daughter thinks that it ought to be the title of the book many hope that I will write. The truth is that I don't think that I can write a book about the last four months because doing so would mean reliving it and that I have no desire to do. It has been far too painful. Don't get me wrong, there have been countless blessings along the way and more to come, I hope.
Our lives took a catastrophic turn four months ago when our son fell/fainted or whatever and hit his driveway head-on. He arrived in the ER with his pupils fixed and dilated and was unresponsive to pain stimuli. He had suffered a traumatic brain injury (TBI). Thus began our journey as a family into unknown territory. Before his accident I, of course, had heard of brain injury but had no idea of the magnitude nor scope of the rammafications of one. To decompress I began to write each day on Facebook about his accident and the recovery process. The writing became cathartic also and friends began to read the posts and pass them on to others. Wow!
As a result of the posts, I began to hear from people from all over. Friend requests poured in and comments grew in numbers. It is a humbling experience to say the least. I am not a writer, nor did I ever intend to be one. There are lots of posts now and yes, they should be put into some sort of book-like form, but I have no idea about how to do it. One of our son's friends has offered to do it for me and I hope that he will. I think that our son would like to read them one day, because right now he knows how hard he is working to recover, but probably has no idea about the forces behind him that I tried to chronicle in my posts. The posts are also a testament to our faith in God's healing powers, a fact that in today's throw-away society is not popular.
The posts are also about an education process. Who knew that after a TBI the brain can heal and rewire? I didn't. I have also learned about the detours that the brain must use in order to re-route thoughts and communication. I have added new words to my vocabulary. Words like aphasia and neuro receptors did not mean anything to me four months ago, but they do now. I didn't know that 40% of all TBIs are caused by falls. Although I know more now than I did before; there is so much more to learn. I feel compelled to keep reading and researching. Why? That is simple; because I want my boy back. No, he is a man now, but to me he is still the precious baby boy with the serious face and the stubborn attitude. I may never get the exact boy/man back, but I will do whatever it takes to see him through this nightmare however it looks in the end. He is getting better everyday, but we have been told a thousand times to be patient and that it takes time. I am not patient by nature, but I am learning.
Sadly, there is no celebrity spokesman for TBI. No one will be dumping buckets of ice over their heads challenging their friends to do the same or donate $$$ to a charity. There are no fancy balls with silent auctions to raise money for research. There is no door-to-door campaign. No robo calls begging for money. TBI is not glamorous. It is ugly, mean and pervasive. In some cases it it is a life sentence of the worst kind. I do not intend to demean the campaigns for other charities that are doing great thing for people, but only to point out the need for TBI awareness .
Our son is lucky. He has retired parents, a huge friend base, a dedicated wife and resources that are available to him. Many others do not have any of that. After the hospital, rehab and therapies, and the insurance runs out there is little left for the survivors. I am willing to bet that there are homeless people who are TBI survivors. For many there is no network in place to help them continue their recovery process. Of course, there are agencies, support groups and such but even those are counter-productive to the survivors who are unaware or so lost that they can't assimilate the information.
We are lucky to live in a place that has a cognitive rehab agency. Our son is attending sessions that will help him regain what has been lost or damaged.
I want to help raise money and awareness. The research is ongoing and so important to many silent victims. Right now, our time is devoted to helping our son recover, but there will be a time in the not so distant future that I will, with God's help, spread the word about TBIs. I have Jesus to guide me and Oreos to sustain me.
Thursday, August 14, 2014
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
Summertime and the Livin' was So Easy
Labor Day has come and gone, so I guess that means that summer is over? Ever since our kids were little, Labor Day meant that school started and we got into a regular schedule. For us, like many others, that schedule included all the normal stuff, soccer, baseball, basketball, dance classes, piano classes, doctors' and dental appointments and so on. Homework, class projects and teacher conferences added to mix. Somehow we muddled through. Dinner became a supper on the run or a Crockpot meal that could be eaten whenever. There seemed to be no end to the laundry and the showers ran constantly. How did we juggle it all? Summer always seemed a distant dream back then. Now all the hustle and bustle of the school year is over and everyday can be like a summer day, lazy and one to be savored.
This summer, 2013, we did a little bit of savoring and I am so very thankful that we did. May was a beautiful month in the mountains and we took a short trip to a beautiful, peaceful inn where we met some old friends. We didn't hurry to see any sights: just enjoyed being together. There is nothing like a visit with old friends to refresh and relax.
In June we visited with some new friends as well as family. That journey was more than sixty years in the making and could be a blog post on its own and may very well be so one day. Right now it is sufficient to say that it was an out-of-body experience, especially for my husband. We were humbled and felt love like we had never felt before. That is my story and I am sticking to it, for now.
We then made our journey to "the special place" of all our summers, Charlevoix. The old cottage opened its ancient arms and hugged us tightly. Although everyone couldn't be with us this summer; we did have two grand-darlings to spoil and their parents to help rein our spoiling ways. Writing this down now sounds dull, but it really was exciting and every bit as wonderful as ever. The kids went to "Gang" on the beach where they played and partied like rock stars! It's funny how each generation of"Gangsters" think that they discovered this place. I guess that they do discover it because everything is new and exciting. Golf, tennis, treasure hunts, the troll door in the tree, golf kart rides to see deer and trips to the "Dairy Grille" are all part of the experience. It sounds mundane but believe me it is anything but. To those little ones this place is heaven. Did I mention that bike riding around the park is as great as the Indie 500? I loved every wet-towel, dripping popsicle, chicken nugget, pizza eating, ice cream cone minute of it and sobbed like a baby when we had to leave.
Back at home we found a swamp where our garden had been because it had rained the whole time that we were away. The rain continued, but we found a little joy here and there. We had all the grand-darlings together when the two little ones and their mother came for a visit. This old house rocked and rolled. Each day was an adventure and best of all, there was ice cream everyday. I love summer. We swam when the sun peaked out its head. We even managed to get G'papa to a movie!
Time passes quickly when one is happy and enjoying life, but when sadness comes the effect is like all the air is sucked out of the universe and time stops. We lost a dear friend this summer. He was an old friend and one of the first people we met when we moved to this place so many years ago. His life was a story that is not mine to tell, but I will say that he loved his wife and family deeply and wholeheartedly. Each time I read a funny joke in my e-mail, I have to remind myself that he is no longer at his computer chuckling along with me. I miss that chuckle! There really is no one like an old friend. There is a shared history between you that is always there. Our history has stopped and it ended this summer.
We got another chance to visit with the far away grand-darlings in August. Their mom had a conference in one town and their dad had a meeting in another town. Papa and Tiki (us) went to the rescue! A trip to an aquarium, a park and more ice cream were the order of the day. Again, we loved every minute of it and boo-hooed when it ended and they waved their little hands as we each went our separate ways; they to the west we to the east. I hate that feeling! There is always a hole in my heart when they leave me. Papa feels it too, but you know how men are. Christmas is a long time away, but there is Thanksgiving to think about.
August brought more joy! We had little one number five for a couple of weekends while her parents had some weekend jaunts. she, the Brazilian tornado, lost her first teeth at our house. We saved the little pearls so that the tooth fairy could go to her house . She is a delight.
Our older grand-darlings are not as present as they once were, but they are teen-agers now and we understand. They were once small and lost teeth, dripped popsicles and played with our hearts. They still play with our hearts but now in a more almost-grown-up sort of way. We savor any time that they are willing to visit with the old folks.
Late August brought another old friend to us. She and I have been best buddies since we were in the seventh grade. We are so different that I wonder how in the world we have managed to keep our friendship alive. She has travelled all over the world and is as smart as a whip. I have been a few places and can multiply a recipe to feed the masses. How can we still love each other and talk for hours on end? We have that shared history that i mentioned before. We remember each other as the awkward teens we once were. We knew the same people and neighborhoods. We miss the ones we have lost as we have grieved together over our fathers and my mother. We compare husbands and discover that, even though they did not have the same careers, they are alike in so many ways. Together we checked our wrinkles and complained about knees that have betrayed us. In between the comparisons we cooked together, shopped together and cried together when she had to leave. There is another hole in my heart today because she is back at home and I miss her!
Okay, I am a cry-baby and proud of it. Some one once told me that an old Jewish saying was that, "Tears are to the soul what soap is to the body". So after a summer of much cleansing, I am moving forward toward fall and winter. We, the hubster and I, are refreshed and renewed, at least I keep telling myself that. The truth is that I still miss some of the hustle and bustle as well as the promise that September brings.
Another good friend pointed out to me that everyday can be like summers past, relaxing, lazy and full of promise. Retirement does have some advantages. That is _my_ story and I am sticking to it!
This summer, 2013, we did a little bit of savoring and I am so very thankful that we did. May was a beautiful month in the mountains and we took a short trip to a beautiful, peaceful inn where we met some old friends. We didn't hurry to see any sights: just enjoyed being together. There is nothing like a visit with old friends to refresh and relax.
In June we visited with some new friends as well as family. That journey was more than sixty years in the making and could be a blog post on its own and may very well be so one day. Right now it is sufficient to say that it was an out-of-body experience, especially for my husband. We were humbled and felt love like we had never felt before. That is my story and I am sticking to it, for now.
We then made our journey to "the special place" of all our summers, Charlevoix. The old cottage opened its ancient arms and hugged us tightly. Although everyone couldn't be with us this summer; we did have two grand-darlings to spoil and their parents to help rein our spoiling ways. Writing this down now sounds dull, but it really was exciting and every bit as wonderful as ever. The kids went to "Gang" on the beach where they played and partied like rock stars! It's funny how each generation of"Gangsters" think that they discovered this place. I guess that they do discover it because everything is new and exciting. Golf, tennis, treasure hunts, the troll door in the tree, golf kart rides to see deer and trips to the "Dairy Grille" are all part of the experience. It sounds mundane but believe me it is anything but. To those little ones this place is heaven. Did I mention that bike riding around the park is as great as the Indie 500? I loved every wet-towel, dripping popsicle, chicken nugget, pizza eating, ice cream cone minute of it and sobbed like a baby when we had to leave.
Back at home we found a swamp where our garden had been because it had rained the whole time that we were away. The rain continued, but we found a little joy here and there. We had all the grand-darlings together when the two little ones and their mother came for a visit. This old house rocked and rolled. Each day was an adventure and best of all, there was ice cream everyday. I love summer. We swam when the sun peaked out its head. We even managed to get G'papa to a movie!
Time passes quickly when one is happy and enjoying life, but when sadness comes the effect is like all the air is sucked out of the universe and time stops. We lost a dear friend this summer. He was an old friend and one of the first people we met when we moved to this place so many years ago. His life was a story that is not mine to tell, but I will say that he loved his wife and family deeply and wholeheartedly. Each time I read a funny joke in my e-mail, I have to remind myself that he is no longer at his computer chuckling along with me. I miss that chuckle! There really is no one like an old friend. There is a shared history between you that is always there. Our history has stopped and it ended this summer.
We got another chance to visit with the far away grand-darlings in August. Their mom had a conference in one town and their dad had a meeting in another town. Papa and Tiki (us) went to the rescue! A trip to an aquarium, a park and more ice cream were the order of the day. Again, we loved every minute of it and boo-hooed when it ended and they waved their little hands as we each went our separate ways; they to the west we to the east. I hate that feeling! There is always a hole in my heart when they leave me. Papa feels it too, but you know how men are. Christmas is a long time away, but there is Thanksgiving to think about.
August brought more joy! We had little one number five for a couple of weekends while her parents had some weekend jaunts. she, the Brazilian tornado, lost her first teeth at our house. We saved the little pearls so that the tooth fairy could go to her house . She is a delight.
Our older grand-darlings are not as present as they once were, but they are teen-agers now and we understand. They were once small and lost teeth, dripped popsicles and played with our hearts. They still play with our hearts but now in a more almost-grown-up sort of way. We savor any time that they are willing to visit with the old folks.
Late August brought another old friend to us. She and I have been best buddies since we were in the seventh grade. We are so different that I wonder how in the world we have managed to keep our friendship alive. She has travelled all over the world and is as smart as a whip. I have been a few places and can multiply a recipe to feed the masses. How can we still love each other and talk for hours on end? We have that shared history that i mentioned before. We remember each other as the awkward teens we once were. We knew the same people and neighborhoods. We miss the ones we have lost as we have grieved together over our fathers and my mother. We compare husbands and discover that, even though they did not have the same careers, they are alike in so many ways. Together we checked our wrinkles and complained about knees that have betrayed us. In between the comparisons we cooked together, shopped together and cried together when she had to leave. There is another hole in my heart today because she is back at home and I miss her!
Okay, I am a cry-baby and proud of it. Some one once told me that an old Jewish saying was that, "Tears are to the soul what soap is to the body". So after a summer of much cleansing, I am moving forward toward fall and winter. We, the hubster and I, are refreshed and renewed, at least I keep telling myself that. The truth is that I still miss some of the hustle and bustle as well as the promise that September brings.
Another good friend pointed out to me that everyday can be like summers past, relaxing, lazy and full of promise. Retirement does have some advantages. That is _my_ story and I am sticking to it!
Monday, January 21, 2013
Opinions
What is wrong with this picture? It frustrates me to no end that expressing an opinion brings on rants and wrath from others who do not agree! Do we all need to agree all the time? In my opinion, no. If we all agreed, we'd be swimming in a sea of vanilla ice cream. Baskin-Robbins offers thirty-one flavors. We could follow their lead.
My opinion, which I freely admit is an unpopular one, was posted by me on Facebook. Good grief, what a storm it caused. My so-called "friends" cried foul in a big way by posting and chastising me in no uncertain terms. They, of course, have the same rights that I do. Yep, I get that. What is so hilarious to me is that they think that they are more "right" than I. Opinions offer a great option; that is that there is no right nor wrong. Some even called on Christianity to chastise me. Oops, that stung. I'll bet even Jesus had opinions. He was the only perfect human being, in my opinion, so he probably was wiser than I, in my opinion, and kept them to himself. Even in my advanced age, I am not always wise nor quiet. One friend asked if it made me feel good to offer what she thought was a nasty remark. No, because it was an opinion.
Let's get this straight. I have lots of opinions and I mostly keep them under wraps. That is a surprise to anyone who knows me and thinks that I speak out a lot. What is going on in my head is a lot more than what I'm saying, so in the interest of friendship, I button my lip! If I said everything that I was thinking, well, never mind.
Today's observations were on Mrs. Obama. First of all, let me say that I admire her in many ways. She is smart, accomplished, loves and supports her husband, is a good mother, and pursues her causes. That is my sincere opinion of her. The other more unpopular opinion is that she needs braces, and her bangs are unattractive. Today she wore a coat that was perfectly tailored to church only to mess up the look by adding a belt later in the day. That is in my opinion! So I didn't like the belted look, shoot me now!
The presidential daughters are nice-looking kids. They seem to be well-behaved and gracious too. However, there have been times over the last four years that I thought (thought being the operative word) that their outfits were more befitting ladies of the evening. Revealing and older-than-they-are outfits are never attractive, in my humble opinion. Reaching back in time I remember a certain daughter who attempted leaving our house in a pair of jeans that Swiss cheese would envy. Certain father ordered her to remove the offensive pants and replace them with a more appropriate pair or she risked having sharing her night with the parental units instead of her friends. She complied and all was well. It was and still is our opinion that kids should dress like kids and not emulate rock stars nor movie stars. Children are children; not small adults.
So in closing , my friends, I do not wish to bring the house down with any of my opinions. They are from a conservative, senior citizen, Christian, who believes in the freedom of speech including humble opinions. If you don't like to see them in print, you will not hurt my feelings if you choose not to read them. In return I ask that you also exercise your freedom of speech by posting your own opinions anywhere you'd like, including Facebook. I can then either read them or not and agree or not. In my humble opinion, this a good thing!
My opinion, which I freely admit is an unpopular one, was posted by me on Facebook. Good grief, what a storm it caused. My so-called "friends" cried foul in a big way by posting and chastising me in no uncertain terms. They, of course, have the same rights that I do. Yep, I get that. What is so hilarious to me is that they think that they are more "right" than I. Opinions offer a great option; that is that there is no right nor wrong. Some even called on Christianity to chastise me. Oops, that stung. I'll bet even Jesus had opinions. He was the only perfect human being, in my opinion, so he probably was wiser than I, in my opinion, and kept them to himself. Even in my advanced age, I am not always wise nor quiet. One friend asked if it made me feel good to offer what she thought was a nasty remark. No, because it was an opinion.
Let's get this straight. I have lots of opinions and I mostly keep them under wraps. That is a surprise to anyone who knows me and thinks that I speak out a lot. What is going on in my head is a lot more than what I'm saying, so in the interest of friendship, I button my lip! If I said everything that I was thinking, well, never mind.
Today's observations were on Mrs. Obama. First of all, let me say that I admire her in many ways. She is smart, accomplished, loves and supports her husband, is a good mother, and pursues her causes. That is my sincere opinion of her. The other more unpopular opinion is that she needs braces, and her bangs are unattractive. Today she wore a coat that was perfectly tailored to church only to mess up the look by adding a belt later in the day. That is in my opinion! So I didn't like the belted look, shoot me now!
The presidential daughters are nice-looking kids. They seem to be well-behaved and gracious too. However, there have been times over the last four years that I thought (thought being the operative word) that their outfits were more befitting ladies of the evening. Revealing and older-than-they-are outfits are never attractive, in my humble opinion. Reaching back in time I remember a certain daughter who attempted leaving our house in a pair of jeans that Swiss cheese would envy. Certain father ordered her to remove the offensive pants and replace them with a more appropriate pair or she risked having sharing her night with the parental units instead of her friends. She complied and all was well. It was and still is our opinion that kids should dress like kids and not emulate rock stars nor movie stars. Children are children; not small adults.
So in closing , my friends, I do not wish to bring the house down with any of my opinions. They are from a conservative, senior citizen, Christian, who believes in the freedom of speech including humble opinions. If you don't like to see them in print, you will not hurt my feelings if you choose not to read them. In return I ask that you also exercise your freedom of speech by posting your own opinions anywhere you'd like, including Facebook. I can then either read them or not and agree or not. In my humble opinion, this a good thing!
Saturday, January 5, 2013
Christmas X three
aChristmas is a vague memory or a blur as I write tonight. This year we celebrated differently. I don't like change. My mother used to say that when things stop changing; we'd be pushing up posies. If that is the case, I'll take change but I don't like it.
Every two years or so, two of our children and their families celebrate Christmas with their spouse's family. Ugh, I really don't like sharing. Did I say that? Really? Well, it is true. Our daughter spent her Christmas day with her husband's family and ended it with a dinner at my sister's house, because our grown-up daughter lives in our hometown. Funny how that worked out and a subject for another blog. She beat a path to our house the day after Christmas with her family in tow and stayed with us until New Year's Day. We loved it! Having her two children here was the star on the tree. The old house rocked and rolled with laughter. We cuddled, or muggled as grand-darling son number two calls it. Grand-darling daughter even distributed a few kisses which is so not like her at all. I think that she might be catching on that we like that a lot! We had tea parties and Barbie-fest and loved every minute of it.
Our son and his wife went to her hometown for the holidays to be with her extended family. No amount of begging on my part would have made them leave our youngest grand-daring with us. Believe me, I considered begging because Brazil is a long way to go for a home town visit at Christmastime, for our youngest grand-darling, our second son and his beautiful wife ( a newly-minted American citizen, I might add). Why would anyone want to spend Christmas on a beach, with fruity cocktails, ornaments hung on palm trees, and non-stop food? Sign me up! Did I just say that? The pictures they've posted of her beautiful family cavorting on the sandy beaches and dancing to a rhythm I have have never heard are a sight to behold. They look happy and well-loved. It makes my old heart glad that there are others who love them as much as we do. They come home tomorrow night and I know they will be glad to be in their own beds again, safe and sound. My daughter-in-law will be homesick for awhile, just as I used to be when I'd come back to this foreign place after a visit home.
Our two other sons were here with us for Christmas. We had a lazier that usual Christmas day. Change isn't all bad. We opened gifts and gorged on brunchy food and then rested. I took a nap! On Christmas day! Alert the media because that might have been a first. I am most often cleaning up the gift wrap and cooking for the big dinner on our special day. Again, change isn't all bad. Is it? Hubby had ordered lobster and steaks for dinner. That man loves to shop online in his jammies! Dinnertime found us with melted butter dripping off our chins as we cracked, pulled and gobbled the tasty lobsters over the kitchen island. Different is good, I say.
We celebrated Christmas three times this year. Opening gifts with the ones who were leaving before the real day, next on the actual day and then the day after because Santa had made a special late night trip to be sure the grand-darlings didn't miss us! A good and grand time was had by all.
Our teen-aged grands were here for ever single celebration. They hung with the best of us and celebrated like rock stars. We baked cookies, shopped and played games before during and after the big day. I love that part. Their gifts were grown-up sort of but Santa remembered to put tooth brushes in their stockings, just as he always has. We are big on traditions here at the casa. Our oldest, and best hunter, again found the pickle ornament! For his hard work he won a clear yard-long tube of bubblegum balls. I said that the gifts were grown-up, sort of, didn't I? Remember the toothbrush?
Pulling off three Christmas celebrations is a daunting feat but this year I had a elf. Our first grand-daughter was my co-pilot/elf. She baked and decorated and then baked some more! Her hands, so like her father's, rolled and cut and then meticulously placed the sprinkles and dots on every snowman, star, tree and reindeer. Together we made trays of treats for the celebrations. I love that tradition.
Again, our precious god-daughter came over for a baking session. I am beginning to channel Martha Stewart. She was fresh from her first real-out-of-grad school job in the big city. She is a beautiful child inside as well as out. Her parents, our friends, have done a remarkable job raising her to be a such a grounded unassuming young woman. She is confident, cosmopolitan and she likes to bake! Her sweet little hands flew over dough as if they had wings and she too decorated each cookie like an artist!
Reading all this about our random, crazy, tradition-filled holidays might make one wonder why it was written at all. The reason behind it is this; I don't relish change but can, under pressure, be a trooper. When our children were growing-up I believed that every Christmas was the very best. How could it be any other way? My parents had set the bar very high for celebrations and I wanted to do the same for my own children. I think that we must have done something right when I hear them telling stories of Christmases past. Writing it down, even in this abbreviated form, keeps it fresh in my mind and warms my soul. If I could, I'd do it all over again. Christ himself would agree, I think, that celebrating however many days, times and however far away is a good thing. There I go, channeling Martha again.
Hey, kids, let's do it again soon. You may be miles away in the real world but in my heart you all are still here under our tree in your jammies shouting as your tear open your gifts. The faces of your grand-parents, now all gone, are there too watching over you with love in their eyes.
I miss what once was but continue to embrace what might come next. Change isn't all bad.
Love,
Mom
Every two years or so, two of our children and their families celebrate Christmas with their spouse's family. Ugh, I really don't like sharing. Did I say that? Really? Well, it is true. Our daughter spent her Christmas day with her husband's family and ended it with a dinner at my sister's house, because our grown-up daughter lives in our hometown. Funny how that worked out and a subject for another blog. She beat a path to our house the day after Christmas with her family in tow and stayed with us until New Year's Day. We loved it! Having her two children here was the star on the tree. The old house rocked and rolled with laughter. We cuddled, or muggled as grand-darling son number two calls it. Grand-darling daughter even distributed a few kisses which is so not like her at all. I think that she might be catching on that we like that a lot! We had tea parties and Barbie-fest and loved every minute of it.
Our son and his wife went to her hometown for the holidays to be with her extended family. No amount of begging on my part would have made them leave our youngest grand-daring with us. Believe me, I considered begging because Brazil is a long way to go for a home town visit at Christmastime, for our youngest grand-darling, our second son and his beautiful wife ( a newly-minted American citizen, I might add). Why would anyone want to spend Christmas on a beach, with fruity cocktails, ornaments hung on palm trees, and non-stop food? Sign me up! Did I just say that? The pictures they've posted of her beautiful family cavorting on the sandy beaches and dancing to a rhythm I have have never heard are a sight to behold. They look happy and well-loved. It makes my old heart glad that there are others who love them as much as we do. They come home tomorrow night and I know they will be glad to be in their own beds again, safe and sound. My daughter-in-law will be homesick for awhile, just as I used to be when I'd come back to this foreign place after a visit home.
Our two other sons were here with us for Christmas. We had a lazier that usual Christmas day. Change isn't all bad. We opened gifts and gorged on brunchy food and then rested. I took a nap! On Christmas day! Alert the media because that might have been a first. I am most often cleaning up the gift wrap and cooking for the big dinner on our special day. Again, change isn't all bad. Is it? Hubby had ordered lobster and steaks for dinner. That man loves to shop online in his jammies! Dinnertime found us with melted butter dripping off our chins as we cracked, pulled and gobbled the tasty lobsters over the kitchen island. Different is good, I say.
We celebrated Christmas three times this year. Opening gifts with the ones who were leaving before the real day, next on the actual day and then the day after because Santa had made a special late night trip to be sure the grand-darlings didn't miss us! A good and grand time was had by all.
Our teen-aged grands were here for ever single celebration. They hung with the best of us and celebrated like rock stars. We baked cookies, shopped and played games before during and after the big day. I love that part. Their gifts were grown-up sort of but Santa remembered to put tooth brushes in their stockings, just as he always has. We are big on traditions here at the casa. Our oldest, and best hunter, again found the pickle ornament! For his hard work he won a clear yard-long tube of bubblegum balls. I said that the gifts were grown-up, sort of, didn't I? Remember the toothbrush?
Pulling off three Christmas celebrations is a daunting feat but this year I had a elf. Our first grand-daughter was my co-pilot/elf. She baked and decorated and then baked some more! Her hands, so like her father's, rolled and cut and then meticulously placed the sprinkles and dots on every snowman, star, tree and reindeer. Together we made trays of treats for the celebrations. I love that tradition.
Again, our precious god-daughter came over for a baking session. I am beginning to channel Martha Stewart. She was fresh from her first real-out-of-grad school job in the big city. She is a beautiful child inside as well as out. Her parents, our friends, have done a remarkable job raising her to be a such a grounded unassuming young woman. She is confident, cosmopolitan and she likes to bake! Her sweet little hands flew over dough as if they had wings and she too decorated each cookie like an artist!
Reading all this about our random, crazy, tradition-filled holidays might make one wonder why it was written at all. The reason behind it is this; I don't relish change but can, under pressure, be a trooper. When our children were growing-up I believed that every Christmas was the very best. How could it be any other way? My parents had set the bar very high for celebrations and I wanted to do the same for my own children. I think that we must have done something right when I hear them telling stories of Christmases past. Writing it down, even in this abbreviated form, keeps it fresh in my mind and warms my soul. If I could, I'd do it all over again. Christ himself would agree, I think, that celebrating however many days, times and however far away is a good thing. There I go, channeling Martha again.
Hey, kids, let's do it again soon. You may be miles away in the real world but in my heart you all are still here under our tree in your jammies shouting as your tear open your gifts. The faces of your grand-parents, now all gone, are there too watching over you with love in their eyes.
I miss what once was but continue to embrace what might come next. Change isn't all bad.
Love,
Mom
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
Loss and betrayal
It is with extreme regret that I report a death. No, the death isn't someone in my circle of family and friends. It is the death of a long relationship that I used to call a friendship. It is also the death of my own innocence. Isn't that something? Innocence at my age is a joke. By the time one reaches 60; innocence is a forgotten attribute.
Deaths of any kind are mourned as they should be. A loss is a loss no matter what the loss is. Usually I cry over a death and spend a lot of time wondering about deep metaphysical after-life possibilities. Not this time. My anger and hurt aced the crying and musing. This death was different because it ambushed me and left me struggling to breathe. Betrayal will do that to you.
It's hard to even think about, much less write about one's own vulnerability. This blog is cathartic in that it allows a certain amount of baring of my soul and exposing some thoughts that even those who know me well are surprised by.
Betrayal is an ugly word. Some things in life are sacred. Your family especially the children are sacred. Friends can become family. These statements are the truth. I have lived by them. I only wish that everyone would. The ugly truth is that not everyone does.
My once-upon-a-time friend didn't live by those words. She knowingly attacked someone close to me and kept up her barrage of lies and half-truths for over a year. The incident that started the attacks was unfortunate and could have been rectified, but the person in question chose to sink to a level that in my father's words was, "lower than a snake's belly". The lies and all the baggage they carried could have destroyed a very promising career, but instead they provided fuel for his fire. He rose above the lies and prospered. He made me proud. She didn't win that round nor the ones that followed. For that I am eternally thankful.
Me? I didn't fair as well. People lined up to say me, "I told you so." I had always defended her but now it was becoming clear to me that those who had once warned me about her toxic personality were right. I was bruised and hurt. No one had ever done anything like that to me! I have never "lost" a friend. Hell, I still have friends from first grade! There was a hole in my heart where once our friendship lived.
It has been two long years since the friendship ended. I still sometimes miss the friend and hope that she misses me, but we will never be friends again. I can not forgive nor forget the betrayal, nor will I ever be the vulnerable innocent I once was. I believe that she has deep emotional problems. She has always had "family issues", like being estranged from her mother and siblings. The before me believed her when she told me about the problems with her family and friends. The after me knows firsthand that she was not the wronged one, but the wronger (Is that even a word?). It is her nature and possibly the sickness of her soul that makes her this way. I couldn't fix it nor can anyone. That part of this story is the saddest part.
Who will be the next victim? That is anyone's guess. I am reasonably sure that I nor my family will be next because we are off her radar. She didn't win and I know how much she likes to win. This was just a blip on the screen. We had all loved and embraced her. We, my family and I, had included her in family events and celebrations never one time doubting that she reciprocated our feelings for her. Our innocence is gone. We have recovered, however. We thrive and have vowed to never look back. She was a cancer that has been removed.
Time heals all wounds, or so I've been told. I hope that is true.
Deaths of any kind are mourned as they should be. A loss is a loss no matter what the loss is. Usually I cry over a death and spend a lot of time wondering about deep metaphysical after-life possibilities. Not this time. My anger and hurt aced the crying and musing. This death was different because it ambushed me and left me struggling to breathe. Betrayal will do that to you.
It's hard to even think about, much less write about one's own vulnerability. This blog is cathartic in that it allows a certain amount of baring of my soul and exposing some thoughts that even those who know me well are surprised by.
Betrayal is an ugly word. Some things in life are sacred. Your family especially the children are sacred. Friends can become family. These statements are the truth. I have lived by them. I only wish that everyone would. The ugly truth is that not everyone does.
My once-upon-a-time friend didn't live by those words. She knowingly attacked someone close to me and kept up her barrage of lies and half-truths for over a year. The incident that started the attacks was unfortunate and could have been rectified, but the person in question chose to sink to a level that in my father's words was, "lower than a snake's belly". The lies and all the baggage they carried could have destroyed a very promising career, but instead they provided fuel for his fire. He rose above the lies and prospered. He made me proud. She didn't win that round nor the ones that followed. For that I am eternally thankful.
Me? I didn't fair as well. People lined up to say me, "I told you so." I had always defended her but now it was becoming clear to me that those who had once warned me about her toxic personality were right. I was bruised and hurt. No one had ever done anything like that to me! I have never "lost" a friend. Hell, I still have friends from first grade! There was a hole in my heart where once our friendship lived.
It has been two long years since the friendship ended. I still sometimes miss the friend and hope that she misses me, but we will never be friends again. I can not forgive nor forget the betrayal, nor will I ever be the vulnerable innocent I once was. I believe that she has deep emotional problems. She has always had "family issues", like being estranged from her mother and siblings. The before me believed her when she told me about the problems with her family and friends. The after me knows firsthand that she was not the wronged one, but the wronger (Is that even a word?). It is her nature and possibly the sickness of her soul that makes her this way. I couldn't fix it nor can anyone. That part of this story is the saddest part.
Who will be the next victim? That is anyone's guess. I am reasonably sure that I nor my family will be next because we are off her radar. She didn't win and I know how much she likes to win. This was just a blip on the screen. We had all loved and embraced her. We, my family and I, had included her in family events and celebrations never one time doubting that she reciprocated our feelings for her. Our innocence is gone. We have recovered, however. We thrive and have vowed to never look back. She was a cancer that has been removed.
Time heals all wounds, or so I've been told. I hope that is true.
Sunday, October 21, 2012
Rocking the kitchen like Paula!
When Gene and and I got married, I was a sophomore in college. Back then we had Viet Nam looming for him and a less than promising career in theater for me. What was I thinking? I will concede that a background in theater has helped me with my real career as a domestic goddess! More on that in another post.
We set up house-keeping in a small apartment in a suburb with a tiny Barbie-sized kitchen. Now, my mother was a fabulous cook who collected recipes and tried new dishes out on us during my growing-up life. She was always the first person on the doorstep after a death, an illness, or a birth with a pot of soup, a cake or some sort of casserole, because that is what we do in the south. Is there a verse in the bible that covers that sort of kindness and thoughtfulness? If there isn't; there should be one. She tried repeatedly during our almost year-long engagement to teach me to cook even the simplest of dishes. Was I interested? That would be a negative. Who was I kidding? Gene and I picked out beautiful china, crystal and silver. We even got pots, pans and every sort of small appliance for the aforementioned Barbie kitchen. Did I have a clue about what to do with any of that stuff ? If you guessed, yes, you would be wrong. Thank, God, Mother was a phone call away every day at about dinner time. I remember her laughing until she cried about my reading the package of wieners for instructions on how to cook the rubbery tubes! Gene wanted hot dogs for lunch and by golly that's what I cooked. That was only the beginning of my personal cooking journey.
My mother-in-law was a gourmet cook. She followed Julia Child for heaven's sake ! Julia, who? She even grilled me about my culinary skills one night over a gourmet dinner at her house. "Can you cook?", she asked. Squirming in my seat I answered, "No, ma'm." "Well," she said, "If you can read, you can cook." There, just as easy as pie, she drew the line in the sand, or mashed potatoes, as it were. Gene's family had always had a full-time cook named, Katie. She was the sweetest, dearest most lovely person anyone could ever hope to meet. I wish you could have known her. Katie could make biscuits so light that they fluttered to your plate. Her fried chicken was a legend in its own time. Pies, did you say? Her apple pie would make you want to slap your mother. She and my mother-in-law, hereafter known as "she who must be served' or swmbs, were dynamite together in the kitchen. Meals came out of that place that would make one swoon! See what I had to deal with? Gene, bless his heart, was a trooper. Well, most of the time he was. The rest of the time that first year or so, he was, shall I say, less petulant? Most young women just have their husband's mother to live up to. Me, there were three excellent cooks to aspire to be. What was I to do?
The first real shockeroo was that the news of our rapidly approaching wedding was the cause of conversation at the local newspaper! One morning, rather early, about a month before the wedding, a reporter from the paper called to ask if she could do an article about what I planned to cook for our first meal? What? The reporter explained that there were three couples being interviewed. Okay, so why me? She went on to say that since my intended's mother (swmbs) was known for her culinary skills, the curious minds at the newspaper wanted to know what kind of cook I was. I had recently read (translate-attacked) a book titled, _The New Cook's Cookbook_, so I was ready with an answer. Spaghetti with bolognese sauce, salad, garlic bread and a nice red wine, I replied confidently. Now, all I had to do was produce the meal because, after all, it was in the newspaper for God's sake.
The wedding and the honeymoon behind us, Gene and I tackled the grocery store for our first "stock the larder" trip hauling what, at the time, seemed like a hundred bags of food up the two flights of stairs to the tiny kitchen. Now, all I had to do was figure out how to cook. Gene went off to work on Monday morning and I set about doing the things all young brides did in the early seventies, turned on the TV for a little soap opera watching while I got everything out to begin the sauce. The darn stuff had to simmer all day. Following the recipe to the letter was not hard, but when the recipe directed me to "taste to adjust the seasoning", I was answering the phone at the same time. A magazine salesman was pounding my ear about buying his wares when I dumped instead of dashed the red pepper. OHOH! I was an early failure at muti-tasking. Lesson learned: Don't try to adjust while talking.
Gene arrived home and I greeted him at the door with my very best Harriet Nelson smile and led him to our table for the promised meal. Let me pause right here and say that calling the moving boxes a table was stretching the truth. I had set the "table" with our fine china and silver. We even pulled out wine glasses from a box, despite the fact that neither one of us drank red wine, unless Cold Duck was considered red wine then. Well anyway, I served up my first culinary masterpiece and to my horror, Gene turned red and gasped after taking a bite! The lovely sauce was was as hot as a firecracker! I spilled out my sad story and he was very understanding. All was not lost, however, the bread and salad were really good.
After that first disaster, I decided that swmbs. Katie, as well as my own mother were not going to get the best of me. I begin to read cookbooks as if they were novels and bought magazines in the checkout line at the grocery store. Even my conversations with my friends turned to food. We begin to share and exchange recipes too.What was happening to me? The answer is very simple. I became a cook, not because I had to, but because I wanted to do so. You see, this is the south. We cook to show love and to be loved. We want to please that special someone and be appreciated in return. No one leaves a southern cook's house without being offered food and drink. Even ice water served in a crystal goblet becomes a treat. All this I learned at the feet of the master, my mother.
Earlier in this post I said that I refrained from letting my mother teach me the fine art of cooking, but that's not entirely true. I did learn from her but it was more by example than hands-on. Mother played an extremely important role in my culinary journey for it was to her I turned to ask questions when my reading skills failed me. For instance, when a recipe called for an egg, I called my mom and asked if that meant the yellow and the white. She said yes, everything but the shell. How did she keep from laughing? Until the day she died, Mother was always ready to answer my questions about cooking. The more I cooked the more I found that I really liked it as well as my mother did.
I have cooked in sub-standard kitchens for most of my married life. Five years ago we decided to do a major overhaul of our house and finally add a new kitchen. For the first time in our forty-one years of wedded bliss, Gene, the kids and grand-darlings are getting meals turned out in a beautiful, functional and well-designed space. I love it and find that I am the happiest in my new kitchen and dinning space. It isn't really fancy and the meals aren't either, but they are prepared and offered with love. Some of my mother's cookbooks came to live in the new bookcases and they live alongside those I've collected since the beginning of my cooking journey. My sister and I divided those cookbooks up after Mother's death. She and I cried at the smudges and spatters and lovingly touched the notes written beside some of the recipes. I still choke-up when I cook "Brunswick Stew" because Mom had written, "Tom's favorite", in the margin. Tom was her husband, and our beloved, "Daddy".
Cooking has taught me a lot about being a wife, a mother and a person. My mother, my mother-in-law and Katie helped me in my journey to Flavortown (a shout out to Guy)but what I learned all by myself is that you don't need, although it' s nice, a fancy or not so fancy new kitchen or top of the line pots and pans to create a yummy meal for family and friends. She-who-must-be-served was right when she said that all you really needed to do to be able to cook was read. I am still reading, learning and loving everyday as I prepare food. My mother would be happy and, although she never saw the new space; I think she would approve.
We set up house-keeping in a small apartment in a suburb with a tiny Barbie-sized kitchen. Now, my mother was a fabulous cook who collected recipes and tried new dishes out on us during my growing-up life. She was always the first person on the doorstep after a death, an illness, or a birth with a pot of soup, a cake or some sort of casserole, because that is what we do in the south. Is there a verse in the bible that covers that sort of kindness and thoughtfulness? If there isn't; there should be one. She tried repeatedly during our almost year-long engagement to teach me to cook even the simplest of dishes. Was I interested? That would be a negative. Who was I kidding? Gene and I picked out beautiful china, crystal and silver. We even got pots, pans and every sort of small appliance for the aforementioned Barbie kitchen. Did I have a clue about what to do with any of that stuff ? If you guessed, yes, you would be wrong. Thank, God, Mother was a phone call away every day at about dinner time. I remember her laughing until she cried about my reading the package of wieners for instructions on how to cook the rubbery tubes! Gene wanted hot dogs for lunch and by golly that's what I cooked. That was only the beginning of my personal cooking journey.
My mother-in-law was a gourmet cook. She followed Julia Child for heaven's sake ! Julia, who? She even grilled me about my culinary skills one night over a gourmet dinner at her house. "Can you cook?", she asked. Squirming in my seat I answered, "No, ma'm." "Well," she said, "If you can read, you can cook." There, just as easy as pie, she drew the line in the sand, or mashed potatoes, as it were. Gene's family had always had a full-time cook named, Katie. She was the sweetest, dearest most lovely person anyone could ever hope to meet. I wish you could have known her. Katie could make biscuits so light that they fluttered to your plate. Her fried chicken was a legend in its own time. Pies, did you say? Her apple pie would make you want to slap your mother. She and my mother-in-law, hereafter known as "she who must be served' or swmbs, were dynamite together in the kitchen. Meals came out of that place that would make one swoon! See what I had to deal with? Gene, bless his heart, was a trooper. Well, most of the time he was. The rest of the time that first year or so, he was, shall I say, less petulant? Most young women just have their husband's mother to live up to. Me, there were three excellent cooks to aspire to be. What was I to do?
The first real shockeroo was that the news of our rapidly approaching wedding was the cause of conversation at the local newspaper! One morning, rather early, about a month before the wedding, a reporter from the paper called to ask if she could do an article about what I planned to cook for our first meal? What? The reporter explained that there were three couples being interviewed. Okay, so why me? She went on to say that since my intended's mother (swmbs) was known for her culinary skills, the curious minds at the newspaper wanted to know what kind of cook I was. I had recently read (translate-attacked) a book titled, _The New Cook's Cookbook_, so I was ready with an answer. Spaghetti with bolognese sauce, salad, garlic bread and a nice red wine, I replied confidently. Now, all I had to do was produce the meal because, after all, it was in the newspaper for God's sake.
The wedding and the honeymoon behind us, Gene and I tackled the grocery store for our first "stock the larder" trip hauling what, at the time, seemed like a hundred bags of food up the two flights of stairs to the tiny kitchen. Now, all I had to do was figure out how to cook. Gene went off to work on Monday morning and I set about doing the things all young brides did in the early seventies, turned on the TV for a little soap opera watching while I got everything out to begin the sauce. The darn stuff had to simmer all day. Following the recipe to the letter was not hard, but when the recipe directed me to "taste to adjust the seasoning", I was answering the phone at the same time. A magazine salesman was pounding my ear about buying his wares when I dumped instead of dashed the red pepper. OHOH! I was an early failure at muti-tasking. Lesson learned: Don't try to adjust while talking.
Gene arrived home and I greeted him at the door with my very best Harriet Nelson smile and led him to our table for the promised meal. Let me pause right here and say that calling the moving boxes a table was stretching the truth. I had set the "table" with our fine china and silver. We even pulled out wine glasses from a box, despite the fact that neither one of us drank red wine, unless Cold Duck was considered red wine then. Well anyway, I served up my first culinary masterpiece and to my horror, Gene turned red and gasped after taking a bite! The lovely sauce was was as hot as a firecracker! I spilled out my sad story and he was very understanding. All was not lost, however, the bread and salad were really good.
After that first disaster, I decided that swmbs. Katie, as well as my own mother were not going to get the best of me. I begin to read cookbooks as if they were novels and bought magazines in the checkout line at the grocery store. Even my conversations with my friends turned to food. We begin to share and exchange recipes too.What was happening to me? The answer is very simple. I became a cook, not because I had to, but because I wanted to do so. You see, this is the south. We cook to show love and to be loved. We want to please that special someone and be appreciated in return. No one leaves a southern cook's house without being offered food and drink. Even ice water served in a crystal goblet becomes a treat. All this I learned at the feet of the master, my mother.
Earlier in this post I said that I refrained from letting my mother teach me the fine art of cooking, but that's not entirely true. I did learn from her but it was more by example than hands-on. Mother played an extremely important role in my culinary journey for it was to her I turned to ask questions when my reading skills failed me. For instance, when a recipe called for an egg, I called my mom and asked if that meant the yellow and the white. She said yes, everything but the shell. How did she keep from laughing? Until the day she died, Mother was always ready to answer my questions about cooking. The more I cooked the more I found that I really liked it as well as my mother did.
I have cooked in sub-standard kitchens for most of my married life. Five years ago we decided to do a major overhaul of our house and finally add a new kitchen. For the first time in our forty-one years of wedded bliss, Gene, the kids and grand-darlings are getting meals turned out in a beautiful, functional and well-designed space. I love it and find that I am the happiest in my new kitchen and dinning space. It isn't really fancy and the meals aren't either, but they are prepared and offered with love. Some of my mother's cookbooks came to live in the new bookcases and they live alongside those I've collected since the beginning of my cooking journey. My sister and I divided those cookbooks up after Mother's death. She and I cried at the smudges and spatters and lovingly touched the notes written beside some of the recipes. I still choke-up when I cook "Brunswick Stew" because Mom had written, "Tom's favorite", in the margin. Tom was her husband, and our beloved, "Daddy".
Cooking has taught me a lot about being a wife, a mother and a person. My mother, my mother-in-law and Katie helped me in my journey to Flavortown (a shout out to Guy)but what I learned all by myself is that you don't need, although it' s nice, a fancy or not so fancy new kitchen or top of the line pots and pans to create a yummy meal for family and friends. She-who-must-be-served was right when she said that all you really needed to do to be able to cook was read. I am still reading, learning and loving everyday as I prepare food. My mother would be happy and, although she never saw the new space; I think she would approve.
Sunday, September 30, 2012
Okay, my birthday week/month is officially over. I can now put to rest the joy and horror of turning sixty years old. How can that be? Sixty? I remember when my grandmother turned sixty. She went from being fairly fashionable to wearing ankle socks with her wedge sandals. Don't expect that from me any time soon.
If I were to put together a time capsule; what would it look like? I believe that I'd put the load of cards wishing me a great day and poking a little fun at me too. Maybe I'd even include pictures of the trip to New York that my daughter and I took just last week. The delight in our faces of being together is very telling. Years from now, I hope, we will look at them and remember us, not so much the place.
Now, back to those shoes. I love shoes and handbags. The New York city trip was a feast of both. I watched as very sophisticated girls and women hobbled along with boots and high heels on that made me wince just to see them. If anyone wants to know what I think will be the best career in the future; I'll tell them that podiatry is looking very promising. How can they wear those vehicles of pain? Handbags don't pose the same threat. I think that I'll stick to those. Shoes? I have more than enough to ride out the next trend.
I have several very style-concerned friends. Me? I think that I must be style-challenged. At my now ripe old age, I tend to go for comfort and color.I love to wear colorful clothes. Scarves are a way to add a "pop" of color the magazines tell us. My friends can wear their scarves in any number of trendy ways. I look like I have a goiter growing fangs! Getting the knack of tying those things is beyond me, I guess. I'll have to be content to fold and re-fold those beautiful sheets of silk and wool while imagining them chicly knotted around my ever-widening neck. Of course, having a couple of chins on top of them is not too pretty either. Oh well, maybe before the end of this trend, I'll figure it out. Maybe they should go into the aforementioned time capsule.
At any rate, the week/month celebration has left me contemplative. Being sixty has not provided me with any new insight. I don't feel any older. Isn't age just a number after all? I say that and feel quite smug when I do. However, I pick up a magazine or watch TV (when I can figure out how to operate the damn thing) and see the younger version of me and my friends and think, maybe my grandmother was on to something.Screw the style, my feet are happy and so am I.
If I were to put together a time capsule; what would it look like? I believe that I'd put the load of cards wishing me a great day and poking a little fun at me too. Maybe I'd even include pictures of the trip to New York that my daughter and I took just last week. The delight in our faces of being together is very telling. Years from now, I hope, we will look at them and remember us, not so much the place.
Now, back to those shoes. I love shoes and handbags. The New York city trip was a feast of both. I watched as very sophisticated girls and women hobbled along with boots and high heels on that made me wince just to see them. If anyone wants to know what I think will be the best career in the future; I'll tell them that podiatry is looking very promising. How can they wear those vehicles of pain? Handbags don't pose the same threat. I think that I'll stick to those. Shoes? I have more than enough to ride out the next trend.
I have several very style-concerned friends. Me? I think that I must be style-challenged. At my now ripe old age, I tend to go for comfort and color.I love to wear colorful clothes. Scarves are a way to add a "pop" of color the magazines tell us. My friends can wear their scarves in any number of trendy ways. I look like I have a goiter growing fangs! Getting the knack of tying those things is beyond me, I guess. I'll have to be content to fold and re-fold those beautiful sheets of silk and wool while imagining them chicly knotted around my ever-widening neck. Of course, having a couple of chins on top of them is not too pretty either. Oh well, maybe before the end of this trend, I'll figure it out. Maybe they should go into the aforementioned time capsule.
At any rate, the week/month celebration has left me contemplative. Being sixty has not provided me with any new insight. I don't feel any older. Isn't age just a number after all? I say that and feel quite smug when I do. However, I pick up a magazine or watch TV (when I can figure out how to operate the damn thing) and see the younger version of me and my friends and think, maybe my grandmother was on to something.Screw the style, my feet are happy and so am I.
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Beach House
I call it building memories; they call it a vacation. We spent a week doing both. When we realized that going to our family cottage was not an option this year; we regrouped and chose to rent a beach house a little closer than the fourteen hour drive to Michigan. A five-and-a-half hour drive to a beach was certainly appealing! The house had a pool which we used daily. It had space for everybody and a modern kitchen. Our cottage has space, but no pool and the kitchen leaves a bit to be desired. The inevitable comparisons were made. The Michigan cottage won out, but only in the memory category.
Going up north every summer for most of his life, my husband grumbled about the heat and the sand of the beach location. The cool Michigan summers are much more to his liking. Don't misunderstand, we do have a sand beach in Michigan, but it is like dust and the water is so cool that actually swimming in the lake is a heart-shocking trip. The youngsters don't seem to notice the chill. Nevertheless, he had as good a time as he could. What he liked was having all of "chickens" ( minus one daughter-in-law) under one roof. Memories were made.
The grand-darlings were in residence. Were they ever! I had stocked the fridge and pantry with the things they like best. Translate; junk food. All of us picked up popsicle wrappers, capri sun sleeves, doughnut crumbs, likewise cupcake ones, and various morsels all week. Our eldest son volunteered to to be the "Grillmaster" to cook the side of meat the hubster had ordered ( He loves to do his shopping on line while in pajamas!). We ate fresh-caught shrimp, burgers, hot dogs and steak until we were ready to pop! We even took everyone out for dinner a couple of nights. We celebrated a daughter-in-law's birthday at a funky crab shack. She feasted on crab and was as happy as pig in mud. The youngest grand-darlings were enchanted by feeding the alligators in the restaurant's swamp! Memories were made.
We had picked a place that was a true beach experience. That means that there was no "shark mini golf', no go-kart track, no arcade and no water park! Our only water park was the ocean. No one seemed to mind. We played (laboriously) a couple of board games and told outrageous stories on each other which kept us laughing. Huge amounts of adult beverages were consumed. I'm sure that the recycle truck had a merry old time emptying the bin. Never let it be said that this clan is a bunch of teetotalers. Memories were made.
Did we miss Michigan? Yes we did. Would we do it again? Yes we would and hopefully will. The truth of the matter is this; We were all together. Okay, so it wasn't the same, but it was still good. Well, mostly good. There were a few hitches in our get-along but we won't talk about those now. What we will talk about and remember is that we were together in a special place. We had a piece of time to just kick back and enjoy each other and relish the sheer wonder of being a family.
What I can take away from the week is this: It is not so much the place but the people. We will continue to make memories whether that happens on a sandy beach in the south or on a cooler one up north. Memories will be made.
Going up north every summer for most of his life, my husband grumbled about the heat and the sand of the beach location. The cool Michigan summers are much more to his liking. Don't misunderstand, we do have a sand beach in Michigan, but it is like dust and the water is so cool that actually swimming in the lake is a heart-shocking trip. The youngsters don't seem to notice the chill. Nevertheless, he had as good a time as he could. What he liked was having all of "chickens" ( minus one daughter-in-law) under one roof. Memories were made.
The grand-darlings were in residence. Were they ever! I had stocked the fridge and pantry with the things they like best. Translate; junk food. All of us picked up popsicle wrappers, capri sun sleeves, doughnut crumbs, likewise cupcake ones, and various morsels all week. Our eldest son volunteered to to be the "Grillmaster" to cook the side of meat the hubster had ordered ( He loves to do his shopping on line while in pajamas!). We ate fresh-caught shrimp, burgers, hot dogs and steak until we were ready to pop! We even took everyone out for dinner a couple of nights. We celebrated a daughter-in-law's birthday at a funky crab shack. She feasted on crab and was as happy as pig in mud. The youngest grand-darlings were enchanted by feeding the alligators in the restaurant's swamp! Memories were made.
We had picked a place that was a true beach experience. That means that there was no "shark mini golf', no go-kart track, no arcade and no water park! Our only water park was the ocean. No one seemed to mind. We played (laboriously) a couple of board games and told outrageous stories on each other which kept us laughing. Huge amounts of adult beverages were consumed. I'm sure that the recycle truck had a merry old time emptying the bin. Never let it be said that this clan is a bunch of teetotalers. Memories were made.
Did we miss Michigan? Yes we did. Would we do it again? Yes we would and hopefully will. The truth of the matter is this; We were all together. Okay, so it wasn't the same, but it was still good. Well, mostly good. There were a few hitches in our get-along but we won't talk about those now. What we will talk about and remember is that we were together in a special place. We had a piece of time to just kick back and enjoy each other and relish the sheer wonder of being a family.
What I can take away from the week is this: It is not so much the place but the people. We will continue to make memories whether that happens on a sandy beach in the south or on a cooler one up north. Memories will be made.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Old-Fashioned Girl... That's me
I am an old-fashioned-kind of girl. Twitter, texting, and alerts by cell phone are just not in my chosen way of communicating. Okay, I know by now that whoever is reading this blog post might leave, but please wait and hear me out.
Last year for Mother's Day the Darling Husband, kids and grand-darlings gave me an Ipad. How I do love that little piece of technology! It allows me to do all manner of things in nano seconds. Wow! I can also indulge my love of words by playing "Words with Friends" and "Scramble", on it, somewhat obsessively, I might add. I call it "keeping my brain sharp", but the DH is asking himself why he ever gave me the darn thing! I had to turn the sound off because the constant dinging drove him nuts. In all honesty, it wasn't a long drive (heehee). The dinging signifies friends playing the games. It is an alert of sorts, so I don't detest all alerts. Right? Another nice touch is the Ibooks. Using the Ipad to read downloaded books instead of lugging books along when I travel is a plus.
For Christmas he gave me an shiny new Iphone! My old cell phone had a crack right through its middle, but I could still get and make calls on it. The fact that I could take pictures with it didn't occur to me until I'd had it for at least two years. At the ripe old age of five years the damn thing wouldn't hold a charge for more than four or five hours, so a new cell phone was certainly welcome. I'm getting used to the new phone, slowly. My very tech-savvy daughter "synched" it with the afore-mentioned IPad so that they "share aps". That, by the way, is super-cool. I can even check e-mail on it;that is if my new bifocals are handy. The gadget takes fabulous pictures too. Two weeks ago I even took a picture of myself while trying to figure out how to flip it so that I could capture my grand-daughter dancing with her Papa. The music ended before I got the shot. Sometimes I get text messages. Great? Not so much. Just yesterday I sent a text message to a friend that read 'us'. Don't I love auto-correct? My fingers hit the wrong buttons because I meant to answer 'yes' to her question. Damn. I can't type well either.
Now that I've got these super gadgets, I'd like to explain my aversion to texting. First of all, I have to get my bifocals out of wherever I've left them to read the message or at the very least tap the little screen to enlarge the words in order to read them. Then there is the reply which means that my once-nimble fingers are called into action. Yikes! Second, texting is the way the young people in my life communicate, so I miss the sound of their voices. Since when did a cryptic message take the place of the human voice? Kids, I'd rather hear your laugh than read an LOL or see a colon with half a parentheses indicating a smile. Actually, I love "seeing" your smiling face up close and personal. Ditto to friends. Texting to me is just another separation by degrees. Like an used muscle that atrophies; will you loose your voice due to constant texting? Probably not but why take the chance? Just kidding! The upside of texting is that the younger generation has more finely developed thumbs than my generation. I read that recently in a doctor's office waiting room. How appropriate! The study said that our ape-like ancestors used their thumbs to cling to tree branches and for feeding themselves. How heart-warming that is to me. Imagine my sheer delight knowing that my great-grand-darlings will be able to swing from branch to branch without missing a single text! Makes a granny proud.
I've said it before but it bears repeating; I love the printed word whether it is in newspapers, books or billboards. A cup of coffee in a favorite mug with the morning newspaper ( no matter how liberal) is how I roll. Curling up with a good book in my semi-dark bedroom on a rainy afternoon is a pleasure I can't resist. Answering the "real" phone and hearing a beloved voice on the other end is about as good as it gets. As you can guess, I am a people person not an introvert in any way. Needy? Yes, if that means that instead of a cold, "how r u", I get a live stream "hello"." Live stream" may not be the right term but I needed to fit in a tech-savvy phrase to keep the kids reading this.
In short; text if you must. I will attempt to send you an intelligent response but please, drop in anytime or call me on the telephone. Seeing a friendly face or hearing the smile in your voice is precious to me. Snicker as you send a tweet. Giggle as you text. Smile as you read this. Is silence golden? Only time will tell. Oh and don't forget to swing to the end of the branch. That is where the fruit can be found! LOL
Love and kisses (xoxoxo),
Mom
facebook.com/lindarichmondhill
Last year for Mother's Day the Darling Husband, kids and grand-darlings gave me an Ipad. How I do love that little piece of technology! It allows me to do all manner of things in nano seconds. Wow! I can also indulge my love of words by playing "Words with Friends" and "Scramble", on it, somewhat obsessively, I might add. I call it "keeping my brain sharp", but the DH is asking himself why he ever gave me the darn thing! I had to turn the sound off because the constant dinging drove him nuts. In all honesty, it wasn't a long drive (heehee). The dinging signifies friends playing the games. It is an alert of sorts, so I don't detest all alerts. Right? Another nice touch is the Ibooks. Using the Ipad to read downloaded books instead of lugging books along when I travel is a plus.
For Christmas he gave me an shiny new Iphone! My old cell phone had a crack right through its middle, but I could still get and make calls on it. The fact that I could take pictures with it didn't occur to me until I'd had it for at least two years. At the ripe old age of five years the damn thing wouldn't hold a charge for more than four or five hours, so a new cell phone was certainly welcome. I'm getting used to the new phone, slowly. My very tech-savvy daughter "synched" it with the afore-mentioned IPad so that they "share aps". That, by the way, is super-cool. I can even check e-mail on it;that is if my new bifocals are handy. The gadget takes fabulous pictures too. Two weeks ago I even took a picture of myself while trying to figure out how to flip it so that I could capture my grand-daughter dancing with her Papa. The music ended before I got the shot. Sometimes I get text messages. Great? Not so much. Just yesterday I sent a text message to a friend that read 'us'. Don't I love auto-correct? My fingers hit the wrong buttons because I meant to answer 'yes' to her question. Damn. I can't type well either.
Now that I've got these super gadgets, I'd like to explain my aversion to texting. First of all, I have to get my bifocals out of wherever I've left them to read the message or at the very least tap the little screen to enlarge the words in order to read them. Then there is the reply which means that my once-nimble fingers are called into action. Yikes! Second, texting is the way the young people in my life communicate, so I miss the sound of their voices. Since when did a cryptic message take the place of the human voice? Kids, I'd rather hear your laugh than read an LOL or see a colon with half a parentheses indicating a smile. Actually, I love "seeing" your smiling face up close and personal. Ditto to friends. Texting to me is just another separation by degrees. Like an used muscle that atrophies; will you loose your voice due to constant texting? Probably not but why take the chance? Just kidding! The upside of texting is that the younger generation has more finely developed thumbs than my generation. I read that recently in a doctor's office waiting room. How appropriate! The study said that our ape-like ancestors used their thumbs to cling to tree branches and for feeding themselves. How heart-warming that is to me. Imagine my sheer delight knowing that my great-grand-darlings will be able to swing from branch to branch without missing a single text! Makes a granny proud.
I've said it before but it bears repeating; I love the printed word whether it is in newspapers, books or billboards. A cup of coffee in a favorite mug with the morning newspaper ( no matter how liberal) is how I roll. Curling up with a good book in my semi-dark bedroom on a rainy afternoon is a pleasure I can't resist. Answering the "real" phone and hearing a beloved voice on the other end is about as good as it gets. As you can guess, I am a people person not an introvert in any way. Needy? Yes, if that means that instead of a cold, "how r u", I get a live stream "hello"." Live stream" may not be the right term but I needed to fit in a tech-savvy phrase to keep the kids reading this.
In short; text if you must. I will attempt to send you an intelligent response but please, drop in anytime or call me on the telephone. Seeing a friendly face or hearing the smile in your voice is precious to me. Snicker as you send a tweet. Giggle as you text. Smile as you read this. Is silence golden? Only time will tell. Oh and don't forget to swing to the end of the branch. That is where the fruit can be found! LOL
Love and kisses (xoxoxo),
Mom
facebook.com/lindarichmondhill
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Random thoughts
Pardon me if I've written this before but I need to say it again. I started this blog mainly for my own children to read. The fact that I share it with others doesn't admit to any vanity or my part. It means that, should I forget thoughts or actions made by me, there will be other people not connected by blood to me who will remind me of them. In other words: before shutting the door on me remind my kids to erase any crappy stuff on my laptop but be sure to read the blog posts! Note to self; write down and store my passwords and then remember to tell the kids that they are in the safe. Another note to self: Give them the combination in order to open the safe. Whew, life as well as death is complicated! All of this is subject to change depending on how well and how long I live.
Now about those thoughts. It has occurred to me that I haven't lately told my children, their spouses and my grand-children how much I love them. This post could end right here, but since when have I ended anything without expounding on it?
Thought #1: Gene and I were looking at a huge house just this week. Never mind why, that is fodder for another blog. Anyway, the house had 3 floors and a basement apartment. He, snickering, replied, "We could buy this place and give each family a floor." I think that he might have been half-way serious. Let me set the record straight; I love all the kids, spouses and grand-darlings, but I don't think having us all under one roof would be a good idea. On the other hand, having daily access to my family would be a dream-come-true. Maybe a family compound would be a better idea? The Kennedys had a lock on that one.
#2. I enjoy knowing and spending time with my adult kids. They don't want us to be their best friends and I really do get that, but eating a meal together (especially one that I didn't cook) or just having a talk over a drink, is a treat. When we still lived in Memphis, I had our parents over to our house frequently. They loved it and now I know why. For me, it meant that they could entertain the children and I that didn't have to drag the kids home from their house for bedtime and Mom or Nana could enjoy someone else's food with the added bonus of being with their grandchildren. I tried to cook a little fancier fare for them until one day when my mother said that even eating a peanut butter sandwich with her grandchildren was a treat. I know now what she meant.
#3. Bickering. Yes, I know bickering is a pain the bohunkus but it happens, all the time. Gene and I bicker, it's how we roll. I admit to fighting, but only about important things and people whom I love. Don't waste a huge amount of time on bickering. Save the energy for the big fights that really matter. I read an African proverb that said in part and I paraphrase, "When your day of reckoning comes and you face God, wear your bruises proudly. Otherwise, God will realize that you thought that nothing on earth was worth fighting for." I will wear my bruises with honor as well as pride because I do fight for things and people worth fighting for.
#4. As much as mothers love their children, they need a break. No matter how liberated women have become, they still seem to carry the heaviest burden of caring for the kids. I tell everyone, including my own kids, that Gene and I shared their childcare from the first diaper change. That is true, but what I fail to say is that I paved the way for the shared responsibilities. Setting the stage for the 50-50 rearing looked easy to the casual observer. Behind the scenes I was washing and drying the diapers and then we'd fold them together. If I had a meeting in the evening, the dinner meal was planned and he served it. See what I mean? Nowadays, dads can pick-up diapers on the way home from work and drive through the local McDonald's for chicken nuggets if Mom has a meeting. By the way, it was probably Mom's idea and plan that led to the drive through in the first place. A break for Mom is always welcome. Dads, make the plan and give Mom's brain a rest. I've watched both of our sons and son-in-law struggle to do their part. Most of the time they get right. Parenting is hard work and certainly not for the faint-of-heart. I had an "aha" moment today, as a matter of fact! One of the boys called this morning to chat on his way home from a business trip. He was telling me about his precious daughter and her persnickety ways when he stopped mid-thought and said that he had not appreciated how picky he was and how we dealt with that until he saw his own daughter repeating his behavior! I laughed because the stories of his own pickiness are family legend now as hers will be years from now. We simply love our children and do our very best to guide with love even when our patience is as thin as dental floss!
#5. Friends can become like family, but family always comes first. My mother was an only child who was pampered and protected all her life. She had no inkling about sibling rivalry, but she somehow figured out how to build a family. Daddy came from a large family of poor country people and had an alcoholic father to boot, but he too figured out the family thing. My theory is that in the early days of radio and later television serials (soap operas), they both drew brain pictures about what an ideal family looked like and set out to make one together. We grew up strong and grounded with a firm hold on what a marriage should be like. Daddy worked and Mom stayed at home and dinner was served at six. Mom and Daddy made a family and instilled in the three of us, my brother, sister and me that sense of family. We've done the same thing with our kids. We can bicker and sometimes really get our knickers in a twist among ourselves, but let an outsider attack and Katie bar the door; we will fight for each other,
There are other thoughts, but my hands are tired. Typing just isn't my thing but neither is handwriting. Please, dear reader, excuse typos and misspellings! My sweet brother has offered to edit these posts, but by the time I would get around to editing with him, my ADD would take possession and I'd be off on another rant and life would be over as I know it. Kids, please leave a comment or just pick up the phone. Remember the telephone, the thing with numbers and no camera? You know the number.
Now about those thoughts. It has occurred to me that I haven't lately told my children, their spouses and my grand-children how much I love them. This post could end right here, but since when have I ended anything without expounding on it?
Thought #1: Gene and I were looking at a huge house just this week. Never mind why, that is fodder for another blog. Anyway, the house had 3 floors and a basement apartment. He, snickering, replied, "We could buy this place and give each family a floor." I think that he might have been half-way serious. Let me set the record straight; I love all the kids, spouses and grand-darlings, but I don't think having us all under one roof would be a good idea. On the other hand, having daily access to my family would be a dream-come-true. Maybe a family compound would be a better idea? The Kennedys had a lock on that one.
#2. I enjoy knowing and spending time with my adult kids. They don't want us to be their best friends and I really do get that, but eating a meal together (especially one that I didn't cook) or just having a talk over a drink, is a treat. When we still lived in Memphis, I had our parents over to our house frequently. They loved it and now I know why. For me, it meant that they could entertain the children and I that didn't have to drag the kids home from their house for bedtime and Mom or Nana could enjoy someone else's food with the added bonus of being with their grandchildren. I tried to cook a little fancier fare for them until one day when my mother said that even eating a peanut butter sandwich with her grandchildren was a treat. I know now what she meant.
#3. Bickering. Yes, I know bickering is a pain the bohunkus but it happens, all the time. Gene and I bicker, it's how we roll. I admit to fighting, but only about important things and people whom I love. Don't waste a huge amount of time on bickering. Save the energy for the big fights that really matter. I read an African proverb that said in part and I paraphrase, "When your day of reckoning comes and you face God, wear your bruises proudly. Otherwise, God will realize that you thought that nothing on earth was worth fighting for." I will wear my bruises with honor as well as pride because I do fight for things and people worth fighting for.
#4. As much as mothers love their children, they need a break. No matter how liberated women have become, they still seem to carry the heaviest burden of caring for the kids. I tell everyone, including my own kids, that Gene and I shared their childcare from the first diaper change. That is true, but what I fail to say is that I paved the way for the shared responsibilities. Setting the stage for the 50-50 rearing looked easy to the casual observer. Behind the scenes I was washing and drying the diapers and then we'd fold them together. If I had a meeting in the evening, the dinner meal was planned and he served it. See what I mean? Nowadays, dads can pick-up diapers on the way home from work and drive through the local McDonald's for chicken nuggets if Mom has a meeting. By the way, it was probably Mom's idea and plan that led to the drive through in the first place. A break for Mom is always welcome. Dads, make the plan and give Mom's brain a rest. I've watched both of our sons and son-in-law struggle to do their part. Most of the time they get right. Parenting is hard work and certainly not for the faint-of-heart. I had an "aha" moment today, as a matter of fact! One of the boys called this morning to chat on his way home from a business trip. He was telling me about his precious daughter and her persnickety ways when he stopped mid-thought and said that he had not appreciated how picky he was and how we dealt with that until he saw his own daughter repeating his behavior! I laughed because the stories of his own pickiness are family legend now as hers will be years from now. We simply love our children and do our very best to guide with love even when our patience is as thin as dental floss!
#5. Friends can become like family, but family always comes first. My mother was an only child who was pampered and protected all her life. She had no inkling about sibling rivalry, but she somehow figured out how to build a family. Daddy came from a large family of poor country people and had an alcoholic father to boot, but he too figured out the family thing. My theory is that in the early days of radio and later television serials (soap operas), they both drew brain pictures about what an ideal family looked like and set out to make one together. We grew up strong and grounded with a firm hold on what a marriage should be like. Daddy worked and Mom stayed at home and dinner was served at six. Mom and Daddy made a family and instilled in the three of us, my brother, sister and me that sense of family. We've done the same thing with our kids. We can bicker and sometimes really get our knickers in a twist among ourselves, but let an outsider attack and Katie bar the door; we will fight for each other,
There are other thoughts, but my hands are tired. Typing just isn't my thing but neither is handwriting. Please, dear reader, excuse typos and misspellings! My sweet brother has offered to edit these posts, but by the time I would get around to editing with him, my ADD would take possession and I'd be off on another rant and life would be over as I know it. Kids, please leave a comment or just pick up the phone. Remember the telephone, the thing with numbers and no camera? You know the number.
Monday, April 2, 2012
Husbands
It's been over two years since the hubster lost his job/retired/became my new best friend. By the way, why is it called, "loosing your job"? The job isn't lost really; it just doesn't exist in its previous form anymore. At any rate, he is at home with me now. Some days that is a blessing and sometimes it is a curse. Mostly it's a blessing and I try not to complain too much on the "off" days. Trying to be sympathetic to his frustrations and restlessness can be equally trying for me. Maybe all that frustration burns more calories! A girl can hope, right?
The blessings are many. He now folds and puts away the laundry and will unload the dishwasher too. The younger gand-darlings get to see him without the distraction of a job that kept him from the picnics and tea parties during the week days. Online shopping and checking investments as well as maintaining our bank accounts helps fill his days. Today, for instance, a box of "Cheri's Berries" arrived at the door. "For you" he said and I marvel at how much better he has gotten at surprises and gifts now that he has the time to "shop". The big secret is that he can now shop in his jammies with his coffee in hand! Funny how that works.
The off days are crappy. We get on each other's nerves and bicker like small children playing in the sandbox. I tear-up and plot an escape (never matter that I never do it). Mother was right; sleep on it and the sun will come up and bring with it new day.
He is way too young to be "retired" ! Isn't that for old men who play checkers and feed pigeons from a park bench? I guess not. When do I retire? It seems that I do he same things as always. I just now have a helper. The pigeons will have to wait and we never did like to play checkers.
The blessings are many. He now folds and puts away the laundry and will unload the dishwasher too. The younger gand-darlings get to see him without the distraction of a job that kept him from the picnics and tea parties during the week days. Online shopping and checking investments as well as maintaining our bank accounts helps fill his days. Today, for instance, a box of "Cheri's Berries" arrived at the door. "For you" he said and I marvel at how much better he has gotten at surprises and gifts now that he has the time to "shop". The big secret is that he can now shop in his jammies with his coffee in hand! Funny how that works.
The off days are crappy. We get on each other's nerves and bicker like small children playing in the sandbox. I tear-up and plot an escape (never matter that I never do it). Mother was right; sleep on it and the sun will come up and bring with it new day.
He is way too young to be "retired" ! Isn't that for old men who play checkers and feed pigeons from a park bench? I guess not. When do I retire? It seems that I do he same things as always. I just now have a helper. The pigeons will have to wait and we never did like to play checkers.
Monday, March 5, 2012
The New "Occupy"
What is with those people? Why are they protesting corporate greed? Why don't I get it?
Let me tell you, I wouldn't camp out in protest against anything unless there was an end in sight and there were flushing toilets at the sight! Geez! Of course, if you know me; you know that I have never camped out, slept in a tent nor owned a real sleeping bag. The last sleeping bag I owned was only suitable for inside sleepovers and I think it flowers on it. My mother gave it to Goodwill when I was in college.
Now that I've gotten all that out of the way; I want to put forth some thought- provoking questions that I can't answer nor do I expect anyone else to do so.
My first question is; What do the occupiers expect to accomplish? Do they think that pooping in public and rabble-rousing will get the ceos to hand over the dough to the less fortunate? Am I the only one who thinks that this smacks of socialism? Hello! Cold War? Berlin Wall? Please spare me.
My second question may seem to have nothing whatsoever to do with protesting but you'll just have to bear with me while I explain. Have you ever attended a college or a professional football game? Basketball game? Baseball game? Well, children you've just handed over your dough (or Daddy's gold card) to the "man". I read in our local newspaper, just two short weeks ago, that the University of Texas football coach, Mac Brown, was expected to sign a multi-million dollar contract (in excess of 50 million over the next 5 years). In the same paper there was a report of a baseball player who had signed a contract for over 30 million (I can't remember the exact amount, since I blurred the ink while spewing my morning coffee). Where are the protesters? Wait, I think I get it. "They" are occupying the seats!
On to my next question; Why are the Hollywood stars participating in some of the protest? Does anyone really believe that the celebs give two hoots about the great unwashed? Take Angie and Brad (please!) for instance. They have made people swoon with their "generosity" and humanitarian good deeds. Let me get this straight. They are unmarried, have a boat load of kids (biological as well as adopted), have an entourage of helpers, have residences in several places and command millions for their films and other endeavors. They could just write a check to rebuild the ninth ward in NOLA and be done with it. Instead of disdain or protests, the public worships them. I really am confused now.
Before anyone starts sending me ugly messages; please just consider my questions. I am older and getting more confused daily about what constitutes right and what is acceptable.
Working hard and rising to the top of the corporate ladder is what America is all about, or used to be. Worshipping celebrities and sports stars is is alien to me. I had a poster of Paul Newman on my wall when I was 15 years old. It was a stunner of him in a tee-shirt ala "Hud" . I loved it and him but I never knew nor cared how much money he made for being the star of "Hud". My father always said that what people made or were paid was nobody's business but their own. I agreed then as I do now. Paul went on to a second career as a philanthropist by parlaying his salad dressings into a multimillion dollar industry and giving the profit to charities. Where are the protests?
It's time to separate the wheat from the chaff . Who are the real enemies and who are the heroes? With the election year here and November approaching, let's take a closer look at the barking dogs. Daddy always said that the guiltiest dog always barked the loudest. Let the protest and the barking begin. I have my pen ready for that $$$contract. What a hoot!
Let me tell you, I wouldn't camp out in protest against anything unless there was an end in sight and there were flushing toilets at the sight! Geez! Of course, if you know me; you know that I have never camped out, slept in a tent nor owned a real sleeping bag. The last sleeping bag I owned was only suitable for inside sleepovers and I think it flowers on it. My mother gave it to Goodwill when I was in college.
Now that I've gotten all that out of the way; I want to put forth some thought- provoking questions that I can't answer nor do I expect anyone else to do so.
My first question is; What do the occupiers expect to accomplish? Do they think that pooping in public and rabble-rousing will get the ceos to hand over the dough to the less fortunate? Am I the only one who thinks that this smacks of socialism? Hello! Cold War? Berlin Wall? Please spare me.
My second question may seem to have nothing whatsoever to do with protesting but you'll just have to bear with me while I explain. Have you ever attended a college or a professional football game? Basketball game? Baseball game? Well, children you've just handed over your dough (or Daddy's gold card) to the "man". I read in our local newspaper, just two short weeks ago, that the University of Texas football coach, Mac Brown, was expected to sign a multi-million dollar contract (in excess of 50 million over the next 5 years). In the same paper there was a report of a baseball player who had signed a contract for over 30 million (I can't remember the exact amount, since I blurred the ink while spewing my morning coffee). Where are the protesters? Wait, I think I get it. "They" are occupying the seats!
On to my next question; Why are the Hollywood stars participating in some of the protest? Does anyone really believe that the celebs give two hoots about the great unwashed? Take Angie and Brad (please!) for instance. They have made people swoon with their "generosity" and humanitarian good deeds. Let me get this straight. They are unmarried, have a boat load of kids (biological as well as adopted), have an entourage of helpers, have residences in several places and command millions for their films and other endeavors. They could just write a check to rebuild the ninth ward in NOLA and be done with it. Instead of disdain or protests, the public worships them. I really am confused now.
Before anyone starts sending me ugly messages; please just consider my questions. I am older and getting more confused daily about what constitutes right and what is acceptable.
Working hard and rising to the top of the corporate ladder is what America is all about, or used to be. Worshipping celebrities and sports stars is is alien to me. I had a poster of Paul Newman on my wall when I was 15 years old. It was a stunner of him in a tee-shirt ala "Hud" . I loved it and him but I never knew nor cared how much money he made for being the star of "Hud". My father always said that what people made or were paid was nobody's business but their own. I agreed then as I do now. Paul went on to a second career as a philanthropist by parlaying his salad dressings into a multimillion dollar industry and giving the profit to charities. Where are the protests?
It's time to separate the wheat from the chaff . Who are the real enemies and who are the heroes? With the election year here and November approaching, let's take a closer look at the barking dogs. Daddy always said that the guiltiest dog always barked the loudest. Let the protest and the barking begin. I have my pen ready for that $$$contract. What a hoot!
Monday, January 9, 2012
Christmases Past
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!
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!
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
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!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)