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Perspectives and Promises

A Summer blog delayed by writer’s block;here-to-with something I’ve never experienced. Whether I’ve been asked to speak extemporaneously or write and article on anything from “Apples” (love’em if they’re Gala) to “Z”. I’ve never been at a loss for words. But since my last entry I have been silent in the blog-o-sphere, and I think I know why.

Early this summer an old and treasured friend suffered a horrible loss. And her pain has been front and center on my mind. Truly, writing on any number of subjects seemed trite and meaningless. (And those who know me know how I love trite.)

I would like to write about something my friend said to me and a group of friends who had gathered to share support. “I have no patience anymore for people’s complaints.” She was talking about an element of her job and she struck a chord. I mentioned her comment to another friend, who likewise has had her share of loss and challenge and she immediately related to the sentiment. She said that at a similar time in her life a neighbor fretted over the “wrong color of some new carpet, and I thought ‘I don’t want to hear it.What are you complaining about?'”

I know we all get tired or overwhelmed. Sometimes things just pile up on us in our days. Just recently at work, I spilled a 9 by 13 dish of quiche that a roomful of breakfast seeking ladies were waiting for. It was a mess.And while I allowed myself a level of aggravation and and an exclamation of, “Holy Cheese and crackers!!” I refused to tell the story as a complaint. Spilled quiche, really? So not worth complaining about.

It seems like daily I hear in the media stories of work/road/waiting-in- line rage. And the stuff that goes on at youth sporting events is really scary. If the worst thing in your life is how long it takes for your morning coffee to be placed in front you or the blown call at the 7th grade soccer game you, my friend, are living a charmed existence.

No, I want to focus on the important stuff. The good stuff. Friends and family who pull for you. Show up when you need them. Pastors who give a sermon with one or more insights you may not have thought of. Kids who say “thank you.” Spouses who say “I love you” or fill your gas tank. People at work who tell you they appreciate your hard work, or creativity. Neighbors who keep an eye on your kids or house or pet when you’re not around. Doctors and nurses who show up every day working to keep other people healthy. The list goes on.

Now, I know I won’t stop thinking or commenting on things that I wish were different. Life isn’t perfect. I’ll be at a Major League ball park this week. It will be hot. Someone will be wearing something (or not wearing something )that will seem to me an insult to fashion, good manners and health. I’ll be on a plane or train one day and there won’t be enough leg room. But while I’ll notice these things , I’m going to try real hard not to complain about them. Joke maybe, or roll my eyes, yes. But complain about them no. Life is short. I have too many blessings. I’d rather be a glass is half-full kind of person, and thankful for the glass.

This summer, some sad things happened to some good people I know. You probably know some sad stories too. Let’s leave any complaining to those folks, they’ve earned it. But let’s try to be one of the reasons they can navigate thru it. With a hug, a joke, a casserole, or a prayer. I’m just say’n.

To Cry or Not To Cry

“Mom, you’re not going to cry at graduation are you?” My daughter asked me. Translation: please don’t cry, or set your hair on fire, or any other parental hi jinks. I’m not going to cry I assured her. I tend not to cry at graduations, I view them as true commencements, beginnings. So I planned to stay dry eyed.

She probably didn’t believe me, because I am a cryer.  Big time. I cry at sad movies. When Kevin Costner says to his dad in  the movie “Field of Dreams”  “Wanna have a catch?” I tear up.  My kids always look at me in darkened theaters while I sniff at “My Dog Skip” or any other “family” movie.

I cry while watching TV.  Hallmark movies really do me in.  And the commercials are worse. But I said  I would not cry Sunday at Graduation when my youngest marched in while they played Pomp and Circumstance.

Forsythia and Offspring

Forsythia and Offspring

Sitting at my desk in my bedroom I have a marvelous view. Well, beyond the scraps of paper, lists, old photos, and the detritus of empty boxes and what-not that no one knows where to put, so it ends up on Mom’s desk.

Yes I have a view. Because ,over the top of my laptop I see into our back yard. And there in full Spring glory– forsythia. Actually, two forsythia bushes grow near the back property line along the fence of my suburban yard.

I love the lilac tree, and the daffodils are dandy. But the forsythia are spectacular.

Now, before you mistake me for an avid or even proficient gardener, know that all this blooming excess was here when we bought the house over twenty years ago. And though I have enjoyed the blooming times I have done little to nothing to augment the flora and fauna on Bayridge. Although I greatly appreciate beautiful landscaping and gardens my efforts through the years have dwindled down to container gardening.

Now I know that packing a few pots full of petunias and pansies is to gardening what taking a stroll with the dog is to training for a marathon. No comparison. And though I may even read another blogger’s post on gardening (Trowel Tart, quite amusing and informational) I never actually garden per se.

But, I do enjoy those forsythia.

But before you envision two beautifully sculpted shrubs let me confess that they are both gone wild. By that I mean, that our attempts at pruning and shaping have basically been failures.

I grew up with a “handy, mechanical type” father and a mother who spent any free time reading. No gardeners there. My husband descended from a long line of city dwellers without the prerequisite land to grow things. And so, when we first became proud owners of “real” estate we thought we’d become gardeners but alas, our interest lasted only a summer or two. What we didn’t turn to green grass we paved into a patio.

But we kept the forsythia.

We have almost every year attempted to “shape” the bushes. I did learn the basics of shrub care. Prune the old wood, trim after flowering and before the leaves turn. (Although I did like the recommendation of one old master gardener that the best time to prune was “when the knife was sharp.”) But mostly we just never got it right. Some years we would over prune and have no blossoms in the following year. Other years we would neglect the bushes and the bloom would be spotty.

So, today, on Mother’s Day, I was enjoying the blossoms and thinking how out of control the bushes had grown this year. Wishing I had done a better job of shrub maintenance and care.

But I came to the task an amateur. I took no courses, followed no probationary track, I just became a forsythia guardian. I tried my best. I fed and watered them. I tried to force my will on their growth patterns. But despite my efforts they grew into their own space. One too tall to be called a shrub, towers over the fence. Long yellow arms reaching for the blue sky. The other neither square or round like the ones I see in other yards and in books. Rather, an unusual oval of buttery blossoms bending toward the lawn.

And I think I know why I love them. It’s been and adventure trying to shape them, not unlike the one I’ve enjoyed as a mother.

You see I came to the task an amateur. I took no classes, I followed no probationary track. I just fed, watered and loved them. I tried to shape my children in all the usual ways. Say “please and thank you.” Do your homework. Be honest. Be kind. And now in the sunshine of a Sunday, one just about to step into college the other already out, they are magnificent. Their father and I did the best we could, but really the sun and the sky, the rain and the soil were already here. They may not be perfect specimens, but they are themselves. Reaching for the sky. Full of a bounty of color and verve.

We all do the best we can as mother’s and fathers. We want them healthy and happy.But even as we try to shape them into successful adults we have so little control into the shape they will finally embrace. It is well enough to see them strong and tall becoming their own true definition of themselves.

The forsythia is beautiful this year. I’m glad I can appreciate how well it’s doing with, and in spite of my best efforts.

I’m just say’n.

Piecrust Ponderings

I was remembering my mother the other day. I was rolling out pie crust, and she came to mind. I don’t remember loving her pies, I was not much of a pie lover growing up. Me, I’m about cake, and brownies, cookies and such. But, my mother was a pie-woman. After I was married I picked up a rolling pin for my kitchen. It was big and made of white plastic, didn’t work too well. Later I replaced it with another one. Still not much of a pie baker. And than my mother passed away and I inherited her rolling pin, cloth and sleeve. Now whenever I use them I think of her. I also use her pink-handled pie spatula and her small paring knife. I’m sure these items were purchased from the grocery store near her home. She would be mortified to wander in to William Sonoma with me and see the prices they get (sometimes from me) for their kitchen supplies.

My father also gave me my mother’s jewelry after she died. I wear her wedding ring along with mine. And, the diamond and ruby necklace he bought her always gets compliments when I wear it. But it’s those inexpensive kitchen tools that warm my heart the most.
Another thing I’ve noticed about kitchen and dinnerware in particular, is how big they’ve gotten. The stainless steel flatware I received as a wedding gift 30-plus years ago was missing too many pieces. So, this fall I bought a new set. The drawer insert I had bought when we remodeled the kitchen 17 years ago did not fit the new knives and forks–they were too big. And I know more than a few folks who after redecorating their kitchens (new paint not new cabinets) replaced their dishes. Only to find the cabinet doors would no longer close on the over sized plates. It’s hard to find small 3oz juice glasses, and don’t’ get me started on coffee mugs. What does all this mean?

Everywhere you look our stuff takes more space than it used to. And the question is does it have to? (You could extrapolate this to the cars we drive and the portion sizes in restaurants, but I’ll leave that for another day.)

So, I was thinking about my mom as I rolled out pie crust with her old wooden rolling pin the other day. Feeling her right there besides me admonishing me not to roll the crust out too much or it wouldn’t be flaky. And I knew some things are best left unimproved or enlarged. And finally after all these years, my mother’s rolling pin in hand, I make a pretty good pie. I’m just say’n.

Better Than Chocolate

Who’s your Valentine? Who do you send a card to, give a hug to, remember fondly? February is hearts and flowers time. As the 14th draws near I can’t help but think of love and chocolate. Although, to be honest I purposely looked away when the stores displayed all the Valentine gear before I had swept up all the New Years confetti. But now “V” day is around the corner and I have some “sweethearts” to celebrate, multiple sweethearts. I hope you do too.

I’m talking about those people who have slipped past friendship into a zone I’ve named “framily.” Twice recently I’ve been caught by surprise when someone with whom I share no name or DNA, has referred to me and mine as “family.” After the lump in my throat subsided I gave the designation some thought.

The first “framily” label occur ed when the college age daughter of friends announced at my Thanksgiving table that spending the holiday with us was simply spending it with family. The 2nd occasion was in a hospital’s surgical waiting area. The son of our long time friends was undergoing serious surgery and we had come to sit with them early one morning after Christmas. When the surgeon came in to talk to the parents he looked at my husband and I and said “Are you family?” The mother without a moments hesitation said “Yes, they are family.” And so we are.

I recently read that we build the family we didn’t have from the friends we choose. This framily creation may happen accidentally. But if you are smart, you will build this “framily” over time with effort and love.

My husband and I are both from small families, we’re low on siblings and cousins. And, we both live out of the states we were raised in. Over the years our “framily” has been through a lot with us; the addition of our children to our families, the drama of adoption, the loss of our own parents. They have come with us to court, lent a hand when a trip to the emergency room was needed, helped pack up a parent’s last household. And I like to think that we have been there for them as well. Their children may call us “Aunt” and “Uncle.” They call for advice. My son asks about them when he calls home. My daughter has their numbers programed into her phone. They both know their “framily” is a “contact person.”

So this year I’m sending them all a Valentine. To the childhood friend of my husband who lived on my floor in college, to the neighbor who visited my parents when they were ill and I was out of town. She moved out of state but maintains our relationship with love,long distance. To the former co-worker and neighbor who says my kids were her first “grandchildren”, and to all the others, Happy Valentine’s Day. A proverb from Ghana says “A family is like a forest. When you are outside it seems dense. But when you are inside each tree has its place.” Thank you for adding us to your forest, for letting my saplings gain aunts and uncles, cousins, “framily.” Happy Valentine’s Day, I’m just say’n.

It Only Happens Once A Year

One of my friends sent me the video link of a large chorus committing “a random act of culture” by breaking into Handel’s “Messiah” in Philadelphia’s downtown Macy’s.

Well, it used to be Wanamaker’s, but it is now a Macy’s. And that is a telling metaphor for life and Christmas if you need one. A beloved regional department store now just one of hundreds in a chain of stores, and the timeless beauty of the Hallelujah Chorus meet head on at Christmas time. I’ll bet you know who the winner is. The music of Christmas is one of those tangible delights that color the intangible sense we believe is Christmas.

The Christmas’ of our past are viewed in our minds eyes with color and nostalgia. We remember the shiny bike, the snowfall, the decorations as all a part of the holiday. They become Christmas. And many of us spend many hours trying to recreate them each year. It’s why the tradition of Christmas cookies goes on. It’s within our power to sift, measure and bake the smells and tastes of Christmas. Even the non-bakers among us attempt to bake “from scratch” cookies they would never make any other time of the year.
We all head out to secure the gifts we hope our family and friends will love enough to remember as part of their Christmas memories. Whether, or not you buy the gifts or spend your time creating gifts, the quest is the same. “Celebrate with me, recognize my regard /love for you. Remember me in your Christmas story.”

Often between the baking,decorating and the gift-giving we worry that the “true” meaning of Christmas is lost in the holiday shuffle. That it is too commercial, too stressful. Or that Christmas somehow is threatened by our increasingly smaller world. People who grew up not even knowing any non-Christians now sometimes feel like Christmas is diminished by having to share the calendar with other belief traditions and holidays.

And yet Christmas survives. It even thrives. People, like those singers in Philadelphia, do not “shop” the spirit. Nor do they bake it, decorate it or defend it. Those singers became Christmas.

Last night the women of my church gathered for our annual Women’s Advent service. It’s a quiet contemplative service. I try to go each year in order to force myself to slow down and feel the holiday. It’s easy to feel “to busy” to do this. And each year as we gather, the room full of women, all knowing that we are taking a break from the lists and the decorating and the baking to just, be. Be together. Be quiet. Be Christmas.

Some years Christmas is one long party of fun. But I have lived long enough to know that not every one’s Christmas will be joyous. Someone’s Mother is failing. Another mother’s child is diagnosed with a serious illness. My own heart has been broken at Christmas. Once when I lost my own mother, she a “Christmas baby” herself. And once when my own hopes for a “baby for Christmas” did not come true. But Christmas came anyway.

Two thousand years ago a young and probably frightened girl needed a place to stay while she had her baby. Today no decoration, no tree, no gift, can change how that changed the world. What we do with it is up to us. Every year Christmas has the power to change us. It makes us into bakers and gift-givers. Singers and light-hangers. What else will it make you become? Will you let it change you?

Somewhere a choir sings “Silent night”

Somewhere, a child laughs,

Somewhere a heart says, “Merry Christmas.”

I’m just say’n

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

This is the blog where I reveal myself to be petty, judgmental,and oh so superficial. I know that what I am about to reveal will turn at least some of my readers off. I do not take this step lightly. So here it is.

I have a list of things, observations,if you will about that which really bugs me. Ready, set, go.

When I am visiting that large retailer that specializes in women’s lingerie I am creeped out by teenage girls who think they need to shop there with their boyfriend. I am not against men being in the store(accent on the word men). They may be there buying a gift for a wife or girlfriend,I get that. But 15 year old girls with their boyfriends really turn me off. I can’t imagine myself at that age wanting any boy I knew with me when I was purchasing underwear!! I can’t be alone in this view. My own 17 year old daughter confirms the “ick” factor of these shoppers and tells me that on occasion she has left the store because the “boyfriends” seem too interested in the purchases of girls other than their “sweetheart”. I would be happier if there was a rule against boys who may not even be shaving yet, pawing through a table of ladie’s “panties.”

OK. truth time. I hate that word. My mother called it underwear, I call it underwear, all my friends call it underwear. I know no one who call them “panties.”

Except on TV, when ever the police/district attorney are questioning a crime subject “panties” is the word of choice. Stop it. It’s underwear, underpants if you must, but never “panties.” Exception to this rule the phrase “don’t get your panties in a bundle” on second thought, that sounds better if you say “undies.”

Next, and this is a chip shot I know, people talking on their cellphones loudly, when I can’t get away from them. For example in a line to an art exhibit. I don’t mean conversations like,”I’ll pick you up at 6.” I mean why they hate their ex, co-worker, teacher or U.S. Senator. And recently a new kind of stupid was revealed to me on a Metra-train in Chicago when a woman told the person on her cellphone that she was going to have to hang up because the people around her on the train were talking and that was too distracting for her!

Ordered food at a counter-type eatery lately? I hate it if the person (usually a young person) doesn’t make eye-contact or say hello before saying “may I take your order?” The combination of the two really steams me.Having been in the service industry for many years this simple rule of customer service smooths over a lot of mistakes and problems; smile, say hello, and really see the customer. But what bothers me more is the large corporations usually behind these ill-trained clerks with their “customer satisfaction surveys” printed on the receipt for you to access via an 800 number or website. Have you ever done one of them? There is usually no way to give actual feedback on poor or good customer service. Just a scale ranking tool. “Rate the speed of service 1 being poor 5 being excellent” No where can you report the fact that the person behind the counter was distracted by the cute guy behind you and had to ask you three times what you wanted.
And soon the Holidays will be here. You may think a grump like me would just hate them. The crowds, the early decorating by retailers, Christmas music everywhere. You would be wrong. I love Christmas in all it’s real and pretend meaningfulness and glitz. But lately I have noticed something that bugs me. People who say “Merry Christmas ” as if it’s a dare. As in “I refuse to say ‘Happy holidays’ because December should only be about Christmas.” Now I am Christian. Christmas Eve will find me in church. But I live and work in a diverse community and unless I know someone is Christian I wish them “Happy holidays” or the like. I don’t need to batter everyone with “Merry Christmas” as a way to rub in the fact that for the most part most folks in this country are “Christian”. It’s not polite or nice or “Christian”. If I say “Merry Christmas” it’s because I really mean it because you really celebrate it. I don’t say it as a political “gotcha” phrase. And If I say Happy Holiday’s ” it’s because I wish you a joyful time enjoying the holiday that you may celebrate apart from Christmas,be it Hanukkah, Kwanzaa or New Years.

So there you have it. A bunch of reasons for you to stop reading my blog. But maybe just maybe, I’m not alone in these thoughts. Maybe one or two of them ring true for you too.And then you’ll keep reading. That would make me happy. It would keep my “undies out of a bundle” all through the holidays. I’m just say’n.

Glory Days

I’m thinking about friendship today. Having recently attended my 35th high school reunion (I graduated at the age of 6) I’m pondering the nature of friendship over time. I read recently that “lifetime relationships teach us lifetime lessons.” If that is true what have I learned from those high school days?

Well in my case, as an army-brat with out any family in the area I live now, it is nice to be with people who remember my face from age 9. It was heartwarming that someone could pick me out of a class photo from 1967. Knowing people with whom I share a timeline of memories is important. While many of them still reside within 25 miles of our hometown all of us have a shared recollection of a time and place more rural and simple than the present.

When graduation came and we all went our many ways some friendships continued long distance into the new lives we made in college or work. Others became part of our memories. The friends I made in college, as a young wife and mother, as a working woman, are deep and important. But I think that those relationships were colored by those high school days. Did I want to be as “nice” as I was in high school. “nicer?” Self- confident, more so? Will I grow up or only away from my past.

Each stage of our lives holds new faces and potentially new friendships. My children will leave high school with memories of friends from pre-school through 12th grade. I hope they will create new friendships that are rich and varied throughout their lives. But will these years-long relationships be building blocks for them? Will they Take the good and develop their future friendships. Will they thoughtfully remember their own hurt feeling or hurtful actions and try to treat others better. Perhaps that is the true “test” of high school, I’m just say’n.

Leaves of Memories

Well that autumnal feeling is upon me and it feels good. That is the direct opposite of how I felt as August days dwindled down at the end of summer. When the kids are little moms say, “They’re ready for school to start.” What we mean is “I am ready for school to start.” We want our house back our kitchen clean and the floor clear of wet swimsuits and other summer debris. After camps and rec. department activities end, the days become long aimless periods between dark evenings notable only for how bad the bugs are biting.
But somewhere between a new driver’s license and the ability to get themselves to their own tennis lesson or friend’s home, a change happens. They begin leaving “childhood” behind, and the status quo alters. At first imperceptibly, she babysits, instead of needing a sitter. Or you notice that the Fourth of July is not quite as exciting as Christmas Eve to him anymore.

When they were little we planned all types of activities to keep summer boredom at bay and yes to create summer memories too. One summer the three of us had our own book club. Something of a feat considering the 6 year difference in their ages,but fun none the less. My daughter and I would make “real” lemonade from scratch at least once each summer and were constantly on the look-out for new recipes for the summer classic. That’s not even counting “backwards day” or lunch-time bike-ride picnics. And as an official graduate of “Mean-mom School” I told my kids they were not even allowed to say they were bored or had nothing to do until at least the middle of July.

But last year my daughter and her best friend went and bought their school supplies without me. (I wonder if the other Mom missed this too.)And this year for the first time since she was three the lemons went unsqueezed in the fridge.

This is the last summer when “school” means the red brick building in our town, and I’m not liking it.

So her father and I were feeling sad with the wind down. Not at all happy about the passage of time. And then we both remembered our own junior summer. How excited we were to be seniors. How the school seemed like our own little kingdom and how everything seemed just ready to pop with excitement and fun, in spite of papers, tests and projects. If our own parents were sad about only one more summer until we left for college we surely didn’t notice.

And so I decided to put the the mopes away.The fall of my senior year was crisp and colorful. And cool sunny Fridays still cause me to remember the feel of my cheerleader’s sweater. I wasn’t sad to leave summer behind to the extent that I could not enjoy Fall and neither is my daughter. The backpack is new, the pencils are sharpened and its another school year to learn and grow. The glass is full, the path is waiting, “mean moms” not withstanding. It’s another beginning, and it will bring it’s own “firsts” and memories to fore. So she’ll enjoy this time and I’ll enjoy watching her enjoy it.And in the end that maybe the best part of parenting, even for a “mean-mom graduate.” I’m just say’n.

The Future Is Now

I confess to being something of a techno-novice. In other words I came late to the party on the information highway. I resisted e-mail, I scoffed at my husband’s need for a Blackberry over a cell phone years ago. And when I finally got a cell phone I was barely able to make calls.If I needed to add a number to the contacts one of my kids had to do the programing for me. As a matter of fact every time someone in the family needed a new cell phone we just tacked more time onto my contract and updated theirs. Until finally my phone just burst one day quite literally in my hands. At this point my husband decided I should join the rest of the family and get an I-phone. I also, by now had my own laptop. I joined Face book, and started a blog. My family still can’t believe it.

But this month the world really stopped spinning when I asked for and received for my birthday an e-reader. A Barne’s and Noble Nook, to be exact. I have always been an avid reader spending much free time at the library and various new and even used bookstores. I probably like books even more than shoes. Which is another blog all together.
And so I have come to this. The woman who told my son’s kindergarten teacher I would volunteer for any post just not “computer-mom” now has not one but three wi-fi devices.
Now, I am no genius at any of these tools. I still do not know how to “cut and paste”. And I am woefully ignorant of many other basic tasks. And the “language” of the computer. Well,when I had my first day as “computer-mom” (yes my request went ignored) I did not know what the “mouse” was. Now it was the early ’90’s and I had left an office position where I used only a “word-processor” 4 years prior. But even still thank goodness for the 5yr old who could direct me to the mouse.

So, I have entered the future. A little late, and far behind the rest of my family. It’s kind of fun. And my husband and kids love to tease me about my failings and foibles with all these devices. But I’m not worried or embarrassed. I’m still the only one in the family who knows how to properly load the dishwasher. I’m just say’n.