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.

Keepsakes and Memories

When is the right time to discard or find a new home for memorabilia? Every morning when I brush my teeth (and for that matter every night too) I see it. A small stainless steel cup, a raised teddy bear face on the front, my son’s name engraved on the back. It is somewhat like the sterling silver cup on the windowsill over my kitchen sink. One is filled with Q-tips, the other houses lip balms, assorted sewing needles and other small items. They were both gifts to my now 23 year-old son. I don’t think he realizes they are actually “his.” And while he does use Q-tips, he does not have a kitchen sink window in his Chicago apartment. But I wonder, at what time should I relinquish ownership to the rightful owner?

I have nooks and crannies all over my house that hold someonelse’s something. And while the two cups are emblematic they do give me pause. The collection of school art work, report cards and his National Honor Society certificate are all safely housed in a Rubbermaid container. Will he ever want them?

I’m not the first parent confronted with these questions. When I had been married 2 years and my husband and I were moving across state lines my parents had us stop by to “pick up a few things.” Let’s just say that it was a good thing we already had a truck. Some of the items I was ecstatic to take, like the antique oak curio my father salvaged that had been in my room since I was 10. Other things like paperback books were just things I then got rid of. But, I feel like my mother must have back then. She could not just dispose of the items of my past no matter how large or insignificant. It would feel just wrong.

I have a friend who helped her mother-inlaw move from a home of many years to a condo. In cleaning out the basement they came upon the dental retainer of my friend’s husband. That’s really a piece of personal memorabilia. That story prompted me to dispose of both my children’s retainers when they passed out of the land of orthodonture. But I hold on to other things.

I have small remnants of both of their “transitional objects.” Otherwise known as security blankets. They remind me of a sweet time in their lives when a soft cloth could ease their hearts and give them comfort.

The reverse of this story is of course the keepsakes I inherited from my own parent’s lives. The box of really old photos of nameless unknown people from the lives they had together and separate of each other haunt me from my attic. I just could not get rid of them.

These are not things I cherish, I just feel like releasing them is too close to erasing my parents lives from history. Periodically, I am able to get rid of something. The last winter jacket my dad wore hung in my basement for years until I could put it into a coat collection barrel. But that bowling shirt with his name on it, his driver’s license, I still have those.

And so I think I’ll keep the baby cups for a while longer. They really don’t fit into a 20-something’s decor. But there will come a time I’m sure when they will have to go to their true owner. But somehow I’m sure they will always mean more to me than they mean to him, I’m just say’n.

Do you have a treasure trove that is not quite treasure? Please comment and let me know.

Emergency Guidelines

Thank you all for the comments and messages about what your worries are if you are absent from your world. We share many things in common; unemptied vacuum cleaner bags and untended pets lead the way. Mostly we are concerned about families and in some cases co-workers, who may not know the secrets of civilization. Otherwise known as how to put the new roll on the toilet tissue holder and other rituals. It’s amazing how important we all are- I’m just say’n.

In Case Of Emergency…

I know that the common belief is that no one is irreplaceable. But lately I’ve started to wonder and if not “worry” at least be concerned about a few things. You probably have similar concerns. If for example I was abducted by aliens, who in my family would know, or even think to change the bag on the vacuum cleaner? Or what about removing all the dog hair and thread/string that gets mysteriously wrapped around the roller bar? I’ve seen each family member “vacuum” a room with no notice that the carpet looked no different than when they started because the bag was full. So who would change the bag? I have a vision that sooner or later it just explodes in a cloud of dust and debris. Get my drift? Oh I know that after I’m on said alien planet, eventually a housecleaning service will be employed. The bathrooms will be cleaned the cabinets wiped down. But who will vacuum the coils on the back of the fridge, put water in the dog’s dish? And let’s be real, the new toilet paper roll will rarely if ever make it on to the holder. Now I’ve tried to begin teaching my children some basic life, this is how civilized people life skills. But we haven’t gotten around to my recipe for beef stew. And my famous spaghetti sauce? Only my college roommate in Baltimore knows it at this point.

So what does your list look like? I’d love to know. Surely I’m not the only one who fears
that this truly mundane list of life skills will go on unattended.
Please leave your list here, or message me directly. At least than one other person will know what to do in case that alien space ship makes a landing near you. Your friends and I, we can pick up the slack. The carpet and the dog will appreciate it. I’m just say’n.

Golden Time

Summer time is “golden” time. And I’ve enjoyed getting to know the Golden retrievers who have been part of our “pack.” They’ve all been unique dogs, possessing the central characteristic of a golden. People-love. A vet treating one of my dogs summed it up this way. “He’s a golden so he will mope when he’s not with his family.”

Our first Golden was Kalahan. Selected from a shelter as a gift for my husband, basically the smartest dog I’ve ever known. A friend once told me “he’s not a dog he’s a person in a dog suit.”

Kalahan, could open a peanutbutter jar, and not leave teeth marks. He opened drawers, and rearranged stuffed animals-neatly-under the dining room table. He also retrieved items on command. An especially helpful trick, when my hands were full of baby. He never growled or frightened children. But he guarded his “charges” loyally, always placing himself between them and approaching strangers. Eating the babysitters dinner seemed to be a small price to pay for such devotion. When it came time to help an aged Kalahan on to his next home, we were all bereft. But he looked at us with his typically wise eyes and bid us fairwell with grace and dignity.

The children were young and I missed a walking partner so seven months later we brought home Yankee. He joined our family at two-months old a few days before the Fourth of July. Hence the name. (Which my husband came up with in fear that the kids would name the dog “Guy.”) Although only a puppy, Yankee was always ,to put it simply, huge. He grew taller than any other golden I had ever seen and though I kept his figure svelte ,he weighed in at over 100 pounds. Other golden owners would stop me and ask where I had gotten such a mountain of dog. Yankee just smiled his golden smile and waited to be petted. And that was Yankee’s gift. A large heart just wanting some love. If Kalahan was one part of the canine IQ scale, Yankee sat on the other end. I never had to clear the counters of food. Cookies out of the oven could cool on the kitchen table and I could leave the house! Yankee seemed to have no faults except for his inability to fit places. Which was fine with me since that included most of the furniture. He just lumbered through life. My son, a teenager at the time called him “Sweets”. And never was a nickname more justly deserved. When Yankee did not wake up last July 5th the entire neighborhood was shocked and saddened. No one could belive he was 12 years old he seemed like such a puppy. One neighbor remembered how just a few days earlier,Yankee had appeared on his back porch gave one bark to be petted, and than trotted home. “As if to say ‘goodbye” to me , he mused.

“So,” my husband said as this year’s Fourth of July neared, “we lost Yankee last year at this time and a few months later you brought home Ethel Merman.” Well, her name is actually Bella. Named by the family who turned her into a local Golden rescue group. And like Ethel Merman she sings. It’s loud, really loud, and untrained ,and full of gusto. It’s a fullthroated song of joy when any of the family returns home after a prolonged abscence of say 5 or 10 minutes. She also sings when friends arrive. Bella is also our retriever most likely to truly play fetch -for hours and hours if she could. She is, my husband says, our most athletic dog. To use his basball analogy , Bella is a centerfielder, Yankee was a DH, and Kalahan was a baseball executive.

Loving a golden means sweeping up soft mounds of golden fur, having a large supply of tennis balls , and keeping track of your socks. It also means unconditional love, and being the recipient of that daily “golden smile” that means “I love you, and it’s so great we are all together.” What more does anyone need? I’m just say’n.