Great Day

            Those of you who know me will be surprised to read this, but,......I was a moody child. Scowl on my face most of the time. The more people tried to make me smile, the more stubbornly I refused. Amplify this with the natural moodiness of most teenagers, and I became insufferable as I got into my teens. Dad was always one for dumb jokes – so he was often trying to get to me.

               One Saturday morning when I was about 15, I awoke and realized everyone else was already up. The bedrooms were all on the second floor, and the bathroom was on the first floor. How to get to the bathroom without having to interact with the humans who comprised my family? I started down the stairs keeping my eyes closed – hoping to ward off any conversation. As I got to the bottom step, I realized someone was sitting at the kitchen table. I was going to have to open my eyes and, gasp!, maybe even have to say “good morning.”

               With an evil look, I opened my eyes to see, sure enough, my Dad at the kitchen table looking at me. He had a great big smile on his face.

               “It's a great day for the race!” he said.

               My brain started going around and around. What race? Was there something for school I had forgotten about? There was a bicycle race that came past our house once or twice a year – was it the day for the bicycle race? Was it something Dad had just heard on the radio and was passing along? Was it one of his jokes? Oh Lord, it was probably one of his really bad jokes, and now I had stood there too long to ignore the comment, I was going to have to ask. I so did not want to ask. But I had to.

               “What race, Dad?”

               “The Human Race!” Dad exclaimed triumphantly as I groaned and ran to the bathroom. I could hear him laughing at his success in getting to me. All I wanted was to forget the whole thing.

               And forget I did and all too well.

               Danged if the same scene did not replay itself in the exact same way a couple of months later!

               It was a Saturday morning. I walked down the stairs with my eyes almost closed. Someone was at the kitchen table. Dad sat there with a big grin on his face.

              “It's a great day for the race!”

              I opened my mouth to say something snarky and then realized to my horror that even though I remembered Dad making that comment before in exactly the same circumstances, I could not remember what race he was talking about!

              My brain went through the same thought circuits as before – something for school? The bike race up the street? Something he just heard on the radio? One of his silly jokes? Oh I concluded it was definitely one of his dumb jokes – but what was the punchline? Too much time had passed while I stood there – I was going to have to ask. But I did not want to ask. I would have to ask – ignoring him at this point would be taking my insolence too far. The only way I could force myself to ask Dad what race was to promise myself to listen to the answer and never ever forget again what the punchline is. That way I would be ready with my own snarky response the next time he started the joke.

               “What race, Dad?”

               “The Human Race!” Dad grinned – thrilled that he had gotten me a second time with the same joke as I groaned and ran to the bathroom. I could hear his laughter through the closed door.

               But I would be ready for him the next time!

               And I'm still waiting.

               I guess you could say that since Dad never again said, “It's a great day for the race!” and I've been waiting for if – that he has essentially successfully gotten me a third time. That's my Dad.

              This memory-a-day blog for the year 2015 was begun 365 days ago with a quote from my Dad - “it's better than a sharp stick in the eye” - which is the name for the blog, because, and I'll repeat myself here – you can read the blog, say to yourself that you can do better, and I say, yes you can, because anything is better than a sharp stick in the eye! And so I thought it would be more than fitting to complete the blog today, the last day of 2015 with another of my Dad's quotes.

              This month I have mentioned the list I made several years ago of words of wisdom – philosophies that I say I live by and I've attempted to explain what I mean by each of them:

                       Six: Clowns are people too

                       Five: Make love, not war

                       Four: Sometimes choose to be the chump

                      Three: Go home different than the way you came

                      (three and four I attribute to the associate pastor a church the girls and I attended during the '90's)

                      Two: It's better than a sharp stick in the eye

                       (two and one I attribute to Dad)

               And One? When I was putting this list together, I realized that there was something I say to folks often. It is something that I wake up to most mornings. It is proof that I kept the promise I made to myself so many years ago – my number one statement of philosophy – the one that supersedes all others in my list of words of wisdom:

One: It 's a great day for the Race!

go in peace.

365 20151231 Great Day

Tongues

        It was probably when I was around ten years old. I remember lying in bed at night in the house on Heinrich Road. And I was no longer in the upper bunk but rather in the single bed across the room. I was almost never tired when my parents said it was time to go to bed – I imagined it had been that way for every ten-year old since time began. I assumed it was because of the too early hour for bedtime that caused my lying awake for what seemed like forever and not my lack of physical exercise during the day. I was bored.

            A new past-time occurred to me while lying in bed wide awake - in my mind I went over the events of the day, mainly stuff that happened in school with the teacher or classmates. And then I would redo conversations. In the replay of these conversations I came off as oh so smart. I gave the response that shut everyone else up – if the discussion was more of an argument or a trade of insults, well my new responses while re-enacting them in bed, were just brilliant! Why couldn't I be that smart during the day? Well I knew why I was not that stellar during the day – my parents would have told me to watch my mouth, teachers or classmates would say something I was not expecting and my perfect comeback would not have occurred to me until later, lying in bed, mulling it all over.

         I fantasized these conversations for hours every night – sometimes they riled me (why couldn't I say that to their face?!), and mostly they entertained me. After a while they began to worry me – is this what my life was going to be, fantasizing each evening the things I think I should have said during the day? It scared me to realize my life might never amount to anything more than that!

          Fortunately these conversations soon faded away and life had an almost complete inversion. Instead I worry about what I have said and why can't I shut the hell up!

          I think about a vow of silence – and how that would improve my listening skills – but then again, a vow of silence would include no writing and no thinking about what I would say or write when the vow of silence is over, and then I might not listen! I think about a one day a week vow of silence – and how selfish that would be to others around me – the lack of communication a total annoyance when it is not being a blissful blessing. So it remains a fantasy.

          And an irony. 

          While on the cusp of a full time immersion into storytelling, finally, I also imagine life with a vow of silence.

          When I wake up in the early mornings now, and I know sleep is probably over but the energy to get up and do something is just not there yet, instead of thinking about conversations that should have been, like I did when I was ten, I rehearse the next story I am going to tell. The energy spent working on a story is a tad more productive and true and with less self loathing. 

           But still the urge to not be expected to say anything still hovers.

364 20151230 Tongues

Maybe Next Year

         One of the first gigs I went on dressed as a clown in full white-face make-up was what was called a walk-around in the petting zoo section of the Buffalo Zoo as a member of the Buffalo Clown Alley in 1977. I was unrecognizable. The children smiled. They were smiling at the clown. I took it personally, feeling that the smiles were for me. That made me warm and happy – just like the clown was making the children happy.

            There were a lot of cute dads there too, also smiling at the clown. The zoo is a popular place for divorced dads on their weekends with the kids. The dads did not know the human they were smiling at. Since I was unmarried at the time, it was a bittersweet feeling – available men liking the clown while the available woman was invisible. Shucks.

            Because the costume made me less self-conscious about myself, I could be a clown without worrying about judgment from others about my looks – the divorced dads did not dismiss me for being not attractive enough for them – they did not dismiss me for not caring enough about my own hair/make-up/figure/clothing – they smiled at the clown, who was me inside.

             If only I could be invisible all the time, hiding inside the clown, making others happy and that being reward enough for my existence. Yeah, invisibility would totally be my choice for super-power.

             But there are those out there who do not like clowns. They think clowns are scary. Children and adults alike fear the unknown that the clowns seem to represent. And there have been so many instances in fiction and real life where clowns have been evil. But clowns are not monsters. Inside every clown is a real person.

            Which brings me to my sixth and totally personal statement of the words that I live by in my philosophy of life:

             Clowns are people too.

             Just a smile from you might make all the difference between monster and human!

363 20151229 Maybe Next Year

Chumps

             A few posts ago I mentioned a sermon by the associate pastor of the church my daughters and I attended for many years – the talk was about the Magi, and go home different than the way you came became one of my philosophies of life. And I said that there was a second sermon which provided yet another statement in my list of words of wisdom.

              That talk was about the Good Samaritan. Oh my gosh – what can make a fresh take on the story of the Good Samaritan? It was one of the gospels I heard one Sunday every year growing up in the Catholic Church, and it was a tale much more comprehensible than the Prodigal Son. But then again, over the years, more has come out about the Good Samaritan – about how the people who passed by the injured person were not evil heartless beings that the rest of us would never identify with – but rather, they were folks very much like every single one of us who could have lost their livelihoods by stopping to help – reputations could have been ruined by touching someone who was not clean, jobs could be lost for being late – the Samaritan was the only one willing to risk everything to help – how many of us can do that at any given moment? So the message had changed in the years since I was a kid at Mass.

              There had even been a famous (yahoo-headline-worthy) experiment where a college professor had been teaching the history and lesson of the Good Samaritan and then instructed the students that there would be a written exam on the topic at a location different from the classroom – someplace clear across campus – and they were not to be late. On the route where the kids would have to walk across campus, there was someone crying for help – none of the students wanted to be late for the exam. None were willing to risk failing an exam on the Good Samaritan by being a good Samaritan and helping the person in need along the way. They failed the final.

              All of this was known before the associate pastor gave her own talk about the Good Samaritan one Sunday – she might have even included all this in her sermon – so how does one make the story fresh enough to catch my attention?

              She wrapped up her talk that day with something she had read recently in the news. A priest was giving an orientation to a room full of priests who were going to minister at a nearby prison. He was giving them an oral list of do's and don'ts. He said, under no circumstances were they to give money to any of the inmates, no matter what sob story they put forth. He said there was a priest who used to go to the prison to minister to the inmates. And one day as one of the inmates was being released, the prisoner looked the priest in the eye and sneered with complete derision, “Every single time you came here, I asked you for money, and each time I gave you a different ridiculous reason for why I needed the money, and each time I was lying. But you gave me the money. You are such a chump!”

              And the priest looked at the about to be released inmate and said, “I knew you were lying. I made the choice to be the chump.”

              So the priest leading the class said to the new priests about to minister to the prison, “Do not give anyone money. Do not be chumps!”

              One of the priests in the classroom raised his hand and asked, “Father, were you the priest who was the chump?”

              And the priest responded, “No. I was the prisoner who called the priest a chump.”

              This still gets to me.

              The message is not (and if this priest/prisoner story is an urban legend, I do not want to know) that we should give in to all con artists at all times – we would soon all be broke with ruined reputations and no jobs – the injured person on the side of the road might be a con also – (thank goodness for cell phones today – we can all be Good Samaritans with little risk!) But what I hear from this story is that every once in a while, we should choose to be the chump. Some good might come from it – not necessarily good for us individually, but a good that somehow pays forward.

               When I was a kid, someone who was visiting one day talked about how her family was on welfare for a while when she was growing up – she grew up during the Great Depression. For her, even as a child, receiving welfare was humiliating. It was even embarrassing for her to admit to years later. But the assistance helped keep the family together, and gave her the strength to vow to make something of herself when she grew up. It was with pride that she told the story of paying back to the government, in cash, all the welfare money that had been given to her 'way back when. It is with great pride that I could gloat over what her children have become. They done good.

              Sometimes choose to be the chump.

362 20151228 Chumps

Believe!

          A reputation for unyielding seriousness preceded my college microbiology teacher. It was rumored that the year before I had her, she was told by the administration to dole out a few more A's and a few less fails. I have no idea if that was true – but it gave me hope! The teacher did seem very serious as she lectured each class. Giving us the basics of microbiology was important, and the material took up the whole semester – leaving little time to stretch beyond the introduction to this incredible field, little room for more than what was required of us and her.

            The teacher's hand-outs, however, revealed the professor's personality.

            At the top of each, was a quote from Alice Through the Looking-Glass!

            Mull that over for a moment – Microbiology and Alice together on the same page – on a different day, a different microbiology worksheet paired with a different Alice quote!

            Two of the quotes I saw on the hand-outs I still remember after all these years:

                    “I see nobody on the road,” said Alice.

                    “I only wish I had such eyes,” the King remarked in a fretful tone, “To be able to see Nobody! And at that distance too!”

and:

                   “I can't believe that!” said Alice.

                   “Can't you?” said the Queen in a pitying tone, “Try again, draw a long breath, and shut your eyes.”

            Microscopy can be compared to a trip through the looking-glass. And microscopists can see and believe and make some sense out of the unknown. Those who do not peer down the microscope will come to trust what the others have seen.

           And at that distance too!

           But a part of me thinks maybe our teacher was also suggesting when she mixed Alice with the assuredness of science that we shouldn't forget the possibility we might all merely be just a part of the Red King's dream!

361 20151227 Believe

Make Love, Not War

spring 2007, Atlanta, Georgia

       The Jesuit college I went to, freshman year being 1971, had no problem with evolution. From day one it was apparent that evolution was an accepted concept and studies proceeded from there. My anthropology teacher had us reading Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, who among other scholarly accomplishments, was a Jesuit priest. He had a theory called the Omega Point which stated that humans were still evolving, and our intelligence will continue to grow until the end, omega point where we are one with God. How about that?

          It seems to me that evolution today is still about survival of the fittest – if the wars of the world continue, it will be the strongest, that is, the ones with the biggest guns or biggest muscles or biggest population that can be sacrificed, who will win. Or if there is a huge natural disaster which results in famine or radiation or even computer or electrical shut down – there are few evolvers-to-godhood who would know how to grow their own food!

          But if we could do away with war – all live in peace, we could focus our energies toward surviving the natural disasters. And we could evolve to something better. I have faith that this is possible – peace is in our genes.

          Back in 2007 – eight years ago now, I marched in a war protest in Atlanta – protesting the fourth anniversary of the beginning of the war in Iraq – it seemed so inconceivable that we could let this go on at all, let alone for so long! (And look at us now!) I made a sign that said Peace on one side, and Join the Evolution on the other. I thought it might make people who saw it want to believe they were in the in group who had the capacity to evolve toward peace in their genes; it also implied that those who believed in war did not have the peace genes and were maybe the simpler, less evolved human beings.

           Captain Kirk and so many others, most of whom are real and not fictional, would disagree with me and claim it takes both kinds to survive and head toward the Omega Point. To that I merely reply,

           Imagine.

           Later that year I entered a peace slogan competition – I drew a pair of blue jeans, and up one leg I wrote Join the Evolution and down the other leg I wrote Peace is in the Genes. I submitted it but then realized that the pun of genes/jeans is maybe not that cute – it reminded me of the scene from the movie, The Way We Were, when Katie was yelling for peace on her college campus during World War II, and someone held up a sign that said, “Any peace but Katie's piece!” (years later, Hubble said to her, “if only you had laughed when you saw it!”) Yeah, maybe the world is not mature enough for peace in the genes. Anyway, I never heard back from the competition. Maybe I'll make the jeans myself.

            Imagine – you giving birth to the child who gives birth to the child who reaches the Omega Point! There will be no war then – and there will be time and resources to figure everything out, including all that Teilhard de Chardin was saying – because he was 'way over my pea brain!

           The fifth of the statements in my philosophy of life is the one that is quite common to all – Make Love, Not War.

The picture was taken by Al Viola, a peace movement videographer - thanks Al!

360 20151226 Make Love, Not War

I Saw Chairs!

     

Sarah Christmas 1986

       My mom had two Christmas stories about me that she would be sure to repeat every year just in case there was someone about who had not heard the anecdotes as yet. Now that she is gone, it is up to me to be sure and have them heard each holiday season. The first story is about the time Mom took me to see Santa Claus for the very first time. As we were waiting in line, Mom asked me what I was going to ask Santa for Christmas? She needed some ideas and thought this would be a good way to find out. I told her I was not going to ask Santa for anything. “Why not?” Mom inquired. And I said, “If he knows when I'm sleeping and he knows when I'm awake, then he knows what I want for Christmas!” Every time Mom told that story, I appreciated the logic of the very young me.

             The second story was about another even earlier Christmas. This was probably when I was two, before my brothers were born. Santa brought a child-size table and chairs. When I got up in the morning, seeing the trimmed tree (Santa used to bring the tree when delivering the presents – the tree was not in the house when I went to bed on Christmas Eve!) and decorations along with the presents and the table and chairs and all the activity and company that followed with the day, how could I have thought anything other than that something magical had happened? A miracle!

Me and Clark 1957

             And so when bedtime came that Christmas night, I refused to go! I sat in one of the chairs at the new table and calmly announced I was not going to leave the tree and the gifts. Apparently I was worried that if all this neat stuff appeared out of nowhere one night, it could just as easily disappear too! I was not going to let these things out of my sight! I did not use words nor otherwise tried to explain this, I merely sat in the chair not budging. Mom and Dad, instead of getting all parental and forcing me to go to bed, explained that they were going to turn off the light and go to bed themselves. I stayed where I was. A while later my Dad got up to check on me. When he returned to bed, he told Mom that I was sitting in the chair staring into the dark. The story does not include whether or not I was still there in the morning, but the presents were there – my sentry duty had protected them.

             Over the years the table and chairs were central in the childhood of my brothers and me. We sat at the table for board games and artwork. The table made a foundation for forts, the chairs lined up as train cars, all were great for role playing. And of course, for family get-togethers during holidays, the set became, of course, the kids' table for the meal.

             When Sarah was born, it came to mind that she needed a kid's table and chairs for her youth. The year we moved to Oklahoma, Sarah was two, and I was pregnant with Amanda – their Dad and I picked out a little table with four chairs from, I think it was, Sears. Putting the pieces together after getting them home, Dad sequestered them in a spare bedroom where we had all the other Christmas gifts. Sarah was under strict orders to leave the door shut and not go in – we told her Santa Claus would not come if she went into that room.

            Goober was okay with our request. I did not notice her being overly curious about the forbidden room nor did I catch her trying to sneak or peek in. But one morning before Christmas Dad went into the room to look for something. He had shut the door, and Sarah did not try to follow him in. But she did like being where Dad was when he was home, so she was nearby that morning. When Dad came out of the room, he opened the door, came out quickly, and shut the door behind him. Sarah was right there.

            “I saw chairs!” she exclaimed. “Chairs! I saw chairs!” Her face was lit up in wonder at the glimpse of child-sized chairs in the secret room. Goober did not connect the chairs with Santa Claus or presents. However, the glow on her face said she was convinced the chairs were hers.

Amanda 1992 

            On Christmas morning we put bows on the chairs as we set them up with the table in front of the tree where all the other presents were. We explained that the table set belonged to both Sarah and her three-week old baby sister. Goober's eyes were still glowing.

            Even though Amanda and Sarah's childhoods were different from the ones on Heinrich Road, the table has done duty for forts, puzzles, Barbie play, doll house holder, and the chairs have provided for stuffed animals, live cats, a boost to clothes in the closet or items on the kitchen counter, and even speakers.

            When the girls were grown and living in their own places, I worried how to equitably split the table and four chairs between them – Amanda, however, made the decision very easy, “They are Sarah's, Mom! They belong to Sarah.”

           Today in Chapel Hill, the table and chairs of the Christmas of 1986 are a staple in the childhoods of Goober's two young ones. Two weeks ago when I was visiting, there were light saber swords resting on the little table in between bouts between sister and brother, and at one point three-year-old Horatio picked a stuffed elephant up from one of the chairs, handed it to me and said, “You are the elephant! What is your super power?”

            While my brain searched for the appropriate super power for my toy elephant, I could hear echoes from years past, “I saw chairs!” Memories don't get any better than this!

359 20151225 I Saw Chairs!

Sacred Space

           One Christmas when the girls were school age and we were just the three of us, I came up with what I knew were preciously imaginative gifts for Sarah and Amanda. In fact they were so imaginative for me that I almost did not follow through on putting them together for fear that I might stress myself out trying to top them the next year or continue with consistently creative ideas from then on. But these were too good to pass up – so I decided to explain that they were once in a lifetime gifts – the thoughts that created them were at the end of a road, not a new and continuing lifelong path.

            These particular gifts could not be wrapped and put under a tree – would the girls notice that there were not so many presents Christmas morning and be disappointed? And how was I going to distract them long enough to put each idea together in its respective place? Well, I did not have to worry about the secrecy or the surprise – everything fell into place perfectly.

            The idea I had for Sarah was to create a reading corner for her bedroom. She already had the area between her bed and the window declared her sacred space where she would go to read or just have some privacy. But this was so narrow and barren-seeming. The corner, however, just past the bed and the window, made a nice little area that could be for both privacy or for sharing with a sister or a Mom or both from time to time. I got Sarah a beanbag chair and a floor lamp and some pillows and afghans. The look made for a cozy reading corner.

            Now something I might not have mentioned before about Amanda is that she has always been teaching! When she came home from day care or school, she would set up her stuffed animals and dolls as her own special class, and Bodie would repeat everything she had heard from her teachers that day! So for Amanda's Christmas gift the year of my especial creativity, I went to the guest room downstairs and put a dry erase board on the wall at Bodie's level. And I purchased an old school desk from an antique shop. With a few markers and Merry Christmas! message on the board, the place was set – Amanda had her own classroom!

Amanda's Desk

            On Christmas morning, and I don't remember now how I got Sarah's corner together without her knowing – I might have asked the girls to eat breakfast in the sunroom while I wrapped some last minute gifts – but when everything was ready, I walked each girl to her respective new space – and they were so delighted! Books were soon strewn about the reading corner in Sarah's room, and dolls and stuffed animals were seated around Amanda's classroom.

            Today Virginia and Horatio's room is all reading corner – books everywhere – I read somewhere that books are not clutter, and truer words were never espoused! Today Amanda teaches piano and is married to Tony who is in school to be a teacher. For all of them their space is now the world! Knowing this - what a wonderful gift for a Mom.

358 20151224 Sacred Spaces

A Few of My Favorite Things

Mr. Fezziwig is my all time fictional hero!

The Christmas Post

"He had a broad face.." and he is cracked, alas

        Lo these many years ago when I still lived in Buffalo at 231 Kenville, I belonged to the Book of the Month Club. This did not mean I had to purchase a book of the month, so I did not overindulge. At this point in time, I remember getting a one volume collection of Edna Ferber, another of Ellory Queen, a collection by Dashiell Hammond, and another by James M. Cain – and except for Ellory Queen which I gave to my Dad, I still have all of them on my shelf here with me. The actual featured books of the month, whenever I was lulled into buying them, turned out to be momentarily titillating reads that were immediately forgettable.

The Christmas Ball

          For a few years, however, at Christmas, the BOMC featured stained glass ornaments – one per year. They appeared to be collectors' items, and since I very much like stained glass, I purchased one each year for four years. I don't know if they were discontinued after that or for some reason I stopped buying. But every Christmas I hang them in a window. And they are precious to me. 

         When I was very young, Mom had among the family Christmas decorations a table centerpiece that was a block of Styrofoam covered with plastic ivy – on top was a sleigh with a couple of reindeer, and there were four holes for candles. For some reason I was fascinated with this centerpiece and put it into my head to have something just like it someday.

Sleigh Centerpiece

          It was not until I was in my thirties and we moved to Oklahoma that I stopped by a local candle-shop one day and decided I was going to purchase something as close to that old Styrofoam centerpiece as I could find. I ended up with a wooden sleigh that holds three candles and the plastic ivy can weave between the tapers. It really was not at all like what Mom had on our table every Christmas – but now, after all this time, I really love it. Today it is in a window beneath the stained glass ornaments – it has new sprigs of plastic ivy that I got from Michaels last year at half price – spruced it up quite a bit!

          Hopefully when the girls and grandchildren think back on the Christmases of their youth they will remember how special the BOMC ornaments and red wooden sleigh had been to me!

357 20151223 A Few of My Favorite Things

Go Home Different

          It was probably over ten years ago now that I was signing a graduation card for someone and I thought to myself what a nice touch it would be to create my own graduation cards with my words of wisdom, philosophies of life, inside to share! I mean, what graduate wouldn't want to hear the kernels of truth that I have gleaned over the many years of my life! And I thought perhaps when I am older, I will decide on a series of statements that comprised my philosophy of life.

            The next thought that came to me was that I was already old and I should stop being lazy and come up with the words of wisdom that I allegedly already live by.

            So I thought and thought. Eventually I came up with six statements. And it surprised me to realize that of the six, one of them was a common phrase, one is something original by me that was added long after the first five were made into the list, two are statements of my Dad, and two are from the associate pastor of the church the girls and I attended here in Georgia for about ten years.

            There are many remembrances of the church we went to. Both the senior pastor and my Sunday school teacher are larger than life, and I still refer to things they said or did that have stuck with me in valuable ways over these many years. But it is the associate pastor, a lovely and shy-with-sermons woman, who made not one, but two statements which have helped comprise my list of philosophies of life.

            One of those statements came from a Christmas sermon – the story of the Magi. How did she even keep our attention that Christmas? She was talking about a story we have heard since the beginning of each of our lives – the story sits in our homes every holiday season – the Three Kings and their accompanying camels and their gifts all squeezed into our nativity scenes. And our brains as we were sitting there in the service – our brains were all clogged with things that need doing, keeping the kids behaving now, what we will do first once we are out of church, and so on the dizzying list continued. How could she have kept our attention?

our Nativity Set

            She might have begun with the chain of events with which we were all familiar, I don't remember, my mind was wandering – the wise men or maybe they were kings or maybe they were just wealthy students maybe there were three maybe more following a star that they believed was going to lead them to a new king. They found the baby and gave him gifts. And an angel told the Magi to return home a different way than the route on which they had come as a means of protecting the baby from others who wanted to know his whereabouts. Yes, we know that story – how was the associate pastor going to grab our attention?

           The Magi not only went home on a road different from the one on which they came, but they themselves were different than when they started. They had seen something special, a promise of the future – how could they have been the same when they got back home? That was the pastor's message for all of us that Christmas – she said go home different than the way you came. Make an effort to see, learn, make a difference each time you go out, be aware of the differences and reflect on them – and definitely travel a different route home.

            Go home different than the way you came. The grammar glitch catches you – and you realize there are two meanings to the statement – and it kind of spurs you on.

Not only is this on my list of words of wisdom – statement number three right after my Dad's two quotes on life, but it has become a kind of mission statement for me as a storyteller as well – to tellers and listeners alike, go home different than the way you came!

356 20151222 Go Home Different

The Little Green Man

     

Little Green Man 2015

        Peter Pan, Robin Hood, the Green Knight of Arthurian tales, the Green Man of Portland are just a few of the legends of the green man who is in the folklore of most of the world's cultures. He was originally from the woods, totally of nature, and represents to the people of the area the cycle of life. He has often been celebrated for his promise of survival, protection, new life with each spring.

          And so it came to pass that our family has its own Little Green Man!

          One Christmas, I think I was in high school or maybe even college at the time, and my brothers can correct me if they have the specifics a little clearer in their memories, one of the gifts from my grandmother to one of the kids was a plastic man with bendable head, arms and legs. His body was white while his topcoat was green. He was wearing a black top hat and black boots. With him was a little dog with bendable appendages, and a ball. I don't know who the gift was for, but for some reason, we all immediately made fun of the Little Green Man and his little dog too. We teased my grandmother mercilessly about the Little Green Man. But I can't remember why. Granny was a good sport about it all and laughed along with the rest of us.

I got the Little Green Man in 1981

          The next Christmas, someone else in the family opened a gift, not suspecting a thing, and inside was the Little Green Man! We laughed and teased all over again.

          And the next Christmas, another family member opened a gift, not suspecting a thing. Inside was the Little Green Man! The person should have suspected – so the laugh was even bigger this time.

          Every Christmas after that, the Little Green Man appeared in a wrapped gift for someone or other in the family. We learned to expect it, but were still surprised when the package was opened. 

          A new tradition had begun. A silly one – yet something that delights. No one can marry into the family without appreciation of the Little Green Man.

          All these many years later, the tradition has changed only in that the Little Green Man might skip a Christmas – just to keep us anxious about every gift, large or small, under the tree or arriving in the mail. In the meantime, he is taken well care of by the last recipient – usually center place on a chimney mantel or his very own shadow box. And just when you aren't paying attention, the Little Green Man shows up again in a Christmas package – and lo and behold, the smiles and laughs come out, just like in all the Christmases of yore!

          We say we don't know how this all got started – why we made fun of the Little Green Man to begin with, but now that we know the prevalence of the green man throughout the world's cultures, his allure and mystique – perhaps it was the magic of the Little Green Man himself ! Our family's making fun of him and teasing is what has made him last long after all the other gifts of that Christmas long ago have been lost or forgotten. The Little Green Man has become a connection that weaves between family members even as, over the years, some of us have gotten old and died, and others married and gave birth. He is our own Green Man legend!

355 20151221 Little Green Man

Pffft!

 

Horatio Christmas of 2014

      Today while on phone face-time with my daughter, Sarah, and her two children, I heard my mother's voice!

           Sarah said to Horatio, “Is Santa Claus going to go pffft! right over this house?”

           And while three-year-old Horatio waved his head no! vigorously, I shook my own head wondering how Mom's voice was coming out of Sarah's mouth!

           Every year, mostly at Christmastime, but it could happen anytime during the year actually because Mom loved instilling that kind of fear in others whenever, Mom would say those very words, “Santa is going to go pffft! right over this house!”

           And because pffft! does not translate precisely to the page, I will put into words how I have always pictured that phrase: Santa Claus is going to come flying in his sleigh on Christmas Eve – he will get close to our house and suddenly realize that the people in the house, or maybe it is just one person who happens to live there, are not, or is not, worthy of Christmas gifts – naughty is the word that will come to his mind, and he will change his mind about delivering presents to us and rather than stopping at the house in his sleigh, he will speed up and do a fly by – pffft! right over us!

           When Sarah and Amanda were growing up, they often heard “Santa is going to go pffft! Right over this house!” It was their Grandma Mary's voice coming out of their Mom's mouth! And now Sarah is channeling Grandma Mary and her threat to the next generation. I have no doubt Virginia and Horatio will be channeling it to their children also.

           It is so heartwarming when Christmas traditions get passed down through the generations, and family sayings live on!

354 20151220 Pffft!

We Had a Good Year....

     When it comes to Christmas traditions at our house, I have to confess to being one of those folks who not only writes out a newsletter, but I love receiving holiday newsletters from our loved ones. In fact, I archive them! Some people, perhaps even the majority of folks, scoff at the tomes written by individuals in lieu of a Christmas card – they are considered boastful and impersonal – but they don't have to be looked at that way, especially if we consider the season and the concept of unconditional love – accepting everyone, especially our loved ones, just the way they are.

      In the beginning, I sent Christmas cards. It seemed too impersonal just to sign my name, so I started adding messages to each card. After a while, the messages got longer in an effort to update people I had not seen. And then the messages began to all sound alike, so why not type up one version and pass it along to everyone?

      One year I realized I was sending a Christmas card along with a picture of the girls and a typed update. That seemed like too much – so I streamlined with just the newsletter and a picture of Sarah and Amanda.

      After a while I tried to have a theme for the newsletter that interwove with the update of our lives for the past year. And while I like to stick to the highlights, I tried not to sound too boastful. The newsletters got long mainly for my own creative outlet, and so then I tried to scale back.

      When Mike and I got together, he helped me figure out how to include pictures on the newsletter instead of separate snap shots. The newsletter got long again so as to include Mike's children and eventually the sons-in-law and grandchildren up to this point in time. Nowadays, the creative challenge is to come up with a theme which is a holiday message for the reader, a succinct update of everyone which is neither too boastful nor too humble and not too many words, a picture page collage that encapsulates the year and includes all.

      This year the theme was merely a repeated thank you to everyone in our lives special enough to be on our Christmas card list. A batch went out in the mail yesterday, and another today. The remainder will go out Monday after purchase of more envelopes and stamps. And some will be sent by e-mail. We send out a lot more Christmas greetings than we receive – but we would not know how to pare the list. Sometimes we run into folks we have not seen in years, some of them from Mike's list who I had not ever met before, and their faces light up when they see us because they know us so well from the annual newsletters, and it is clear that they have enjoyed receiving them!

      So to those who scoff at the Christmas newsletter – I don't care. Writing them, sending them, receiving them – this is one of the funnest parts of the holiday for me – every single year!

353 20151219 We had a good year...

I Had a Good Day

     It follows that the story of bestest now needs to be told. This is another word we used at home that was not generally considered grammatically correct out in the real world. Spellcheck still highlights it as something that needs to be fixed, but there are definitions in google for bestest, so I guess for now, it is probably in the category of slang.

       One of the parenting tips I read somewhere when my girls were very young was to ask each child the very best thing and the worst thing to have happened that day. This was a good conversation starter, and the kids got used to thinking throughout the day about which things they will talk about when Mom sprang the question.

       My Mom had Wednesday afternoons off from her job at the law office when I myself was young. I would be very excited every Wednesday coming home from school because I knew Mom would be there. I guess just her being there was comforting, because my excitement certainly was not for the conversation – and that was my fault. Mom would ask what was new or what did I learn at school that day, and I would invariably answer, “Nothing.” I thought she would not be interested in what had been specifically taught nor would she care about the gossip from the lunch table (which might also lead to her derision) – and since I could not think of anything else nor did I want to spend the energy on a thought-filled response, it was easy to just say “nothing.” Eventually Mom wondered if that was indeed what was happening at the schools – nothing - which is exactly what my father concluded whenever he saw me adding the score for pinochle - “what kind of math are they teaching you at that school anyway?”

       (I chuckle over all the complaints about today's new math – we had new math, a different new math, when I was in school – I can only conclude nowadays that new math is never new, nor is it ever accepted. It is just dissed by each previous generation in each previous generation's own way!)

      So I thought the what was the best part of your day and what was the worst questions might be better at inducing conversation from my own kids after school than what's new or what did you learn today? And they worked very well. We usually only spoke about the bestest thing today and did not focus on the worstest unless the latter was something that had totally overpowered the whole day.

       After a while Sarah would get to telling me her entire day in intricate detail. She would start with the line, “I had a good day,” and then she'd continue on with all the specifics. “First Mom woke me up and I waved goodbye to her from my window....” Sarah could take a long time getting through her day – I would try to listen attentively so as to ask questions afterward about things that might be important. Amanda was the opposite – she was not one to expound upon her day or even volunteer her bestest – but she did know how much it meant to me to hear what she had to say – so when Amanda wanted to share, she was articulate about her bestests.

       Nowadays I will ask Virginia and Horatio about the bestest thing in their day. Virginia has said, “Playing princess of the castle on the playground,” while Horatio has exuberantly responded, “Soccer!” Sometimes I will ask Mike, and sometimes his answer is “Coming home to you.”

       Dwelling on the bestests make for a good life and happy memories.

352 20151218 I had a good day....

Funnest

     Writing the word bestest in yesterday's blog post reminded me of the story about funnest. When Amanda was in Creekland Middle School in the late 1990s, I would pick her up at the end of the school day once a week to take her to her piano lesson. During one of those semesters, we also gave a ride to one of Amanda's friends who had the same piano teacher and a lesson after Bodie's.

       One day both girls were in the car, in the back seat, chatting away about their day. I heard Amanda say that something that had happened had been the funnest.

       Our guest then corrected Bodie, “Amanda, funnest is not a word – the correct way to say it is most fun.”

       My eyes quickly darted to the rear view mirror to see how my daughter was going to react to this.

       Amanda's eyes were already there to meet me. They had a look that said, “what?”

       I quickly explained, “sometimes I make up words and use them at home. Everyone else says most fun, but I like to say funnest.” Amanda had heard this word at home – I hoped this was adequate for the friend who was a little surprised we were capable of such a grievous grammatical error.

       My eyes went back to the rear view mirror once again, and Amanda eyes were waiting for me again. They had a look of having been betrayed – how could I have done that to her – allow a mistake in grammar in front of her friend?

       Now, these many, almost 20 years, later, the word funnest is in the dictionary – with the caveat that it is used in informal English only, for now. (The word is not even highlighted in spell-check! how about that?) I would not say we were the family that put funnest into almost acceptable modern usage by any means, just that we were one of the first funnest families to incorporate it into our casual after-school conversation!

351 20151217 Funnest

Bestest Gifts

Dad and Sarah in Alden, New York 1986

        Wrapping Christmas gifts the other day, I suddenly remembered the year that Dad said something to the effect that he likes to unwrap lots of presents on Christmas morning. So I bought a dozen golf balls and put each in its own box and wrapped each one. The boxes were different sizes so it would not be too obvious once he started opening them – and they made a decent sized pile under the tree. Dad got a big kick out of that.

        You know, it has always been my experience that men, especially Dads, are hard to shop for. They usually do not need much. And the things they might want tend to be expensive toys and/or tools. I never thought of my Dad as particularly materialistic, and I always admired his stoicism when he opened his small pile of packages each Christmas morning knowing that we were stuck for ideas. So imagine my surprise when he said, months before Christmas that one year, that he really likes a pile of a lot of presents. He quickly countered the image of materialism that popped into my head when he then said what was in the wrapping did not matter as much as the fact that there was just a bunch of things to unwrap.

        So that’s when the idea of the 12 golf balls hit me. And it turned out well. After that, we would get him golf balls every year – Dad by then was golfing for business and fun most afternoons during good weather. And they weren’t always wrapped individually. We just tried to be sure he got lots of stuff to open on Christmas morning.

        After a while he asked us not to buy golf balls anymore. Dad said he just loses them and they are too expensive to spend that kind of money on him! Whenever he ran out of golf balls, he would purchase used ones at the clubhouse. Sometimes we wrapped up golf balls we found in the neighborhood or where ever so that we were complying with his wishes for golf balls that were not brand new.

        One year I bought a few bags of candy corn when they became 50% off the day after Halloween. And those bags got wrapped up for Dad for Christmas. Candy corn was his favorite. He enjoyed unwrapping those too and understood why candy corn.

        Many years ago when Sarah was about to begin kindergarten, I asked people for their stories about their first day of school or what they remembered about kindergarten. Actually I still ask people about this and have yet to compile them – I was going to do it for Virginia’s first day of kindergarten this year and the day got away from me – maybe for Horatio’s first day the collection will be done and will include his big sister’s remembrance too!

        Well, before Sarah’s big day, I had a few stories from folks including a couple of dire ones from my Mom – she and her family lived in Newark, New Jersey during her kindergarten, and it was an awful experience. Asking my Dad for stories from his childhood I knew was risky – the question itself could be a trigger moment that caused bad feelings – but I decided I would ask anyway – at worst he would ignore the request or say no – at best (I thought) I would get a story about kindergarten that would be new to us because, as you might guess, Dad had never mentioned kindergarten that I could recall.

        In 1989, when Sarah began kindergarten, we were living in Plano, Texas, and Mom and Dad were in St. Augustine, Florida. Instead of exchanging letters, we talked on cassette tapes – they were 30 minutes on each side and usually we did not talk for more than one side – we would record over and over until the tape wore out and then we sprang for a new tape. This was easier than writing letters which I especially would tend to put off doing, and then Mom would be upset if two or three weeks went by without hearing from us. And tapes were less expensive than phone calls – long distance calls were charged by the minute – so we usually only spoke by phone on special occasions.

        The summer before Sarah began kindergarten, I sent a tape to the folks, and included on the tape was a modest request, “Mom has sent a few stories about kindergarten, but we were wondering if Dad has any kindergarten stories he would like to share with us?”

        When they got the tape in the mail, they saved it for dinner, playing it at the table while they ate. When the tape was finished, Mom pressed the off button, turned to Dad and said, “Do you have any memories of kindergarten?”

        Dad said that he did not go to kindergarten!

        Mom never knew that.

        Dad said his mother thought he was so smart that she put him directly into first grade!

Dad and me September 1980

        Then Dad started talking and did not stop talking until he had told Mom the whole story of his childhood! There was so much Mom had never heard before. What she had heard before over the course of their many years of marriage was just bits and pieces out of context – she could never put it all together – what happened when, why things happened, what had been so horrible. Finally, at last she knew.

        The next day Mom repeated the story on the tape and sent it back to me. It filled two cassettes. I still have them.

        When people ask what is the best gift I ever received. My answer is ready – aside from actual human family members, the best gift I ever got came in the mail one day on two cassette tapes. It was not Christmas, and all I had done to receive it was to ask one innocent question.

It is worth all the candy corn and golf balls in the world!

350 20151215 Bestest Gifts

Pots of Gold

       

         My mother’s parents, Clark and Dolly, grew up in Canada, just the other side of the border from Niagara Falls. In 1925, ninety years ago now, they eloped! They got married and moved to this side of the border, to Buffalo, where the jobs were believed to be more plentiful and paid better than what was available in Ontario at the time. And for a couple of years things went really well. Clark and Dolly both worked, made good money, and were even able to save some.

        That all changed in 1929, when the Wall Street Crash happened. Dolly was already staying home taking care of the children who had come along, and that was okay. But Clark was working and trying to stay employed – it was hard when companies and factories were closing down all around him. Every time he got a job, the place would close soon after, and the next day Clark would be the first in line at a place where there were hints of hiring. It was very tough going for both of them.

        All through my childhood I heard stories about the Great Depression and the heroics of the people who struggled through it. Clark and Dolly were the picture that could be posted next to the phrase hard times which is synonymous with the Depression. In the end, Clark provided for his family, and Dolly made ends meet, but it was tough.

        One of the jobs Clark had during the Depression was at a pots and pans factory. I don’t know the name of the company or the address – I wish I did. All I know is that it was a pots and pans factory. And the quality must have been a little better than what Clark and Dolly already had, because Clark brought some of the pots and pans home! I don’t know if there was a boxed set sitting around one day and Clark picked it up and brought it home, or if he snuck a piece at a time under his jacket and brought it home, or if they were factory rejects that he brought home – they weren’t going to be sold, and yet they were not supposed to be taken by the employees. All I know is that there were pots and pans from the factory brought home which were not supposed to be, and Dolly was using them.

        That is, until the day that Clark arrived home from work looking as pale as can be. He asked Dolly to give him all the pots and pans that had come from the factory. She knew better, when he looked like that, to ask any questions, so she took a pot off the stove, emptied it, cleaned it out and gave it to Clark. Then she went into the cupboards and retrieved the others, making sure the lids were with them. And once all of them were in Clark’s arms, he walked outside and buried them in the backyard!

        When he came back inside, Clark said that one of his friends at work had gotten fired that day because he had the factory’s pots and pans at home! Clark did not want to get fired. No one was to ever know that there had been any of the factory’s merchandise in their house!

        About two weeks after my Grandmother told me this story, she wanted to take it all back again! “Denny! You must never repeat that story – it will bring shame and embarrassment to the family!”

        “How can something that happened fifty years ago bring shame to the family?”

        If Dolly remembered the address of where they had been living at the time, she was not forthcoming with it!

        I was so glad she had told me that story. So often we only hear about the heroics of our ancestors – their struggles and victories. It was wonderful to hear about a character flaw, a screw up, weakness – this shows that our forebears were regular people after all. Human. And I’m human. And maybe if I’m human like they were, I’m also capable of heroics like they were – it could happen, it’s in the genes!

        Someday, if it hasn’t already happened, someone in Buffalo is going to go into his backyard and for whatever reason start digging and will come upon a set of pots and pans, and he will not have any clue as to how they came to be there – he will scratch his head and wonder upon what appears to be nothing more than a pile of junk. But if our family could only know about it! We would cast our eyes and see something completely different. I’ll even be corny enough to say it, in someone’s backyard in Buffalo are the pots of gold that make this story complete!

349 20151215 Pots of Gold