Category: Family

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Adventures in Babysitting

I was raised in the belief that God will never give you more to handle than you are able with God’s help.  There have been many instances in my life when I’ve leaned on that belief to get me through.  Yesterday was one of those days.

It all started the night before.  Dave and I were crashed on the couch catching up on last Sunday’s episode of the Mentalist.  I was playing WordWelder on my I Pad and mentally looking forward to the next day.  Tuesday is one of my “free” days; meaning I’m not committed to any one activity.  My plans included a haircut and then a dash to Kroger to take advantage of “senior” citizen discounts.  (Kroger deems you a senior at 55.)  It was going to be a good day.

Then the doorbell rang.

Dave and I looked at each other.  It was 9:30 and we weren’t expecting anyone.  In the knowledge that nothing good can come of opening your door after dark, I think Dave was waiting for me to get up.  I decided as a member the “weaker sex”  I would sit back and let him suck it up and go to the door.

On the other side of the front door, in the dark was our neighbor from across the street.  She’d had a family emergency come up that would require all the adult members of her household to be away for a couple of hours the following morning and was in need of someone to babysit for her two youngest sons.  Since I had no other pressing business the next day other than my long-awaited hair appointment, I agreed to help her out.

It was the right thing to do, but it was also frightening.  I didn’t know her children other than to wave to them, and the youngest two were 10 months and 2 years old; or should I say young!

It’s been a very long time since I’ve had charge to wee ones.  It’s been almost thirty years since I brought me last baby home and even my grandchildren’s ages are in double digits!  What was I going to do with two unknown very little boys?

I said some prayers and hit the deck running first thing in the morning.  I picked up the assortment of cat toys strewn on the family room floor as well as any potential choking hazards or heaving things that could be pulled down on a baby.  Then I grabbed some on my “Nana” toys I thought might interest the boys.  As I was taking one last look around, I noticed the entourage of adults and children heading across the street so I ducked into the powder room for one last time.  Moments later, the doorbell rang again.

In just a couple of minutes, my entryway held a pile of baby paraphernalia and I had one wee one by the hand and another tucked upon my hip.  It was just like old times!

For the next four hours, my little charges and I got along just fine.  As kids go, Chase and Ethan were fairly easy-going.  The baby had a runny nose that required a lot of wiping and made it difficult for him to take his bottle.  His appetite was good though and I enjoyed sitting him on my lap and feeding him his toddler dinner with my little baby spoon.

It all came back to me; cooking with a baby on my hip, the nose wiping, the formula mixing.  I was able to figure out how to assemble the pac’n’play which turned out to be a life saver.  Ethan was a fast mover and after chasing him for a couple of hours, I needed a break.

After lunch I there was a definite change in the atmosphere in the family room.  I asked Chase if he’d pooped his pants.  No, he said.  I asked again, reassuring him that I wouldn’t yell at him if he had.  He admitted that he had.  Then I asked if he’d be more comfortable in clean pants.  Yes, he agreed.  So we went into the kitchen to clean him up.  I thought he’d just lie on the rug, but he assumed a position very similar to a Yoga “downward dog”.  It proved to be efficient, but nonetheless, a stinky, gag-filled experience, I am embarrassed to admit.

 In many ways, spending the morning with Chase and Ethan was the perfect storm; a way to reconnect with my baby tending skills so I will be ready for my next wave of grandchildren in the next few years or so.  By the time they were picked up, they were clean, happy and luckily ready to leave!

Sadly, I don’t have the stamina I had thirty years ago.  I still made me trip to Kroger but felt like I was dragging the whole way through the store even though I stopped by the Starbucks counter first!

Once I was home and plopped in my chair for a rest, I was content.  Spending the morning with little ones was an adventure, but it was also full of cuddles, giggles and warmth.   I don’t know how I did it so many years ago when Dave was busy cruising with the Navy, the memories are so foggy.  I do know that I wasn’t alone.

 

 

 

 

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A Tale of Two Sisters (and a Garmin)

It was the best of rides, it was the worst of rides…

A couple of weeks ago my sister Barb and I took a road trip to visit our parents in Hiawassee, Georgia. It might not seem like a big deal, two middle aged women driving almost 400 miles together, but the experience two sisters and a Garmin sharing that much time and road is very different than the same trip taken with a spouse for instance. Neither one of us are accustomed to driving for more than a couple of hours, especially on unfamiliar roads.

Barb and I on a previous adventure, hunting at Plow and Hearth.
Barb and I on a previous adventure, hunting at Plow and Hearth.

Barb and I, for the most part are very much alike. So, having two of us in any one place is like the same personality in two bodies as opposed to persons with multiple personalities, where more than one personality inhabits one body. In these cases, the personalities exist to protect each other and rarely converse with each other. Barb and I exist to engage each other, each one egging the other on. When together, we share very few quiet moments. Instead, we tease, chat, giggle and eventually begin to laugh so hard we are in danger of tears “running down our legs”. It is a well known family disorder inherited from our maternal Grandmother, one that has been both a plague and a blessing. When you combine these facts with placing faith in a Garmin to get us to our destination, nothing but hilarity can ensue.

Our trip out from Ruckersville started well. We had decided in advance to take US 29 to Greensboro and heading west on I40 instead of taking I81 as the Garmin recommended, preferring to stay on flatter terrain and to avoid the many trucks on 81. So, we were fated to endure several minutes of “recalculating” from the Garmin’s British voice as she repeatedly attempted to reroute us back onto her intended course. (I opted for a British woman’s voice thinking she sounds a bit more polite.) It was a crisp, sunny morning and since the schools were all on Spring Break, there was almost no morning traffic but the further south we headed down 29, the cloudier it became and by the time we reached Greensboro, it had begun to rain and we were ready to pull over to eat and switch drivers.

One thing I have noticed about I40 is that the services are not conveniently located right off the exits as they are on say, I81. Even though the sign may say there is a gas station at the next exit, as you proceed down the ramp you soon discover that station is at least a mile down the road and getting back on the interstate isn’t always as simple as retracing your route, especially if you listen to your Garmin.

In our case, after topping off the tank, the Garmin sent us on an alternative route to an on-ramp that was currently closed off with detour signs sending us further down the road. As I studied the tiny screen showing our location I heard Barb say, “I’m sorry, Monica” as she slammed on the brakes and we slid ever so slightly to a stop just inches in front of a ROAD CLOSED sign between us and on-coming traffic! No harm done, but a little shaken, Barb backed us up and headed in a logical direction, with my Garmin “recalculating” in its British female voice. Back on course, we continued to our destination through increasingly worsening weather which eventually turned from rain into sleet.

This combination of events might cause some travelers to become quiet and reserved but not Barb and I. As members of a large and colorful family rich with warm and comical stories, our close encounter with a potential tragedy just became something else to laugh about. Within minutes the story had been rewritten into a Saturday Night Live sketch with the two of us laughing about our near miss. I suppose our retelling of the story of the Garmin sending us into on coming traffic and the laughter helped neutralize the fear factor, keeping us at ease about the rest of the trip which, as it turned out was a good thing because during our last leg of the trip through the Nantahala National Forest was pretty foggy.

Again Barb was at the wheel. We decided to pull over for one last time in Ashville to “balance our fluids” – piddle and get some coffee. The McDonalds we stopped at was pretty much in the center of town and it was rush hour. Long story short, we got turned around and ended up taking a long back route back to the highway along railroad tracks. It was raining again and in the distance I could hear a low rumbling sound, like a train. I listened quietly and kept a watch out for wind, cautiously looking for anything that looked like a tornado. Then, as we drove further down the road, I saw the source of the sound; a brick roundhouse! I don’t think I’d ever seen one before but thanks to Thomas the Tank Engine and The Little Engine That Could, I knew what they were. It was round, it was huge and it was loud! Once I was sure we weren’t driving into a tornado, I shared my concern about the possibility of impending doom with Barb and we got a good laugh about it.

Finally, after eight or so hours on the road, we reached our destination. Over the course of the next several days, Barb and I had lots more to laugh about. Together with our parents and brother Scott and his wife, Debbie, we shared the adventures of our trip, and the joy of being together. The only thing that would have made it complete would have been if our other two brothers and sister could have been there as well.

For our trip home, we decided to take the Garmin’s advice and take I81. For the most part, it was a great drive, again it was sunny but this time very warm. We were treated by beautiful mountain vistas, with pear trees and redbuds blooming to announce the arrival of spring. Except for the Garmin loosing satellite connections through the mountains, it was an uneventful trip until we reached Blacksburg, VA where for some reason the Garmin kept insisting we turn left and then make a “U” turn on the interstate. She’d become like the “gal crying wolf” at this point and the absurdity of her requests made her the object of ridicule.

Eventually we made it back to Ruckersville. It was good to be back in familiar territory where I no longer had to listen to the polite British voice tell me which way to go. In fairness, she usually guides me to where I need to go pretty well. Maybe it was just the combination of my sister and I in the car that affected her navigational skills, or just flukes in traffic flow due to road maintenance, but for whatever reason, my Garmin certainly kept us amused and on our toes during our trip, which has now just been added to the pile of family stories.

I do want to give a shout out to Peggy at the Hiawassee Feed ‘n Seed who made me feel so special when my brother, Scott introduced me to her. (She reads my Chronicles.) It was the first time I’ve met anyone I didn’t already know who reads my blog. It was a pleasure meeting you and I hope you do give me a call when you head up here to tour Monticello!

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Grown-Up Snow Day

A couple of weeks ago I wistfully wondered when we would get a good snowfall.  I dreamed of finally inflating the snow-tube I got Dave for Christmas two years ago and taking rides down the hill in the backyard.  Well, as they say, you should be careful what you wish for.

For several days the weather folk had been predicting a major storm was potentially headed our way.  Over the weekend, while checking in with The Weather Channel, I discovered what I thought was an advertisement above the weather map turned out to be the name given our winter storm, Saturn.  The maps showed us residing in the epicenter of the maximum snowfall for our area.  With a named storm and threatening maps, I decided to run to Foodlion for an extra gallon of milk and a couple of boxes of cookies.  We already had a pantry full of canned goods and other ready to eat stuff, but cookies are best in times of stress.

10 PM Tuesday.
10 PM Tuesday.

As predicted, the snow began to fall here last Tuesday night at about ten o’clock.  The snowflakes were big and wet.  I was so excited at the prospect of my sledding adventure the next day that it was difficult to fall asleep.  Once I did, my rest was interrupted several times by the sounds of the power coming back on.  Apparently, every electrical device in our house has some kind of buzz or beep associated with interrupted electrical current.  Each time the power resumed, the washer buzzed, the smoke detectors beeped and the CD player in the kitchen clicked in a vain attempt to recapture the disc it had ejected when the power went out.  All this buzzing, beeping and clicking was punctuated by the jingling of kitty collar bells as Izzie and Purrl scurried from room to room to escape the noises and find peace.

Realizing that maybe this wasn’t going to be the kind of event I hoped for with snow play and warm cocoa, I lay awake mentally inventorying my dry goods planning cold meals for at least a couple of days.  Cereal for breakfast, pb&j for lunch and ham sandwiches for dinner….

5:00 AM Wednesday
5:00 AM Wednesday (before the power went out again)

 

A little before 5:00 AM I thought I’d take advantage of a moment with power to brew a pot of coffee so we could at least have something hot to drink with our breakfast. But, just as I pushed the power button on the coffee maker, there was a green flash outside and everything went dark again.  I calmly went to the pantry to grab my portable light bulb but it was dead.  The second one worked and I went to the garage to grab the lantern.  It worked fine but the big flashlight next to it was also dead.

All this activity had me too wound up to go back to bed.  Instead, I threw the switch on the gas fireplace and after a pregnant pause followed by a reassuring “poof” I had heat!  I curled up on the couch with a yellow fuzzy afghan and napped there for an hour or so.

Breakfast was easy.  We had plenty of milk and cereal, juice and fruit so that part was pretty normal.  Sadly, the coffee never made it through its cycle so we were reduced to drinking Cokes for our morning jolt; a truly Southern tradition, but not one I readily embrace except as a means of avoiding a caffeine headache.

Not long after we’d finished our breakfast, the power came back on!  In short order the aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the house and we held warm mugs in our hands.  The sky was really gray and it was still snowing pretty hard so we decided to wait a while before we headed out to shovel and then play.

10:00 AM Wednesday morning.
10:00 AM Wednesday morning.

By the time we actually got bundled up and out the door to shovel, the temperature was close to 40 degrees and the snow was becoming wetter and heavier.  Dave fired up the snow-blower and headed down the drive while I cleared the walk with my ergonomic snow shovel.

The news reporters called this “heart attack” snow because of its density and weight.  It was quite a job clearing the ten inches or so of snow from our sixty foot drive.  It looked like Dave had the easier job pushing the snow-blower but after I gave it a try, I decided I’d rather go back to the shovel.  Although it moves the snow faster, it is loud and is harder to push up the drive than it looked.  I think had the snow been lighter and fluffy, it might have been another story.  We’ll see, hopefully next year.

Our snow removal took a little over an hour.  It was after lunch time when we finished and I was sopping wet, pooped and hungry.  So, we came inside, put our hats and gloves over the heat ducts and warmed up some chili and rice and then settled down for well deserved afternoon naps.

No, we never did inflate the snow tube.  We didn’t make a snowman or even throw a snowball like we did when we were kids.  Instead, we did the grown-up stuff that grown-ups do.  Today, I am reminded of the grown-up stuff by a really stiff lower back.  I am also aware of just how poorly prepared I was had the power outage continued.  At least two of my back up lights had dead batteries and it probably would be a good idea to have a couple of cans of Sterno on hand to at least heat my supply of canned goods when my gas grill has ten inches of snow on top.

Red sky at night, sailors delight (and mountaineers too!)
Red sky at night, sailors delight (and mountaineers too!)

Despite the lack of snow play time, it winter storm Saturn was a beauty to behold.  Seeing everything around me blanketed in white, hearing the insulating quiet of the snow and then the giggles of the little ones across the street as they slid down the hill in the front lawn with their daddy all made the day one to remember.  But then, as the sun went down and the day ended, God smiled on us and promised nicer weather on the way.

Last night I slept well.  The excitement and physical work of the day had worn me out.  My snow lust for this year had been sated.  I think I’ll readjust my wistful wonderings to springtime and start looking for the signs of new life.  Spring is only two weeks away.

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Snowy Memories

It’s snowing again!  This winter I have thoroughly delighted in the many flurries we’ve had; each one a lovely surprise.  This morning for example, just minutes after the weather man predicted a long cold rainy day, literally out of the blue (or grey) the sky was full of big, white, fluffy flakes dancing  to the ground. Here at my kitchen table, facing my back yard, I have a front row seat to the snow show.  It is exciting in its unexpectedness.

These flurried moments are such a gift!  They hold such a possibility of excitement; school closings, power outages, driving challenges.  Granted, not all of these things are welcomed, depending on your perspective.  As a kid I remember sitting by the radio waiting for my school’s name to be called on snowy mornings, hoping for the blessed “snow day”.  My mother, on the other hand, I am certain wished that school would not be cancelled and she could have a few hours of peace and quiet.

Bundled and ready for a snowy adventure.
Bundled and ready for a snowy adventure.

Snow is among the top headlines of my childhood memories.  Living in the snow belt of Western New York State, snow was a given during any winter season.  Despite the snow and ice, most of my memories of cold wintery weather are so warm; memories of sledding, making snow angels and building snow forts.

To protect us from the cold we were bundled in thick layers of clothing that took a long time to wriggle into.  Multiply that by four or five and you get an idea of what my poor mother would go through to get us ready to brave the cold on snow days and school days.  Yes, even on school days we had to be bundled against the cold.  It was a long walk down to the end of the driveway to wait for the bus.  As a little girl in the early 60’s, I was expected to wear a skirt to school regardless of the weather, although we were allowed to wear snow-pants underneath to and from.  And then there were the boots.  The boys wore big black rubber boots with metal locking buckles.  I can’t remember what color my boots were, only the difficulty in sliding them over my shoes.  Mom heard somewhere that if we put our shoes in bread bags and then slid them into the boots, the boots would slide on easily.  It worked well, but I can’t say that I really liked wearing Wonder Bread wrappers over my shoes.  Luckily, we weren’t that fashion conscious in those days.

Once out in our yard, we had what seemed like an immense ice cap to explore.  A large pine tree with low hanging branches sat in our front yard. The weight of the snow would bend the branches to meet the ground forming a perfect shelter beneath.  When the snow was really deep, we would tunnel out a doorway and to the inside and pretend we were Eskimos.   It was so very quiet in our igloo under those pine branches  insulated by several inches of snow and the air was full of the sweet smell of the pine needles.  The protection was so perfect that the floor of our shelter was green grass, an amazing sight for children in a wintery yard.

On one side of our house was a big hill perfect for snow coasters.  Since Dad worked all day, the only time he could play with us was in the evening.  So, he put a light atop a pole at the top of the hill to light the hillside.  After a good snow, we’d go out to the hill and patiently wait while Dad made our coaster run. Slowly and intentionally he would move down the slope, rocking back and forth,  creating a deep furrow and banking curves that would steer us clear of the pond to the far right at the base of the hill.  Once the run was ready, we’d take turns flying down the hill under the our special light keeping the dark away.  We older kids rode solo but the little ones rode down with Dad or even Mom sometimes.  My mother has never really been the outdoorsy type, so to have her play with us was extra special.

Eventually it was time to go inside so one by one, we’d file into the house, stomping the snow from our boots.  We were both cold and sweaty, our faces red from the cold.  We’d peel off the many layers of clothing, kick off our boots and head upstairs in our stocking feet.  I’d like to say we all carefully hung up our coats, hats, snow pants and mittens but I’m sure we left a big heap of wet clothes and bread bags on the floor left by the door.  Sometimes, Mom would give us our jammies fresh from the dryer.  I can still smell the clean freshness and feel the coziness of that warm flannel against my cold skin.  It felt like love.

When my own children were in school,  I would watch the television, to see if I could just let them sleep a bit longer and have a day “off the clock”.  Living in Virginia

Handing on the tradition
Handing on the tradition

was much different than where I grew up.  Days with snow on the ground were few and very far in between.  Sometimes years would pass without so much as a good flurry.  A couple of times I remember see the flurries in the air and hurrying to bundle the kids up so they could at least feel the flakes on their faces, or try to catch one on their tongues.  A couple of inches of snow on the ground was a time for celebration, to dig out whatever warm clothes and boots I might have had for the kids (which at times was plastic bags over their sneakers) and go out into the cold to play in the snow while it lasted.  The whole neighborhood would be out front, building snowmen and making snow angels.  I tried so hard to pass on the legacy of fun in the snow, even if it was only for a few hours or in some cases, minutes.

But then, like today, all to quickly, as if a switch were thrown, the flurries have ended.  Now it is sunny and bright.  The pavement and deck are dry and except for my memory of a spontaneous flurry, the snow is gone.  But in my mind’s eye, the hill is lit and the coaster run is ready for another flight down.

 

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Hairs Gone By

The other day while I was visiting with my Mom via FaceTime  she paid me a compliment on my current haircut.  I’ve been letting my hair grow for the past year, in an attempt to grow a bob.  My former stylist, Wendy, used to say that whenever a woman has an identity crisis, she grows a bob.  I’m not certain that I’m going through a crisis, but I have changed my hair a lot through the years.

The resulting "pixie" cut.
The resulting “pixie” cut.

The first time I can remember being aware of my hair having a style was the day I decided to play beauty parlor in the back yard with a pair of safety scissors.  Iremember waltzing from tree to tree, drifting in my own world, chatting with my imaginary stylists as I cut random locks if hair from my head.  My poor mother was totally unaware of my snipping until she called me in for lunch and noticed the clumps of blonde hair on my shoulders.  At first she thought she’d be able to even it out herself but I’d done too good a job for that.  I was whisked to the beauty parlor and my one time little girl bob became a “pixie”.

I don’t remember the next time I went to a shop for a haircut.  Most of the time, my mother was my hairdresser.  She was very good with barber shears and could shape and feather hair.  It was always so exciting to get my hair cut.  Mom would sit me in the high chair (we had a high chair in our kitchen until I was twelve or thirteen) and wet my hair with a comb dipped in warm water.  Then, she would bend down in front of me, comb and snip, step back, examine, comb and snip some more.  Eventually she’d say, “You’re done” and I would run up to the bathroom to check out my new do in the mirror.  Many times my eyes would begin to tear up.  I would wonder why I wanted my hair cut in the first place and then walk back down to Mom in the kitchen.  She’d ask “Do you like it?”  I don’t remember what I said, but I hope I never made her feel bad.  As I look back at my childhood photos, my hair almost always looked nice.

Along with the variety of cuts, my fine blonde hair had its share of permanent waves.  Mom would sit me in the kitchen with a towel around my neck, carefully rolling my hair on the tiny perm rods which I would hand to her alternately with end papers.  Even though the whole process should only have taken a couple of hours, our kitchen was generally a three-ring circus, with the constant traffic of my younger brothers and sisters, cats, dogs and the occasional phone call interrupting my mother’s train of thought.  Luckily Mom was a professional ring master and eventually the perm was done.   Except for the smell of the chemicals, I loved getting a perm.  My hair is so soft that even rollers couldn’t form a curl that would hold without the help of Little Miss Toni.

Early days of hair setting.
Early days of hair setting.

I started sleeping in rollers very early on. By the time I was ten, I was rolling my own hair every night before bed and carefully wrapping the curlers with an old stocking around my head to keep them in place as I slept.  Mines weren’t the soft pink sponge rollers either, they were black brush rollers with bristles inside that stuck in your scalp to hold them in place.  I never really mastered the use of picks, so my rollers were clasped together with bobby pins.  I was pretty good at the rolling too, I didn’t even need a mirror. Despite any discomfort the rollers may have caused, in the morning I had a head full of bouncing blonde curls.

My quest for finding my hair history evolved into a much larger task than I had expected.  For years I’d been saying I was going to organize all the family pictures into one spot, collecting them from the various albums and boxes where they were stashed.  It took me two days but I finally finished late yesterday afternoon.  What I learned by looking at close to 2,500 photos was that for most of my life, my hair has been in a bob, and it looked good!  It wasn’t just a style I ran to out of

uncertainty, instead, it seems to be a style that suits me and is me.   So, I guess in my case, Wendy was right!  The difference is that when I go for a bob, I’m not entering an identity crisis but coming out of one.

Hair today.
Hair today.

For so much of my life, I’ve wanted my hair to look like someone else so I could look like someone else. I would want to look prettier, sexier, more provocative or alluring.   That’s why I would cry after a haircut; even though my hair had changed, from my forehead down, I was still me.  For too long, that just wasn’t good enough for me.  It may have taken me 57 years to figure it out, but thank God I have.  Looking back through all the years of my childhood, adolescence, young adulthood, early parenthood and on to the present, the hair may have changed, but the face is still me and I’m happy with that.

 

 

 

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In Humble Thanks

I didn’t want this Thanksgiving to pass without comment.  This year I feel especially blessed, or at least have had the time to recognize and note my blessings.

This year, as it turns out, I again was able to escape cooking the Thanksgiving dinner – something to be truly thankful for!  When I finally determined that no one was relying on my hospitality this year, I promptly invited myself to the Berryman’s and booked a room at the nearest motel.

So, first thing Thanksgiving morning, Dave and I loaded up the car with our bags and a couple of side dishes and a pie and headed east to Suffolk for dinner with family.

Norman Rockwell’s “Freedom From Want”

Naturally our family meal didn’t look like the Norman Rockwell painting with the crisp white table cloth and perfect bird.  And, thankfully, Nana and Poppa have managed to hang on to their youthful facades a bit better.  But the essentials of family celebration were all there; warm fellowship, kids bouncing in kinetic anticipation and more food than rightly should be assembled in one kitchen at any given time unless you are raising a barn in your yard.

Before sitting down to eat, we gathered in a large circle in the family room and joined hands in prayer.  Caleb offered a sincere and comprehensive prayer and asked for God’s blessing on us and our meal.  Then, in traditional fashion, the children’s plates were filled first and they were installed at the “kid’s table” in the kitchen followed by the adults who retreated to the dining room.

From the dining room, where the silence of serious eating had set in, the giggles and hoots from the kitchen were often heard, reminding me of the years I spent at the “kids tables” at my grandmothers’ homes.  In my teen years I resented my exile there, but last Thursday, I tried so had to put myself back in my full skirted cotton dress with the crinoline petticoat, white bobby socks and mary janes sitting at a wobbly card table with the companions of my youth; siblings, cousins,  as well as younger aunts and uncles all exiled from grown-up company. Even though it seemed like torture at time, with the boys’ rude noises, the whining of some little one who wanted their mommy or the occasional glass of milk that tumbled over onto a plate or lap, it was nonetheless, as much a part of the Thanksgiving ritual as turkey and pumpkin pie.

Yes, I have so much to be thankful for this year but first and foremost, I am thankful for my family; old and new, past and present.  Collectively they have given me more than I can even begin to express.  For this, I offer a concise prayer of thanksgiving.

 

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Engagement – The Ring and the Kiss

Last Saturday evening, while standing in the check-out line at the new Trader Joe’s, Dave and I were trying to mentally determine the most efficient path out of the new shopping center parking lot (which is one of the most poorly designed I’ve seen lately). I reached into my purse to check one of my navigation apps and noticed I’d missed a text message.

I moved the green puzzle piece down to the lock and opened a photo of a delicate hand sporting a shiny engagement ring. Under the photo were the word, “Surprise! Jan and I are engaged!”

The long awaited, highly anticipated ring!

We’d been waiting a long time to hear those words (or see them) and we couldn’t be happier. Jan is a good match for our Maggie. When she first brought him home, he seemed too good to be true. I pulled Maggie aside and asked, “Okay, what’s wrong with him?” It wasn’t that Jan showed any signs of obvious flaws, but because he seemed perfect; just the kind of guy you want your daughter to bring home. From the beginning, I hoped we could keep him, and now we can!

This Friday, on our way home from Thanksgiving festivities in Suffolk, we stopped in Richmond to get together with Jan’s family to celebrate our children’s engagement.

It has been clear for a while that Jan’s parents, Arved and Teresa, have been waiting for this moment in the same joyful anticipation as Dave and I.   Last Thanksgiving, when we were all together at our house, Teresa and I shared moments in quiet conspiracy washing dishes and comparing notes, looking for signs of any upcoming nuptuals.  We knew it was bound to happen, we just didn’t know when.  So, we have spent the last year with hopeful resignation of children waiting for Santa to finally pop down the chimney.

And now it has happened!  The ring has been given and accepted, the search for the perfect dress has begun and a date at the venue is about to be set.  Our dreams have come true and this chapter of the fairy tale is about to end.  And what better way to end it than with a kiss!

In the words of the immortal Ren and Stimpy, “Happy, Happy. Joy! Joy!”
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Memories of Ocean Beach, NJ

Grandma and Grandpa Waugh’s beachside summer cottage in Lavallette, NJ.

My husband Dave spent practically every summer of his early life at the Jersey Shore.  His Grandma and Grandpa Waugh had a small summer cottage in Lavallette, just north of Seaside Heights.  In June, the five of them; Dave, his sister Ginny, his parents and dog, Blondie, would pile into the car and make the journey east from Des Moines, IA where his dad would drop them off for the summer at 16 E Shore Way in the beach side community of Ocean Beach.

Compared to the McMansion beach homes we rent down at Nags Head, it was a modest (tiny) square home with two bedrooms, a living/dining area, galley kitchen and bath.  It had a small heater, but no air-conditioning.  It sat on a sandy lane in a row of identical summer homes in a variety of pastel beachy colors.  Life for the summer dwellers revolved around the beach and surf, the house was merely shelter from the sun, a place to eat, clean up and sleep.

Dave’s dad was an only child so naturally Dave and Ginny were doted on for the summer.  Their days were spent on the beach playing in the sand or fishing with Grandpa.  Grandma, whom I had the pleasure of knowing, was the sweetest of woman.  Every Friday night she would make Chef Boyardee pizzas (the mix from the box) for the kids and serve them with ice cold Coca Colas.  Years later she told me that she had never even tasted either of them, they were for the grand kids.

Dave and Ginny on the beach at Lavallette in the 60’s

After his Grandpa passed on, Grandma moved in with Dave and his family.  By then they had moved back to New Jersey and eventually, since his mom went back to work, it was only Dave and Grandma making the annual trip back to the shore house.  It was there he worked his summer jobs ranging from life-guarding to pumping gas.

Not long after we began dating in the spring of 1974, Dave and I and another couple (whose names I can’t even remember) went down to the shore for the weekend.  Dave had kept a key to his grandma’s house and I guess you could say we were there “under the radar”.  As it turned out, the water had been turned off so we didn’t spend as much time as we had planned since the closed bathroom was TeePee Subs down on the corner!

Through the years, I would go spend a weekend when my work schedule allowed and Dave and I were “on”.    I remember the warmth of the sun, the expanse of pristine beach and quiet evenings on the glider on the screened porch with the sounds of the surf mixing with the “Carol Burnett Show” from the TV inside.  It is a sweet memory.

The last time I saw the beach house was ten years ago.  Dave, Ginny, her husband George and I were together in New Jersey following their mother’s memorial service.  After leaving her ashes at the family plot in Elizabeth, we decided to drive down to Toms River to spend the night.  We made a pilgrimage to Ocean Beach and walked down E Shore Way, noting that air conditioning had been added and many of the homes had been knocked down and larger structures put in their place and then walked further and up over the dunes to survey the beautiful beach as the setting sun played across the water.  The memories flooded back for me, I can only imagine what it was like for Dave and Ginny with the ghosts of so much of their childhoods running through the shallows, bobbing in the waves, building castles in the sand or casting their lines into the surf.

These past few days these memories have become even more precious to me.  I suppose it’s because if this place no longer exists, my memories become less grounded.  The pictures of the area in the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy are those of total devastation.  The Jersey Shore has been physically altered by nature such a way that it will never be the same.  That doesn’t mean it can never be a place for families to go and build memories again, it just won’t be the same.  So many of the older homes are gone for good, it is unlikely that they will be rebuilt in the simple, post-war style.  Perhaps an era has been washed away to make way for the next.

I hope it’s a good one.

Aerial view near Seaside Heights

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My Heinz Birthday

Monica Chronicles – the early days.

Tomorrow is my birthday; my 57th birthday to be precise.  I now have had as many birthdays as Heinz has varieties.

  I don’t know why it always comes as such a shock as each September rolls around and my age clicks up a notch.  Because my birthday falls later in the year, I’ve been thinking I’m a year older since New Years.

Crazy huh?

When I was much younger, I never gave much thought about actually “being” in my 50’s let alone racing towards 60.  I did have a notion that 40 would be a nice mature age, the “ripeness of womanhood”, I called it.  It was a nice age, but it sure didn’t stick around to enjoy for long.  Before I knew it, I was into and then out of my forties and into my fifties.

No matter what I thought my life would be, it always has been, is for the foreseeable future; good.  For that I am exceedingly grateful.

I was very fortunate to be born into a large, loving family.  Even though I was the oldest of six children, my father was deployed when I was born so when I came home from the hospital, Mom and I came home to my Grandma Gray’s house with at least six of her siblings still in residence.  My Aunt Sue was only 14 months older than I and my grandmother was two months pregnant.  This serene photo of the infant sleeping was not to be replicated in real life for a while.

After my Dad returned from Hawaii where he fought the “battle of Waikiki”, we moved into a place of our own and my younger siblings  began to arrive in rapid succession.  I wonder how my folks did it; raising such a lively brood while they themselves were so young.  When I look at my own daughter and realize that by the time Mom was her age, she had just had her sixth baby, I am in awe.

Our family was big and loud but despite the crying and shouting (from the kids, not the parents) we were still loving and caring.  We still are a bit loud when we get together, but without the crying and shouting.

Dave and I before a night on the town in Standardsville!

Early in my adulthood I was fortunate in finding my soul mate.  There was also some crying and shouting in the beginning, but over the past thirty-two years we have built a good life for ourselves and raised two great kids.  We have an extended family that includes two incredible grandsons and their parents and friends and relatives in almost every major metropolitan area in the country where we can visit if we find the time.

Yeah, I guess I could whine about another year passing and the number attached to my name is one digit higher, but I’d much rather have a glass of wine and remember all the wonderful memories I’ve packed into these past 57 years and look forward to the many more to come.

 

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There’s Always Another First Day of School

This week the kids went back to school here in Greene County.  First thing Tuesday morning the “Cheese Wagons” rolled out in force picking up the excited and not so excited to begin another school year.

Since it’s been more than a decade since I’ve sent anyone to school, I’ve had to live the event vicariously through my friends and neighbors.  My neighbor Angela and family prepared to send their grandson off to kindergarten.  Watching their preparations and anticipation of this giant step in this young person’s life; to step onto a large vehicle of public transportation alone, with his name pinned to his shirt, brought back so many memories of first days of school gone by.

On my first day of kindergarten, my mother and I waited patiently on our front steps for the bus.  I don’t remember my dress (dresses were the norm then) but I do remember a beautiful hand knit bolero jacket I wore.  The yarn was ecru with a gold thread running through it.  Despite our best preparations, the bus missed me and drove on by sending my mother scrambling.

When it was time to send Maggie off to school, I worried about the location of her bus stop.  It was on the other side of the busiest street in our neighborhood.  I put on my big girl panties and called the school requesting a change to our side of the street.  My request was granted and I’d made my first step towards and long and happy relationship with the school system that lasted until our move several years later.

It was so much harder for me to let her get on that bus than for her to take the first step!

By the next year when Andy was to go, a new school was built on the edge of our neighborhood and we were in a walking zone.  Walking seemed like a great way to start our day until the first heavy rains came and we became painfully aware of the poor drainage of sidewalks in our neighborhood.  Parental pressure on the school administration changed all that.  Soon every child in our neighborhood was bussed, even across the street to the school.  I never really embraced the idea, but eventually capitulated because it was easier for me in the end.

Kindall, Maggie and Andy walking to the first day at the new neighborhood school.

We had many “first” days of school after those, most caused by moves, some by matriculation.  Each had its own level of anticipation and angst both on their part and mine.  The letting go was and still is a struggle.

Yesterday I had a long talk with an old friend who is experiencing a difficult family challenge – one which has both blind-sided her and set the entire family on a tenuous course as they decide what is best for their granddaughter.  Weary after several long days and nights trying to resolve on the issue, her husband asked her, “When does the parenting end?”  Never, she told him.

Crisises are just a reminder that parenting never ends.  For me it is impossible to imagine not having at least some concern for the challenges my children face.  Sometimes, when the time/space continuum seems blurred, my kids seem to be those same bright faces heading off to school for the first time.  I see their backs as they move away from me for the first time, living their own lives apart from me.  Each time I am both proud and happy for them but also a little sad and glad that they don’t rely on me as they once did.

Thankfully, the bonds are still strong and they both know they can call Dave and I anytime, just to hear our voices, like when they’d call to us down the stairs after we’d but them to bed, or to discuss something important.  No, parenting never ends, just as being a child never ends.  We all face our “first days of school” throughout our lives were we set out into the unknown, as prepared as we can be for the day ahead.  When the going gets tough we either step up and parent or step back and ask for help like a child either from our own parents, another person or even God.

Thank God parenting never ends. It’s nice to know someone is watching your back!