And This Little Piggy Went “Wee Wee Wee”…

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Ages ago, when my current college sophomore was still in kinder-clothes, there existed a pig. A Swarovski crystal pig, to be exact. One that i had gotten her older sister as a gift. The pig lived on a window sill in older sister’s bedroom and projected faceted light into all the corners of the room. My oldest thought the porker was pretty, but my middle weedling… She thought it was the most beautiful thing in the whole wide world.

Since my oldest wasn’t living with me at the time, her bedroom was not usually occupied. This meant that the poor crystal piggy was lonely. My middle daughter, totally in love with the magical swine, could feel his loneliness and felt compelled to bring him into her own room. On her own window still. Where she could hold him and love him and marvel at him as if he were her own. She cherished that pig as much as, if not more than, her sister.

One day, while vacuuming, or collecting laundry, or whatever mom thing i was doing at the time, i noticed that the otherwise elegant piglet was missing an ear and a tail. I called my middle daughter to task, but she swore up and down she hadn’t hurt him. I called my oldest and conspired with her to put on a face of full-on disgust and disappointment at the animal abuse, and the lie that failed to cover it, in hopes that her conscience would sway her to tell the truth and apologize. I mean, it was her room, after all. Who else could have broken it? We did a guilt-job worthy of the best old-school preacher or ethnic grandmother. We really poured it on thick.

In retrospect, her obvious sadness should have told me that she was as brokenhearted as we were, but at the time, logic did not allow me to put anyone else to blame.

She finally relented and apologized, but she always maintained that it was not her that curtailed the piggy.

******

Fast forward to a couple months ago…

I get a call from my middle weedling. Her excitement is palpable. “Hey, Ma! I’ve figured out what i’m getting (sister) for Christmas!” She was literally sparkling thru the phone, she was so ecstatic. “Do you remember the crystal pig?” (As if i could forget…. For the last 15 years you’ve been periodically restating your innocence, i say to myself.) “Well, i found one just like it. I am going to get that for her! But you have to keep it a secret! And for the record, i am not the one who broke it.” I am a decent secret keeper, so even tho my heart was bursting with love over such a thoughtful gift, i kept my word.

A couple weeks later, i meet my oldest for brunch.

“So, Ma… Guess what i got (sister) for Christmas?” She seems bursting with energy and happiness, so ready to spill the news. “Do you remember the crystal pig?” (I damned near choked on my eggs benny) “Well, i found one for her just like it! But you can’t tell. It has to be  a secret. I am so excited to give it to her! You know, she didn’t break it. We still don’t know who did.”

I promise you, i am not making this up.

So, over the course of the next few weeks, i am the recipient of multiple phone calls from each daughter that go something like, “Do you really think it’s a good idea? I mean, it’s not too sentimental, is it? Do you think she’ll like it? It isn’t a stupid idea, is it? I just hope she remembers!”

I cannot express how difficult it was to maintain an unknowing air as i told each of them that, indeed, i thought it was a great idea. And yes, i was certain she would remember. And that i felt it was sentimental in only the best way.

When my middle daughter came up with an idea that she was certain would make an even better gift for my oldest, it was hard not to beg her to stick with the pig. I could imagine the love explosion that would occur when they  both simultaneously opened each other’s gift, and i wanted so badly to see it happen. But i kept my promise and let her change her mind. Truthfully, the gift she chose really was equally as perfect. Even if it wasn’t a pig.

Our gift giving occurred earlier this week. And when it came time for the porcine love fest, it was all i could do to stay calm. When middle daughter unwrapped the piggy… Both girls and i were teary eyed. And when i shared the story of all the coincidental phone calls, we were all borderline crying. Tho none of us are Grinches, i admit, my heart grew three sizes that day, and i’d be willing to bet, my daughters’ hearts did too.

And yes, they still took the time to remind me that she wasn’t the one who broke it.

You know, people always say that it’s the thought that counts. I couldn’t agree more. The love that caused both my daughters to seek out a crystal pig… Well, that’s the best thought of all.  And i couldn’t be prouder.

Leave the Reindeer, Take the Cannoli

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So, over a decade ago, when i was still married to my second, and my weedlings were still little, my ex and i used to put a lot of effort into decorating the house for the holidays. We strung up lights, suspended a star, and, for a while, had lit-up deer for the yard. Now, maybe it was because we bought them on clearance. Maybe it was because we got one that had been dropped. Or maybe it was because we are Italian. But one of those deer could never keep his head on.

The very first night we put them up – One curled up like a momma, and one standing and animated to bob his head up and down like he was eating – we were delighted at how pretty they were. Fancy holiday decor for a young family! And flashier than anyone else on the street! We were so proud! We left them aglow all night… And woke to a decapitated Prancer with his head still moving on the ground beside him. It was the stuff of childhood nightmares.

We turned them off and spent most of an hour reattaching Prancer’s noggin.

Back then, we had a lovely tradition of spending an evening driving to various neighborhoods to look at other people’s holiday displays. We would make up little papers that said “Elf Award” and stick them in the mail boxes of people who had especially good decorations and lights. Christmas carols blaring and hot chocolate in hand, it was always a good time. And that year, we made sure to leave our winter extravaganza up while we went around admiring others’.

While we were gone, Prancer apparently got an offer he couldn’t refuse.

Again on the lawn, Prancer’s head was dancing next to his body. It seems silly to say so about a lawn ornament, but it really was an unnerving sight. We stuck the head back on and turned off the lights. Next morning? You guessed it… Sleeping with the fishes.

We were starting to get seriously creeped out by the Reindeer Godfather’s visits. It was time to get inventive. Using wire, we twistied and sewed Prancer’s head to his body, leaving just enough wiggle room to allow for the animation. MacGyver himself couldn’t have done a better job. That night and the next few, we were able to sit outside and enjoy the prettiest decorations Lowe’s had to offer. It snowed, and the movement of the lights became all sparkly and magical. This was a winter lawn at its finest. Then Marlon Brando paid another visit.

I half expected to see bloodstains on the snow where Prancer’s head lay twitching. It was horrifying.

It became ritual: We would light up the yard every night, and in the morning, go out and reattach Prancer’s head. It was a running joke and the subject of family bets, how many nights would his head stay on before the Godfather would visit. When, in January, we took the decorations down, we kept the deer. We figured we’d come up with a way to keep Prancer’s head on by the next year.

We never did.

We re-headed Prancer regularly for many years. It became a holiday tradition (Certainly no worse a tradition than plum pudding.) And it also became part of our family mythos.

Many years later, while cleaning out the garage, my ex decided to finally throw in the towel and gave Prancer away. Since he was free, there was no need to disclose Prancer’s embarrassing secret. As it turned out, the deer had a different idea. He outed himself. As his new owner was driving off with him tucked into a pile of finds in the back of a pickup, he lost his head yet again. As we watched with equal parts horror and humor, Prancer’s head bounced down the street at the end of a string of lights, makeshift wire fasteners dangling in the breeze.

We still talk about poor Prancer every Christmas. We laugh and shake our heads. We do impressions of his head going ‘plop’ in the snow…

And then we watch cartoons so we don’t have nightmares.

Hashtag Ambien

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I keep a list of ideas that float thru my head at night. Some weeks they become starting points for blog posts. This week, i could find no thread to tie them together, but there were exactly 20 of them. That seemed like a sign. So here you go, the things on my “thought list” this week. Maybe they will make you laugh. Or maybe they will just make you grateful that your brain is less scattered than mine:

1. Retail managers are always genuinely surprised and pleased when you go out of your way to give a compliment to the staff. I need to remember to do it more often.

2. I got PIF’d at Dunkin’ Donuts this morning. The person in front of me paid for my order. I paid for the order behind mine. Maybe, at some point, someone who needed a break got one. I need to do this more often as well.

3. Because i knew my son would be looking thru every closet in the house (All three of them), i wrapped all the holiday gifts and put them under the tree the same day i brought most of them in from the car (They had been living in my trunk)… None of them have tags. I have the wrapping paper coded to each weedling, but i won’t tell him which weedling has which paper. It’s driving him nuts. The evil part of me takes pleasure in that.

4.  People may argue over who was the best James Bond, but no one ever picks a Doctor other than David Tennant.

5. No matter how meticulously i clip the birds to the holiday tree, they always end up hanging upside down.

6. Cat’s in the Cradle is the saddest song ever written. And the older my weedlings get, the more i cry when it plays.

7. In which circle of Hell do the makers of cheap, industrial toilet paper live?

8. Apple brandy is wonderful in Celestial Seasonings’ Gingerbread tea.

9. It is proof of God/Goddess/Universe’s sick sense of humor that a woman can have more acne at 50 than she did at 15.

10. Listen to the news here in Tennessee – severe drought followed by vicious wildfires, followed by even more vicious storms – and it’s hard not to think that Mother Nature is pissed.

11. If time is relative, and our measure of it man-made and imperfect, then why are specific dates so important? Why do we feel deprived, for example, if we can’t celebrate Christmas on exactly December 25th?

12. Who was the first person to look at some milk that had gotten old and gone hard and thought, “Well, that looks tasty. I think i’ll eat it and call it cheese.”

13. And why do we call hokey things “cheesy”?

14. I am pretty certain that any kid who only got two front teeth for Christmas would be both grossed out and disappointed.

15. Imagine the immeasurable amount of awesomeness if you could have a casual dinner with Eleanor Roosevelt and Maya Angelou together.

16. A baby ferret is called a “kit”… So  the food, cage, and accessories for said ferret would be a kit kit.

17. I will never understand how i can find myself halfway to work and unable to remember if i put on deodorant, but i can still recite the “Friends, Romans, Countrymen…” speech, and i haven’t read Julius Caesar in over 30 years.

18. A rose by any other name may smell as sweet, but if its name was “mucus”, no one would stop to smell it at all.

19. Is there anyplace creepier than an abandoned mental hospital?

20. Am i the only one who lays awake at night thinking about these things?

Don’t answer that last one.

As Natural and Pleasant as Childbirth

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For most of my life, i have labored under the delusion that i prefer “natural”. I try to buy mostly small farm and organic food. I make my own perfumes and most of my own toiletries. I don’t dye my salt and pepper hair. Other than laundry, i mostly clean with vinegar. I try “holistic” remedies before resorting to drugs. I mean, i’m not a full-on hippie: I wear makeup, shave my legs, and cave to the occasional desire for McDonald’s french fries; but i do try to go the wholesome route when possible. Natural is better, right? I thought so, but a conversation with my middle weedling this morning made me realize that sometimes the natural order of things sucks.

Poison ivy is natural, and it sucks.

Ditto for mosquitos, periods, booger-filled sneezes, and the idiocy and flippancy of a teenager.

But most of all, worse than aging, radishes, and the smell of skunk combined is the natural order of watching your weedlings grow up and move on.

My oldest daughter, for all her awe-inspiring baddassery, is a loyalist and a caretaker more than anyone outside her immediate circle would believe. Because of that, she is never gone for long. Visits, even when she isn’t living 2 streets over, are frequent. She gets worried when she hasn’t heard from me in a while. And even if, in the future, we are living on opposite sides of the globe, we will be meeting up for adventures as often as possible. Her spreading her wings as an adult, while difficult, was tempered with the knowledge that she would always be back.

My middle weedling is a different story alltogether. The college she chose, a military academy, means that she has very little time to visit home. And what time she does have is split between myself, her father, and her boyfriend. (For those of you with weedlings in “normal” colleges, imagine your parental loss, and magnify it by a factor to account for none of the usual weekends, nor most of the requisite vacations.) And not for nothing, i know that when she graduates, she will be far-flung and not likely to be able to return home easily. Her daring and accomplishments have made us all proud, but her absence still sucks.

I know, i know. Genesis, Matthew, Mark, Ephesians.  Peter, Paul, and Mary. And Laura Ingalls Wilder. Many wiser voices than mine have made it clear that this is the natural order of things. Well, so is death, but unless you are the highest order of Buddhist monk, i can’t see you being happy about it. None of the wise voices ever said that the natural order was pleasant.

I don’t deny that i am  looking forward a little to my pre-decrepitude. Being able to travel on the fly. Truly being my own servant and master. Not having to close the bathroom door. But those perks don’t make up for the fact that i can no longer call my children home when i want them here.

Yes. I realize that is selfish. But that, too, is “natural.”

Of course, as much as it hurts to watch your weedlings grow up and “adult” on their own, it’s not like i want them staying in my house forever, either. My older weedlings make great adults. They give me hope for the future. My son will as well, when it is his turn. Them growing up isn’t so painful that i want them living in my basement. That would seriously hamper my pre-decrepitude plans.

So maybe, in spite of this middle weedling’s more distant life, i will survive. The pride i feel at seeing what she accomplishes, coupled with my own expected shenanigans as a carefree, gypsy broad when my son reaches the age of ascension, and my years of solitude begin, might just be the Benedryl for my “natural order” allergies. I will still have a reaction to the loss of weedlings to weed-hood, but the medicine of taking advantage and living well might make it a little less severe.

But i’m still gonna wish i saw them more.

Momma Hol Has Had It

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In children’s athletics, the teams greet each other after the game in a show of sportsmanship. No heckling or bashing is allowed. The losers aren’t expected to be happy about losing, but they are expected to be courteous and to concede with grace. The winners, in return, are not allowed to gloat. They congratulate the other team on a game well-played. And then both teams walk away intent on playing better next time.

Since most of us don’t go on to become professional athletes, the lesson of winners and losers is probably the most important thing we learn from playing team sports as kids. And yet, over the last week, a lot of us seem to have forgotten. Social media over the last week has been chock full of hatred. Democrats hating that they lost. Republicans hating because they’re fed up with the half of the nation that has been sitting shiva since election day. Third party voters hating because they just want to move on, and neither side is letting it happen.

Well, newsflash: Democrats, you lost. You are allowed to be disappointed, but no amount of collective weeping is going to change the outcome. You want your candidate to win? Congratulations! You have another chance four years from now. Run a stronger campaign, and you can take the White House. But for now, put on your big-kid panties and give the guy a chance. He may not be as bad as you expect.

Republicans,  you want the Democrats to stop whining? Quit rubbing your opinion of their candidate in their faces. Be the gracious winner, congratulate them on their efforts, and move on. Remember, this isn’t a permanent position. Your candidate may not be all you expected. In four years, you might be in their shoes, so remember the Golden Rule.

Third party voters: We lost. We knew we were going to. I think that makes it easier for us. But we fought well and brought the potential for a third party to enter into the finals up to something approaching reality. Now, lets quit grumbling and build on our momentum, or we’ll be in the same boat four years from now.

And to all my friends from all sides of the political spectrum: I love you all. Really really. But i can’t take the arguing any more. Yes, there is the potential for scary times ahead; but there always is when we elect a new president. Yes, our President-Elect has said more daft, derogatory, and offensive things than Prince Phillip. But that doesn’t likely mean that he will put an end to Democracy as we know it. In fact, it’s unlikely he could. Our government is structured to keep that from happening. (Perhaps you noticed that there were other political positions on your ballot? Yes, those were important. Just as important as the one at the top. Perhaps more so, since they affect your community directly.)  The causes that are dear to your heart, the ones you are worried will go by the wayside over the next four years… Get active with them! And if it appears that our leaders won’t take the stand you want, make your voice heard. That’s how things change…

Which brings us back to the presidential election. Obviously, enough people wanted this change to make it happen. (And before you argue about the Electoral College being unfair, that point is moot. The fact of the matter is, we all knew the Electoral College would apply in this election. It wasn’t a last minute decision.) Whether you voted for him or not, Donald Trump is our new president. Rather than bash each other for being “for” or “against”, remember that both votes are on the same team. The U.S. team. We might scrimmage against each other, but come time for the playoffs, we’d all better be working together. Otherwise, we’re all sure to lose.

For My Sister

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Look ahead.

There is a light.

A bright and shining light.

They believe it’s Oz.

I say it’s a future ripe with possibility.

You worry it’s a train.

But i tell you this~

No matter how far away it looks,

How rough the tunnel pavement,

How nasty the stench of the sludge…

You will emerge in the light.

You who has toiled

And sacrificed

And found yourself hanging on tooth and nail

To the handrails…

You who never gives up.

It will pay off.

Just keep looking towards the light.

The end is coming.

Just keep going.

A few more steps.

You can do it.

Your life awaits

In the light.

 

A Tribute to the Triad

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I went out for brunch today with my oldest weedling. Not surprising, since we do it at least twice  a month. At some point, over pimento cheese with bacon jam, biscuits and gravy, and some killer grits, she confesses that she loves when i write about her on my blog. (She also said she wished i hadn’t written about the teabag incident but i can’t help it… It still makes me laugh even now.) My son has also confessed to loving when he is featured here. My middle weedling, well, my guess is she tolerates my blog like she tolerates my impromptu dancing in the supermarket aisle. But since she is outnumbered, i decided today to feature them all… In a rendition of my favorite, “Yup, they’re my kids!” moments.

Mind you, they are my children, so they occasionally say or do things that can’t really be explained. They were never “typical” kids. And they can sometimes be a wee bit inappropriate. Go figure.

I hope i don’t end up in a rat infested nursing home because of this.

*****

Oldest weedling is now a manager and designer at a flower shopppe. She is creative, intelligent, and responsible. And she always was…. Tho every now and then, her inventiveness ran far ahead of her intelligence and… BAM! Momma Hol moment.

Such as it was nearly two decades ago. My husband at the time and i were living in Central America, and i was very pregnant with my middle child. Oldest daughter was outside playing while i put my feet up for a bit. I watched her go collect the coconuts that had fallen in the driveway. She peeled off what was left of the bark/peel, arranged them and rearranged them in different patterns (I never thought about it til just now, but she used to do that a lot. A prelude to her career choice maybe?) Anyway, when she finally gets them as she wants them, i see her lean back and scrutinize. There is one that is larger than the others and just doesn’t fit. She picks it up and eyes it carefully. She weighs it in her hand. I see the idea come together. She throws it hard to the ground.  Bang! It bounces and rolls to the grass. She picks it up and does it again even harder. BANG! It bounces, but doesn’t break. She disappears to the garage and comes back with a hammer. Thwack! She hits it and it skitters off sideways. She wedges it between the sidewalk and a rock. THWACK! She puts the hammer down and picks up the coconut. Still whole. I see her examining it closely, looking for a crack, her body slumping a little when she doesn’t find one.

The next part, i promise you, it wasn’t my fault.

I see her take a thoughtful pose while she ponders the problem. I see the glint in her eye when she gets the idea. In the house, i am shaking my head. “Nope, bad idea, you goofball.” I know she can’t hear me, but i am thinking she surely will dismiss the notion… After all, she’s an incredibly gifted kid. But her curiosity got the best of her. As soon as i realized it, i jumped up to stop her, but it was too late… She extended her arm and slammed the thing against her head. KONK! Her feet come from underneath her, her body horizontal, and i swear i saw birds and stars circling around her noggin as she hit the ground. I’m waddling out to check on her as she rolls over to where the coconut has landed. It is still undamaged.

“Crap, ” She says. “Good thing i didn’t really want it anyway.”

*****

My son is Nathan Lane’s logical heir. He is intelligent and dramatic in a way that belies his age, but probably not his upbringing.

I’m at work one afternoon and i get a call from my son’s pre-school teacher. He’s a paisano from  my native area, long since transplanted to our adopted southern home,  and my weedlings and i adore him. But today he is obviously trying to sound serious as he tells me i need to come down and collect my son. He is fine, teacher/friend assures me, but i need to come down. So i finish what i am working on, explain to my boss what is going on, and head down to the in-house daycare. All the toddlers are outside playing, except for my son, who is sitting by the wall with a grumpy look on his face.

“We had a little problem today, ” Teacher says, “And we used a bad word…” His face cracks, he runs crazy fast back inside, out of earshot of the kids, and starts to laugh.  “Oh my God, it was the funniest thing i’ve ever seen! He totally nailed it!” Apparently, the kids had all been gathered around the long tables with legos and such, engaged in that kind of creative play that is supposed to make them better thinkers. As my son is building, he looks up to see that another boy is looking back. My son gives him a quizzical look, but goes back to his building. Next time he looks up, the classmate is starting at him again. My son appears mildly annoyed. The same thing happens a few more times, with my son getting a little more rattled each time until….

He’s had enough. One last time, my son looks up to see the same kid still eyeing him. Teacher hears the expulsion of air that comes before an exclamation of exasperation, but before he can intercede, my son makes an authentic Italian hand gesture and, with a perfect Italian-American accent,  shouts, ‘What the hell are you looking at??!!??”

Oops.

Yup. Definitely my kid.

*****

Now, to the weedling that hates being the subject of my stories. And she knows which story i’m going to tell. But the fact of the matter is, knowing that she is now in college at a military academy, this scenario makes perfect sense. And not for nothing, it shows that, although my weedlings are far from perfect, their hearts and souls and characters are strong and good, as this honestly could be an account from any of mine.

All three of my weedlings are good kids and generally don’t make trouble, but the middle one has always been especially upright. With the exception of her intent to someday serve in politics, her actions have always been pure and brave and level-headed. So it was a surprise when i got a call from her principal.

I drove down and was escorted to the office by a teacher who seemed uncomfortable with me having to come in, my daughter being a gifted student and the smallest kid in the 3rd grade. But there she was, slumped down in a chair, hands crossed across her chest, indignant look on her face. The principal’s mouth was hidden by her hand as she asked me to have a seat and told my daughter to explain what happened.

“Ma, you know i told you about Dillon?” Dillon was a boy with Down Syndrome who was in her grade. I nod yes.

“Well, we were out at recess, and Austin kept calling him ‘retard’. I told him to stop being so mean, but he just laughed and called him ‘retard’ again. So i got really mad…”

“And…?” I ask.

She blows out a big breath and says, “I told him if he called him ‘retard’ one more time, i was gonna kick his ass.” Principal makes a sound that sounds like a snort and looks down at her desk.

“And…?” I ask, knowing that there must be more to the story.

“He got in my face! IN MY FACE, MA! And he said, ‘He’s. A. Retard.'” She has tears in her eyes now, tho i can’t honestly say if they were from sadness, anger, or frustration. The principal had tears in her eyes, but it was becoming more evident that hers were more likely from repressed laughter.

“And…?”

“Well, then i HAD to! ”

“Had to what?”

A sigh of exasperation that i am not following her here… “Kick his ass, Ma! I said i was gonna, and then he did, so i HAD to kick his ass!”

I am stunned. “You hit him?”

“Yes, but he deserved it. He was being mean, and SOMEONE has to stick up for Dillon, and you always say that we’re supposed to do what’s right, and….” She’s upset now and losing her cool.

“Calm down,” Says the principal, “It will be ok. Go get your books and things.” When my daughter leaves the room she turns to me, her face now out in the open, and it has a big grin. “She really did kick his ass. I think she even broke his nose. School policy is that, if you hit another student, it is two days’ suspension.”

I nod my head. “I don’t advocate her hitting another student, but i understand why she did.”

Principal responds, “That boy is a bully, and nothing we have done has made a dent in it. But today he got beat up by the smallest girl in the school. We’ll see if that makes a difference. I don’t advocate hitting, either, but it speaks volumes that she would go to such lengths for another student.”

I can’t help but smile with pride.

“Oh, ” She says as i rise to leave, “I should also remind you that she can’t swear at school, even if it’s for a good cause.”

Well, even the best of Good Guys has his quirk.

***

So there you have it, my favorite funny / embarrassing  stories of my weedlings. Nope, they aren’t perfect. But they are smart and strong and independent… And i love how they make me smile.

 

The Good, The Bad, And The Fruitcake

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Well, friends, it’s time for the annual seesaw, made even more so by the upcoming election. Week by week, day by day, hour by hour; we’re all getting ready to ride the wave.

It starts with Halloween. I’m glad i was a kid at the time and place that i was. There weren’t all these big costume stores like there are now. Most of us didn’t even get one of the uncomfortable plastic masks from Woolworth’s. We found clothes and accessories at Goodwill, or made them from things we had around the house. We painted our faces with dime-store makeup that was sure to cause a rash. We went out to trick-or-treat without our parents or a cellphone. And not only were we given far more candy than we ever needed, we were even given awesome homemade treats like popcorn balls and caramel apples that we were actually allowed to eat. It was tradition stay up past midnight and gorge until you puked candy corn.  And yes, there was always some story about a neighborhood that had someone passing out apples with razor blades or something; but the worst i ever remember was a second hand high from some pot-head teens whose door billowed sweet smoke when they appeared to give us Snickers and pennies for our UNICEF boxes. As an adult, i love spending Halloween night dressed up as the witch that i am, watching scary Vincent Price movies, and giving out treats to the few kids who still go house to house.

Into November. This year, we start off with a bang when we elect the next Commander in Chief. I truly wish the position was purely ceremonial, as neither of the likely candidates this go-round thrill me with their ability to be a banker during a random game of Monopoly, never mind the President of the United States. I love my country. I love its spirit, its diversity, its  founding principles. But regardless of which of the big two wins, i’ll be shaking my head and wondering why they were the best we could do. It isn’t always like that, tho.  In general, the buildup to a presidential election is usually an exciting trip on the upside of the seesaw.

As a kid, by mid November, the teeter totter went the other direction when you realized you’d eaten all the good candy and had nothing left but boxes of raisins in your bag. (Raisins??? Really, people??? That’s just wrong!) The only excitement was the goofy enjoyment of making pilgrim hats and turkeys out of construction paper and tempera paint. As an adult, the downside is the beginning of Thanksgiving and Christmas preparations and travel plans. You curse the inevitability of traffic jams and forgotten cans of condensed milk. You exchange your breath mints for Rolaids. You remember a time when your biggest issue was being left with raisins. Then and now, you’re stressed and frustrated til Thanksgiving.

But, oh, Thanksgiving! The one holiday with no ulterior motives. No gifts. No bashes, balls, or awkward cocktail parties. Just gratitude and a celebration of family and food. Leave your worries and fancy duds behind you. This calls for contented relaxation and elastic-waist pants. For kids, it’s a day of freedom, as the adults are tied up either preparing the meal or watching football. The soporific effect of Thanksgiving dinner is a high unlike any drug on the market. No Opiate can compete. It’s bliss. I have known big warm Thanksgivings, and some that were definitely not. But no matter how hard the year has been, there is always something to be thankful for. Even on the rare occasion that i’ve been alone on Thanksgiving – which, don’t get me wrong, really sucks – I still found myself imbued somehow with gratefulness. It’s the magic of the holiday.

After the warmth and comfort of Thanksgiving comes the downward spiral into debt and depression that is Christmas shopping. Or, the kid equivalent: Painfully long days full of anticipation. This time of year doesn’t bother me nearly as much as it used to. As none of my family has had the financial luck of Scrooge McDuck, there is no longer any obligatory gift-giving except to our children and parents. It is my choice to hand make smaller items for the other members of my family. The time and effort that goes into gathering supplies in relatives’ favorite colors and such, and turning out something that they can hopefully use and enjoy, makes me happy. And i’m certain it helps dissolve some of the holiday stress. Plus, it reminds me of the fictional times represented in the holiday shows that don’t really match anyone’s experience.

Christmas itself is a mixed bag for most of us. One one hand, the love and joy that comes from the spirit of the holiday. Hearing or meeting up with old friends and family. Christmas carols (And Chanukah songs – Yes, there are a few more than just the Dreidel Song, and they are wonderful!) The fun of driving past the one house in town that rivals the Griswalds’. The Heat miser, Charlie Brown, and all the other characters from the holiday television specials. Two weeks off from school! On the other hand, travelling, traffic, and crowded venues. The cardboard merriment of forced social gatherings. Worry about how to pay for it all. And as an adult, the letdown of knowing you’ve no chance of getting what you want for Christmas, because it’s a purely existential thing that can’t be bought, even on Amazon.

December 31st.  The scrubbed clean start of a new beginning. Oh, the possibilities! Such hope! Such good intentions! … And it all goes to shit when you realize that you will be alone New Year’s Eve with no one to kiss when the ball drops;  Or you have a great celebration planned with the love of your life, but all the holiday eating of the last 6 weeks means no amount of spandex is going to get you into the Little Black Dress you bought back in October.

Up and down. Hot and cold. Good and bad. It’s that time of year. Really, i suppose all of life is like that, but because there is so much packed into the next couple months, it seems more pronounced. And just like the rest of the year, a lot of the downs are problems we create for ourselves. Whether or not the boss is impressed with the jello salad we brought to the office pot-luck is not a reason to dread the holiday. Spending a holiday on our own isn’t the ideal, but it isn’t the end of the world either. We just have to make the most of it. Change any of the unpleasant things that we can, and then put the rest in perspective.

There will be times we may feel overwhelmed, lonely, or even unwanted. The times when everyone else is invited to the party, and we aren’t. The times when we open a package only to find that it contains a dusty, store-bought fruitcake. The times when the game is cancelled for rain, the power goes out before the turkey is finished, the kids are all sick with the flu,  and there’s no rum for the eggnog.  Those times are painful. But it could be worse. It could be January 2nd, and six weeks til the next holiday.

Miss Jane’s Nobility

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“You think i’m crazy, don’t ya, talking to this tree? Old sister oak. This oak tree been here as long as this place been here, and I ain’t ashamed to tell you I talk to it.And I ain’t crazy, either. It ain’t necessarily craziness to talk to the rivers and the trees…. But an old oak like this one here, that’s been here all these years, it knows more than you’ll ever know. It ain’t craziness, son. It’s just the nobility you respect.”  ~ From The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman by Ernest J Gaines.

I have a “thing” for trees. I have pictures and paintings of them around my home. Leaf themed accessories. Fabrics with branches on my windows. An LED lit branch tree that stays up pretty much year round. And nearly all of my body ink is tree centered. I am drawn to trees, deciduous ones especially. The way they grow and age, marking the seasons, and surviving all manner of onslaught. They inspire me.

I know the Buddhists say to be like water, flowing gently, but intently, around obstacles. But if i were to claim a likeness to a force of nature, it would, without a doubt, be a tree.

I’ve seen many seasons. I’ve been stripped of my leaves by wind, and had branches torn from me by gusts, but it never stopped me from keeping on climbing to the sky.  I’ve had limbs arch and twist rather than give way to obstacles. I’ve been burnt and survived, tho the rings on my insides show the trauma. I’ve been chopped down, but sprouted again from my roots.  I’ve had seasons where my leaves were full of color and splendor, and seasons where my branches were bare, brittle, and coated in ice. But i am still here. And like Miss Jane’s oak, i hold some wisdom, or at least stories, from all i’ve been thru to get where i am.

So i guess it isn’t crazy that people talk to me. Like really talk. Not of the fluff of cocktail parties, but important things: Life, death, experience, beliefs. Maybe they can tell by the lichen and scars on my bark that i will understand. That i’ve been there before and survived. Or maybe because they know an old tree holds so many secrets that it’s a harbor for anything that needs safety. I don’t know. I only know that i am blessed to be a sounding board.

Granted, i’ve many more years to go before i can even approach the wisdom of an old oak. By tree standards, i’m merely a sapling. And tho i have grown some good, strong roots of my own, i, in turn, seek out the ones older and wiser. Again, i am blessed, because i have so many in my life. So many noble, beautiful topiaries. Sleek and graceful weeping willows. Elegant cypress draped in Spanish moss. Colorful and fragrant maples. My life is a grove where the canopy envelops me in its loving arms, sheltering me from the worst of life’s storms. And under my own limbs, seedlings grow into their own solidity and grandeur.  And in time, God/Goddess/Universe willing, i will be part of the canopy.

I don’t believe in coincidence. The influence of the Power That Is was definitely in residence when my parents named me Holly. Bright berries and glossy leaves in the throes of winter that belie the sharp and painful edges. It offers birds and other small animals shelter and protection from storms. It can also poison them.

I guess that means that, tho i may contain some wisdom, i also contain some things that, ummm,  aren’t  helpful. True for us all, i suppose.  Even the mightiest oak has a branch or two that probably need to be pruned. Or that’s what i tell myself, anyway. Better that than to think i’m the only tree in the arbor with dead wood. Or thorned leaves. Or poison berries. That would hardly make me a future member of the canopy.

… And that would be sad because, after all the seasons and storms and fires and woodpeckers i’ve survived, it would suck royally to not benefit somehow from the scars.

So here i grow, getting stronger with season, roots getting deeper with each storm. Waiting for the ones who come to talk. They aren’t crazy. It’s the nobility they respect.

Getting Cool With My Dad

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So, my dad came to visit last week. I had a lot of trepidation because my dad and i haven’t always seen eye to eye on my life choices, and even tho i’ve hit the half-century mark, i still desperately want to please him. I was afraid he wouldn’t enjoy my house, my life, or my company. (I know, i know… After nearly 2 score years of therapy, this should no longer be a cataclysmic issue. I regress now and then; so sue me.) I tossed and turned my nights, and fretted thru my days leading up to it. Now that his visit is over and i’m back to my usual grind, i can honestly say i had a wonderful time and i miss him.

We are very different, my dad and i, but this trip we spent more time sharing the things we both enjoy.

Dad and i are both walkers. We like to stroll and sight-see. So we spent some time doing it together. We took our time around the art district and downtown. We walked my SiriDog, who developed an almost romantic attachment to him. We also spent a day at Chicamauga Battlefield park (If you live in the southeast U.S., and you haven’t been, it is worth the trip.) We had some good meals and conversations. And we made one obligatory Father-daughter trip and went to get some lawn tools for my new house.

After we had the tools, we took an afternoon to work on the yard. The trees and shrubbery were  overgrown from the previous owners and were languishing. Everything needed some serious pruning. I was excited to get out there, on the first non-sweltering day of Autumn, and really get things trimmed up.

My son was not quite as enthused.

Armed with our “implements of destruction”, à la Arlo Guthrie, we jumped in. I claimed the hedge trimmers, hoping that the few pushups i do fairly regularly would save my chest muscles from days of pain. (They did not.) My dad took the loppers and started making short order of what i think were once Crepe Myrtles. My son grabbed a rake and started to bitch and moan.

We tried to get him on board by showing a lot of enthusiasm. It was a beautiful day out. The yard was already looking better due to some tree work i had done. And with Dad and i both cutting, a little bit of order was starting to come very quickly. My son, who was armed with a rake, was supposed to be shuttling branches to the street side for pickup. His 14 year old body grudgingly grabbed modest loads and trudged to the street like he was carrying a large anvil thru a swamp of molasses.

My father is a retired cop, so he has even less patience than i do for such lame behavior. In good humor, he makes comments to my son about how he is being out-performed by his smaller female mother and his old grandfather. Each dig gets a response, and each response comes in an octave higher than the one before. Apparently, while i was in the back yard for a moment, my father and son, who were both in the front, had some sort of interchange that caused my son to lose it. Fast forward 15 minutes later, and two police cars come to a stop in front of our house.

The two cops look obviously confused. “Is everything alright?”

“Yup,” i respond. “Just doing yard work. What’s up?”

“We got a call about a death threat…”

My dad makes his way over.

“Someone called and said there was a girl with a rake saying she was gonna kill someone.”

My dad starts to laugh. “Well, you see, his voice hasn’t changed yet, and he was mad because we were making him work…” My son looks mortified as the officers laugh.

“I have a 14 year old boy myself.  I know how it is!”

“He’s a good kid” i say, “But if you ever see him out and about being a schmuck, feel free to beat him with your nightstick.”

“MA! GEEZ!”

“She’s only saying that because she knows you’re a good kid and won’t need it, ” the officer replies. We introduce ourselves to each other, make small talk, and then we all go back to what we were doing. But now, while we are working, my dad is trying to explain to my son, who insisted he had done nothing wrong, how that kind of attitude comes off to some people. I am chiming in here and there to back up my dad while intermittently wondering who called the police.

We never did get him to understand, nor did i ever find out who called, but it became a running joke whenever he got loud or obnoxious to remind him that he was now on the cop “watchlist”, so he’d better shape up.

On Sunday, we did brunch with my oldest daughter. She and i  have made it a ritual to do brunch a couple of times a month, but it was nice to bring my dad and son into it for the day. Chattanooga is full of incredible eateries, and we took them to one of our favorites. As we expected, it was a delicious meal, and we were able to take our time and really savor everything. After, we still had a few hours before we were to embark on a riverboat cruise (A touristy thing to do, but strangely, in the nearly 2 decades that i’ve lived here, i’ve never done it.)  We headed downtown and after a bit decided to grab a cup of coffee before the boat. We walk across the river to be closer to the pier. There are all kinds of coffee houses all over the city, so it shouldn’t have been a problem. Two blocks off the walking bridge, we make our first stop.

Coffee House 1 was packed. Rather than wait,  because we need to work off brunch, we walk 8 blocks to coffee house 2, which has gone out of business. 6 blocks to coffee house 3, which wasn’t really a coffee house, but a treat shop, and doesn’t serve coffee. 3 blocks to coffee house 4, which doesn’t have any open tables. They direct us to coffee house 5, 5 blocks away, which turned out to be closed on Sundays. Why on Earth would you close a coffee shop on Sunday???

If i live to be 100, no one will ever trust me to find a cup of coffee again.

We wasted enough time that we need to head to the boat. The cruise was wonderful, and the gregarious guide was full of historic regional tidbits that both informed and entertained. Dad and i are also both interested in History, so we were totally engaged, ignoring the call for Bingo on the lower deck.

My oldest daughter turns to us and says, “I’m going to win some stuff…” and she trots off down the stairs with her brother close behind. Dad and i almost forget they had gone below until they came up a bit later with prizes. Dad says, “You really won?”  My daughter mocks offense and says, “You saying i can’t do the Bingo? I can do the hell outta the Bingo! Look what i won!” She shows off a box of gourmet chocolates and a book of a local poet’s prose. We all laugh and lean back in our chairs, enjoying the sights and stories.

Most evenings found us with a glass of wine and a cold plate talking about little things with my son. Just normal stuff. Nothing  fancy or noteworthy. Just cheese and salami and conversation. It was enjoyable and comfortable in a way i didn’t expect. It felt “right”. And i admit, i was sheepishly surprised to find the worries i had the week before were unfounded.

Dad may never understand my purchase of shampoo bars to reduce my use of disposable plastics. And i may never understand his need to buy an actual paper newspaper every single day. We may both wince at the sight of each other growing older. We may never appreciate each other’s taste in wine. We may have different versions of the same memories. But that’s ok. We can still eat and walk and joke with my son and do touristy things and spend hours looking for coffee and be cool.

Yup. We can be cool together. How cool is that?