Category Archive

This was about to be one of those sorry introductions about how I haven’t blogged in weeks because this is such a busy time for people in the education field, and how even though I’m not in the classroom anymore I am just not in the mindset to sit down and actually put words on a page. To support this drivel I was going to give you some statistics from previous Mays to prove that I am indeed too emotionally and mentally overwhelmed to blog. But apparently last May I posted 20 times. TWENTY. That’s an average of five posts a week. Sure, in May of 2006 there were only 7 posts, and in May of 2005 only 2 (which doesn’t actually count, since I only started blogging in April of 2005), so I could feasibly argue my original point. But I won’t. Because I don’t really have an excuse, unless you want to go along with my personal belief that upon walking across the University stage on May 17, thus marking the completion of my Master’s degree, the remaining functional brain cells rolling around in my skull went on an indefinite strike and have not been heard from since. But that is not really true, not to mention physically impossible.

So let’s just skip the boring introduction (and for those of you who inevitably read it because who the hell starts with the second paragraph, sorry about that) and move on to what will undeniably be only slightly LESS boring: A Bulleted Rundown of the Last Two Weeks.

• As mentioned, I graduated. Woo-freakin’-hoo. I am so over it that I don’t even have anything else to say about it. I do have some commentary about the photos taken that day, and after reading this, you probably will as well. First, it should be obvious to you after looking at these pictures that I have not been exaggerating all those times I’ve said Little got all the boobs in our family; and in case there was any doubt that I got next to none of the allotment in that department, my University graciously marked the size and location of my own non-boobs on the outside of my robe. Secondly, I tried [unsuccessfully] to avoid uploading any of the photos that showed my feet, because apparently, that is where the Universe chose to give me a surplus. Seriously, my feet look like CLOWN FEET in every single picture. My mom keeps trying to comfort me by assuring me it was just the shoes I was wearing, but I keep insisting, and rightfully so, that the shoes are only as big as my actual feet! It’s not the shoes’ fault my feet are enormous! And finally, do I have a cute kid or WHAT?
• Having completed a Master of Library and Information Science, and having worked for an entire school year as a school media specialist, I regret to announce that I won’t actually be working as a school media specialist next year. Thanks to the ubiquitous Public School Budget Cuts, my position no longer exists. Before you school librarians start hurling curses and shaking your fists at the education gods, I was media specialist number two at my school–the entire program wasn’t cut, just the second position. I was offered two options: a) returning to the classroom as a 9th grade English teacher, or b) a position called “Curriculum Facilitator,” or CF for short. I chose B. Given what longtime readers know about my last few years’ worth of frustration in the classroom, I would have taken a position called “Chief Sidewalk Crack Filler” over potential incarceration, because going back to the classroom would have incited violent behavior on my part, and I don’t think they let girls take their babies to prison. And anyway, don’t you think it’s hilarious that I’m going to be a CF? Am I the only person who thinks that’s a total scream? Someone should invent an education job whose acronym is SNAFU. We could have adjoining offices and take the blame for everything wrong in our school.
• So two weeks ago I had this excruciating pain in my calf. I would have assumed it was a muscular injury of some sort, except I didn’t remember injuring my calf, so I consulted the school athletic trainer, and after some poking he said, “Well, I guess it could be a blood clot.” You know what came next, right? Oh, Dr. Google, I hate you. Because by the end of that day I was a nervous wreck, so nervous that I actually went to the doctor. The short version of this story (because in the long version I would have to type the phrase, “and after a multi-hour wait…” several times, and I think just seeing it that once is enough to give you a picture of the next 48 hours) is that I did not have a blood clot. There was no actual diagnosis, only instructions to take Al.eve twice a day, and so I can only assume I had–wait for it–a muscular injury. Apparently I have reached a whole new level of clumsiness, one that involves painful injury with no memory. Go figure.
• I was flipping through a magazine a few weeks ago and saw this, and I immediately decided my daughter had to have one. My deepest hope is that these lovely little doors will satisfy her door-opening and closing needs. A girl can dream, right? So I used some graduation money from my dad to purchase one from some website I’ve never heard of, because it was the cheapest one I could find. Nearly two weeks later, I still have not received my order, and after several unanswered emails and dead end phone calls, I actually did some fishing around and discovered a review of the site indicating that it is out of business. So far my credit card hasn’t been charged, so I feel pretty fortunate in that department, but mostly I feel annoyed because I really just want the kitchen, and because if you have a retail site but are no longer selling retail, WHY NOT JUST TAKE YOUR SITE DOWN? Gah.
• Mia and I spent Memorial Day Weekend at my aunt’s lake house. Pictures coming soon, but the entire weekend can pretty much be summed up in two words, spoken as questions, over and over and over again: “Butt? Wawa?” (For those of you who need a translation: Boat? Water?) My baby, she loves the water, and if I thought it would improve her napping as much as riding around in my uncle’s pontoon did, I would dig a pond in our yard and put her bed in a canoe.
• I am almost as behind on reading other blogs as I am on writing this one. There are high fives and kudos and good luck wishes and virtual hugs in order, and although I’m not managing to put them into comments they are out there in the Universe, hopefully finding their way to you.
• And finally, just for old times’ sake, there are EIGHT DAYS left of school.

Today is my grandmother’s birthday.

It has taken me nearly an hour, sitting, staring at these pictures, to even type that sentence. The words to describe how deeply and constantly I miss her don’t seem to exist. They are frozen somewhere inside me, and my heart aches with the weight of them.

I mentioned twice in my last post that I didn’t want to talk about the day we spent at my grandmother’s. I just want to clear up any misconceptions about WHY I don’t want to talk about it and why it was unpleasant. It had NOTHING to do with MY family and everything to do with missing my grandmother, and with dealing with her husband, who is NOT a part of my family. She married him 8 years ago, and he has in the last five months shown himself to be the cretin we all suspected him to be back then. Mama died in August; he allowed us to enter the house in December to get any personal effects of hers we might cherish and want to keep. It was an us-against-him thing, and my family–my ACTUAL family–had nothing to do with the crappiness of it all.

Also, the aforementioned post now has photo links–NO, REALLY, it does now, not like when I originally posted this announcement earlier this evening; seriously, I can’t believe no one made a comment like, “Hey, doofus, THE LINKS DON’T WORK!”–and there are, like, a gazillion new pictures in Flickr. Here’s a mere taste.

Now with pictures!

It’s New Year’s Eve, and I am finding it hard to type, what with being jacked up on Albuterol and all. I had heard that phrase before–”jacked up on Albuterol“–and I assumed it was some sort of anti-depressant. Turns out it’s an asthma treatment. Huh. And that’s the end of the story of my bangin’ holiday vacation. Considering that I can actually inhale now, it’s actually a happy ending. Oh! Did I mention? I don’t even have asthma! It’s been quite the series of primarily unfortunate events, with a few sunny moments thrown in. The following, for your entertainment on the last day of 2007, is the story from the top.

Wednesday, December 19: While not technically a part of my vacation, I discovered late Wednesday afternoon that the 60 holiday cards I’d ordered from one of the cheaper online photo places (instead of the more expensive place with the prettier cards, oh no! because that order would have been about 80 bucks) were indeed WRONG. As in, “Our wish for 2007…” You know, the year that’s ENDING in a half hour. My mistake. Turns out, I should have held out a few more wishes for 2007, as you will soon discover. Instead I reordered the cards with the correct year, thus bringing my total payment to Cheap Photo Place to–yup–80 bucks. On the bright side, my mom, Little Sister, Mia and I picked up Middle Sister from the airport, so things seemed to be looking up by the end of the night.

Thursday, December 20: This should have been my last day at work before the holidays, but I took the day off to accompany my mother, aunt, and sisters to my five-months-deceased grandmother’s house to collect what belongings her asswipe husband deigned to share with us after all this time. My father was with me, he who has space to store the furniture my grandmother left me, and we left my house right after he fixed my dryer, which had been broken for over two weeks. I was starting in the black, see. We got there and did what we went to do and we left, and that’s really all I want to say about that particular segment of last Thursday for the time being.

My dad left from my grandmother’s with a truckload of stuff, and I flew home as fast as my car would carry me because from my grandmother’s we were all going to Charlotte to have Christmas at my aunt’s new house. Charlotte is a little over an hour from my house, and my plan was to leave home in time to feed Mia dinner by 7:30, which is pretty much her absolute threshold for the evening meal. I left my driveway at 6:00. At 6:15 as I pulled onto the sideroad that would take me to the interstate, I heard a loud ka-thunk-ka-thunk-ka-thunk sound. At first I thought it was the annoying music coming from the car behind me. It wasn’t, of course. It was coming from my car. Specifically, what used to be the right rear tire of my car. 

I’ll skip most of the details. My roadside assistance service arrived 40 minutes later. In the interim I tried to entertain my kid, who was becoming hungrier by the minute and not at all happy about being stationary in a dark car. The tow truck sound scared her. She cried through the whole spare tire experience. I drove to Gayle’s and she fed Mia while I transferred all my crap to her car. My new goal was to be in Charlotte by 9. Having never been to my aunt’s new house, I set her address on the navigator on my phone and hit the road. At 8:45, a mere 19 miles from my destination, traffic came to a dead stop. I could see red taillights for what seemed like infinity. I called my family to tell them I was stuck in traffic, and it was during that conversation that I discovered the following: earlier in the day while we were still hauling stuff from my grandmother’s to my mom’s, my aunt and my sister Little NOTICED THAT MY TIRE WAS FLAT. BUT FORGOT. TO. TELL. ME. People, when I FINALLY discovered the state of my tire, the wall was completely shredded from the tread. I had to get a new one. There was no repairing the damage. I don’t know about you, but I think Aunt and Little owe me a new tire.

I arrived at my aunt’s house at 11. It was raining. My kid, who had been asleep for most of the traffic stall (apparently caused by some sort of explosion earlier in the evening–seriously, a part of the metal guardrail was melted) turned into the Energizer Bunny as soon as we walked in the door and went to sleep at 2:30 in the next morning. The next day was great; we celebrated Mia’s first birthday with the family and left around 4 that afternoon. At home later that night I remember thinking to myself, “This is good. Now I can relax. NOW my vacation can begin.” Stupid, stupid woman.

Saturday, December 22: I had a long list of things to do–unpacking, cleaning, laundry–and did none of them, opting instead to stay in my jammies all day long and play with my kid, who also stayed in her jammies all day long. Which meant that on…

Sunday, Christmas Eve-Eve: …all the things I didn’t do on Saturday had to be done, plus all the other things I’d planned to do on Sunday in the first place. One of those things was having the dog bathed. Suzanna has been living in the garage since September, when she brought fleas into my house (yet another saga from the past few months I won’t get into now), fleas she got from the stray cat I adopted last year and am now trying to relocate. Cat, anyone? Sweet disposition, updated shots, no uterus. But I digress. I unloaded a large amount of money at National Pet Chain Store to have my poor flea-allergic smelly itchy dog bathed, de-fleaed, un-hot-spotted, and settled into a brand new bed. That night she woke me up four times during the night begging to go back to the garage. And the scratching, good lord, the scratching. The stuff I sprayed on the hot spots made me sneeze, or maybe it was the shampoo, and yet, the scratching never stopped. I decided she was just readjusting to the house, gave her some benadryl, and tried (unsuccessfully) to sleep.

Monday, Christmas Eve: The stuff I didn’t get done on Sunday (do you see a pattern here?) was waiting for me on Monday. I was exhausted from the previous night of no sleep. Mom, Middle, and Little were coming for dinner, a dinner I was making and for which I had no ingredients. This would be a great time to sing the praises of the most wonderful child on the planet. Not one time during anything I have described, nor during anything I will describe in the next several paragraphs, did my daughter lose her cool. No crying (well, except for the tire-changing incident), no fussing, no public outbursts. If not for her, in fact, I would probably still be sitting on the side of the road next to my grotesquely flat tire.

I was halfway through dinner preparation when my family arrived with a moving van full of presents, and we had a nice meal–a ratatouille dish much like the one from the cartoon (laugh if you want, but it was amazing) on a bed of couscous with goat cheese and french bread. Little and I stayed up until 3 a.m. watching Harry Potter 5, and everyone, including my daughter, slept until almost 11 Christmas Day.

Tuesday, Christmas Day: It was wonderful–a bright spot in a series of distressingly eventful days. It is best viewed, not described.

Wednesday, Mia’s Birthday: Mia and I went to my mom’s to help her go through all the stuff we took from my grandmother’s house. Did I mention? I don’t want to talk about that yet. We hung out with my mom and were (I’m afraid) more messy than helpful. We got home just in time for bed, and I was welcomed by a puddle of pee next to the front door. By this time the dog was really starting to wear out her welcome. I didn’t sleep well because my throat was scratchy and my nose was a bit runny and I had a bit of a dry cough. The smell of Suzanna–I’m not sure if it was the hot spot spray or the shampoo from Sunday’s bath or just her own weird smell–permeated my room…and my sinuses.

Thursday, December 27: Mia’s 1 year well baby check-up was at 1:15. She got shots and cried pitifully. Gayle came over and we had lunch and went to Target to buy cute little plates and napkins for Mia’s Saturday birthday party, which was being held at my friend and coworker MJ’s new house (because I wanted to invite more than 5 people, see, and my house is TEENY). Late that afternoon my throat felt really scratchy and I couldn’t stop coughing. I said out loud at one point, “I feel like I’m getting sick.” Mia’s eyes were watery and she had a slight runny nose. I decided that Suzanna could not stay in the house any longer because I was convinced that her weird smell was contributing to our allergic demise. I felt horribly guilty about giving Suzanna the boot, but she seemed okay with the arrangement and I had a party to plan. I bought wine and beer, cake supplies, chips and dips, and ingredients for a baked brie and some spinach rolls I found in a magazine. I was pumped. And I felt like shit.

Friday, December 28: We didn’t leave the house. Mia had a fever; I couldn’t breathe through my nose and my cough had deepened. By dark I was wheezing and Mia was a veritable fountain of snot. I decided that if she had a fever the next morning I would cancel or postpone the party. Still, I stayed up late and made the cake. You know, wishful thinking and all.

Saturday, December 29: If you guessed that my kid still had a fever on Saturday morning, you guessed wrong. She was fine–a bundle of energy and all smiles. Snotty, but smiley. I, on the other hand, was having trouble inhaling. My cough had worsened. The wheezing was audible. My head ached. I seriously considered sending Mia to her party without me. But I didn’t. I went on with it. I hauled all the food and the drink and the kid to MJ’s house (thankfully no presents–Mia has a registry at Heifer.org and has raised almost $500 for the organization in honor of her birthday). 

Anyway. I think the party was a success. I think people had a good time. Mia loved her cupcake, and friends of mine from different circles were mingling and making conversation, and the handful of kids who were there played like the best of friends. But honestly, there are parts of the afternoon I don’t particularly remember. By now my chest was actually hurting, and inhaling deeply was a physical impossibility. I was starting to get a little freaked out. Which is how it came to be that immediately after the party I found myself at an urgent care center near my house. While Mia played with Gayle in the waiting room, I got a shot of steroids in the buttocks and received a 30 minute Albuterol treatment. Comedienne Suzanne Westenhoefer does a bit in one of her old shows about how some Amish people in a community near where she grew up in PA got addicted to crack, and how they must have been speed-quilting and putting up barns single-handedly in mere hours. That’s how I felt after the breathing treatment. Like I could have cleaned my carpet by washing each fiber individually in 15 minutes. My organs were trembling, and I could feel them. My hands and arms seemed to be propelled by forces beyond my control. It was horrible. But not as horrible as not being able to breathe. That part was an improvement. The doctor sent me home with a high-powered expectorant/cough suppressant, a five-day round of steroids, and an asthma inhaler. He didn’t actually diagnose me with asthma but indicated that I could develop a chronic form of it as an adult, or even just have an acute case in the event that my immune system had been compromised for whatever reason. You know, like dead grandmother stuff and sleepless nights and weird dog smells and flat tires and the general stress of the holidays. Or something like that.

Sunday, New Year’s Eve-Eve: The twitches finally wore off after midnight and I slept well for the first night in over a week. I figured out that if I take Tylenol when I use the inhaler, I’m not quite as crawly and my sleep is not as disrupted. Mia is still a little font of snot, but she is undaunted and is equally interested in her birthday balloon (under strictly supervised circumstances, of course) and crawling under the table as she is in playing with her load of new toys. We’ve been playing a lot, and she’s been napping well, which means I’ve been lying around watching lots of movies. It sucks to be sick, but–fingers crossed–the major drama seems to be behind us.

Monday, New Year’s Eve: Actually, according to the TV in the background, it’s no longer New Year’s Eve. I can hear fireworks outside, and the ball just dropped, and I’ve kissed my sleeping daughter on the head. Let’s put ‘07 to bed, people. Here’s to a brilliant new year.

My mother and youngest sister (Little) left my house this morning–actually, morning is a loose term for when they left unless you are, I don’t know, a senile rooster. Anyway, they left my house for the airport because they are spending Thanksgiving in California with my other sister, Middle. The rational, grown-up part of me thinks this is a great idea. I’m glad Middle will be spending the holiday with family instead of eating in some posh Orange County restaurant with Dennis Rodman, and I’m glad Mom and Little are getting a groovy week-long vaycay in the middle of cold, dark November.

But my inner voice, the one I don’t use much because of what I am about to tell you, sounds a little like a petulant 3-year-old who is stuck in the bank line chewing on the rapidly disintegrating paper stick of a cheap lime sucker: “But WHY do you have to go to California? But WHY, because I want you to spend Thanksgiving with ME? Why does California have to be so FAR?” It’s not pretty, especially since I’m actually going to be with family on Thanksgiving. I mean, it’s not like I will be sitting all alone with a single serving of ToFurky and a cheap beer, watching the parade on TV and randomly gobbling at my kid in an effort to interact with her from within my deep despair of loneliness. There will be good food and a number of crazy uncles and cousins, as well as my dad and my brother, people I just don’t get to see often enough. And also, a lot of cheap beer.

Just before Mia was born I declared to a number of people that my holiday traveling days were over. “I am about to have a baby,” I exclaimed. “The people will just have to come to me.” You’d think I was planning to give birth to the Hope diamond, the way I believed “the people” would flock to my door. The truth is, my house is about the size of a Ford Aerostar, so even if the people really did come to me, they would have to tent camp in my yard. And anyway, who am I? I mean, sure, I got pregnant as if by magic without the assistance of a man (It’s true! A female nurse practitioner performed the insem that worked. Dr. T. wasn’t even in the room!), but there’s no big star over my house, and sure, my kid is beautiful and funny and brilliant, but those people I mentioned before, the ones we’re related to? I’m pretty sure if they all flocked here for the holidays, they would not be understanding when I slept in with my kid until 10 or 10:30, refused to share the coffee, and served Eggo mini waffles for breakfast. So we travel. It’s much saner for me, really, because I get to be the one who goes home to the quiet sanctity of my undisturbed little house.

But I won’t lie to you. It’s different when Mom and Middle and Little are here. Sure, they take up a lot of space, what with all the suitcases (most of them Middle’s) and air mattresses and blankets and such, and yes, they use every single towel I own for one shower. But if I happen to fart over breakfast, or if I think it’s perfectly normal behavior to walk around wearing nothing but a bandanna and a bathrobe all day, or if I insist on watching this over and over and over, they’re okay with that. It’s that kind of familiarity I’m thankful for this year.

And also, cheap beer.

In keeping with my regular habit of having too much to say and too little time in which to say it, I am saying nothing for the moment. Instead, I present for your perusal my favorite photos from Labor Day Weekend. If you are so inclined, you can view all of the pictures here.

*Mia’s actual words were “Duh-duh-duh…drrrrrrrrr…HOTAH!” But I’m sure that’s what she meant.

She’s gone.

I found out last week that my grandmother on my mom’s side is dying. Soon, probably. Some rare and apparently very advanced form of liver cancer. I am speechless.

Wordless in general, apparently, because it’s been several minutes since I typed those sentences up there, and I still don’t know what else to say. I have not seen her since the diagnosis and her unfathomable rapid downhill slide. I saw her a month ago, and she was the same as always, and even though I am planning to go see her on Thursday I don’t want to, because maybe then none of this will be real and she will call to say she’s dropping by to see the baby on the way to a doctor’s appointment, just like she has done for the past 7 months.

Still more minutes, and still no words. I’m cashing in a picture until I find some.

You know you have been away from your blog too long when your information is no longer saved in the comment area of other people’s blogs and you actually have to log in to Flickr to upload pictures. I think the original date on this post was June 19. I got as far as the title. I had planned a multi-volume series of stories and observations, and it was going to be possible to have multiple volumes because I was going to post at least 4 times a week. Right. At least this is only…what, week 4? There is still time to catch up. Except that I can’t remember the stories and observations meant to make up volume 1. Oh well.

A brief recap of the past few weeks:

• I am happy to report that my sister located a Wee Hairy Beastie at the Ikea near her house in California.
• Mia turned 6 months old. How has half a year already passed?
• My neighbor Robin was in a car accident involving a train two weeks ago. She is in intensive care in Charlotte. Unfortunately that’s all I know–she was flying to Arizona for some sort of detox/retreat and never made it to the airport, but since she is single and has no family around here, the news got back to her local friends and neighbors quite slowly. Another neighbor was planning to visit her this past weekend–I am still waiting for news from her. Please send positive thoughts Robin’s way.
• Mia had her first “vacation” at my friend Nancy’s cottage in the NC mountains. She attended her first square dance, saw her first swan, and put her feet in a real mountain stream for the first time. She also got lots of quality time with Nancy, who was one of my undergraduate professors, and who, for as long as I’ve known her, has always kept her distance from small children. But since she doesn’t have children of her own, she has sort of claimed me as her adult child and declared herself one of Mia’s many “surrogate grandmas.” Mia was out of sorts most of the weekend due to a nagging fever from her 6-month shots, so I was worried–as I said, Nancy doesn’t do little kids. But she surprised me by picking up my baby and comforting her and playing with her and rocking her. And her initiation into grandma-dom was thorough–there were lots of tears and whining and lots of snot being wiped on her shoulder, and also lots of snuggling and sleeping in her lap. She seemed to love every minute of it. Nancy’s friend Janet, who was my undergraduate advisor, came up on Saturday, and Nancy’s mother Helen (age 86), who used to teach religious studies at a small Raleigh, NC college and is still sharp and full of herself, joined us for dinner on Saturday.  A good time was had by all.
• My sister Charity visited from California for a week. She hadn’t seen Mia since her birth, and they bonded. Charity also completed the remaining square of Mia’s animal collage. (I am almost embarassed to link to the picture because it makes it very clear that I can’t use a level.) While Charity was in town, the kid and I got to spend lots of time with our family, which included a trip to the park for a very hot (but very cute) photo session to commemorate Mia’s half birthday. This is my favorite photo of the evening (it deserves more than a link):

• And finally, I spent several consecutive days cleaning and organizing my house. I donated so many clothes to Charity (the capitalization is intentional–before the bags ever made it to the Goodwill they were raided by both of my sisters) that I now have almost 100 empty coat hangers. Anybody need some coat hangers? All of my clothes are in MY closet, which means my kid actually has her own closet now, and there is actually empty space in it. I know it’s not perfect, but the BEFORE was so hideous, no camera ever got near it–you’ll just have to take my word for it that this is indeed a vast improvement. All the cleaning and organized was inspired by the new love of my life, my new vacuum cleaner, which is so amazing that I’d vacuum the animals with it if they’d let me. In fact, I’m going to go vacuum now.

-I thought losing a grandparent as an adult would be different from losing a grandparent as a child. I was 15 when my mother’s father died. I thought Nanny’s death would be easier somehow. But in the final analysis, adulthood is meaningless where this particular loss is concerned. The death of a grandparent reduces you to childhood regardless of your age. You remember things you have not thought of since age 7*. You feel very keenly the desire to crawl into someone’s lap and cry. The trappings of adulthood fall away very quickly when you pass the casket for the last time, leaning forward to pay your last respects in the form of a hurried kiss. You grasp for that modicum of control you assured yourself you would have throughout this ordeal, but it is nowhere to be found. It is wherever you left your grown-up self, and it has been replaced by an empty feeling so big that feeling small is inevitable.

-In spite of feeling like a lost little kid for the past several days, I did manage to keep my emotions mostly to myself thanks to the one piece of my adult life I couldn’t lose hold of–my daughter. I didn’t want to frighten her, so all of my energy at the wake and funeral was divided between caring for her and keeping myself together. But when I got home last night the get well/Mother’s Day card I had sent Nanny, full of pictures of her holding Mia at Easter, was in my mail box. I had sent it to the rehab center she went to after her fall, but it must have arrived a few days after she left. God only knows where it has been since then, but it was waiting in my mailbox all these weeks later–RETURN TO SENDER, UNABLE TO FORWARD. I cannot bear to open it, and I don’t know what to do with it, and I have given up trying to keep my emotions to myself.

-There was no family brawl. My dad and Uncle Ed, who until last week had not spoken to my Aunt Mary in almost a month, did not ignore or snub their sister. My Uncle Joe, who has not spoken to Nanny, his own mother, in 13 years (because she sold the “family home” and moved out of a neighborhood that was going to seed), and who does not attend family functions, was in attendance. But. When it was time to pay our last respects as a family before we went to the funeral, Joe went out the back door of the funeral home chapel so he could avoid walking past the casket. Ed would not go near the casket but did walk out with the rest of us. There was a definite thread of something–tension? bruised egos? healing but still hurt feelings?–between my dad and his sister. Still, Dad, Aunt Mary, and their youngest brother, my Uncle Palley, stayed in the chapel together, without their siblings, until it was time to go. 

-I’ve never seen my father’s hands so clean. He has been a machinist longer than I’ve been alive. His hands, even when he has just showered, are always calloused and stained from his work. This week they were as clean as Mia’s hands.

-One of the hardest parts of this whole ordeal for me was witnessing others’ grief. My little brother (age 23, 6 feet, 7 inches tall, but still my little brother), who was a pallbearer, a task I cannot fathom. My cousins Kelli and Kristin, with whom I spent countless hours playing at Nanny’s house. My Aunt Mary, who heard the words “I love you” from her mother for the first time in her entire life just a few weeks ago. My dad. When I was little my mom’s sister was in a car accident one winter, and one of my great-uncles saw the wreck and stopped to collect her, cut and bruised and sobbing, from her totalled Granada. When they brought her home I was so overwhelmed by her crying that I hid under the kitchen table. That’s how I felt this week–I wanted a table to hide under.

-I am glad it is over, and it will never be over.

*I was 5 or 6, and Nanny and I were grocery shopping at the Piggly Wiggly, and I wandered ahead of her and around the end of the aisle. When I realized she wasn’t beside me I turned and ran for her and threw my arms around her legs. But when I looked up I realized I had thrown my arms around the wrong legs. I stepped back quickly and spied Nanny right behind the lady I had assumed was her, and even though they were both laughing at me, it was a relief to be reunited with Nanny’s legs.

Last weekend Mia got to meet her five great-aunts at her first family reunion. This weekend she’ll attend her first funeral and bid farewell to one of her great-grandmothers, Nanny D, whom she met over Easter. It’s all very circle-of-life. I’m really grateful for the time I’ve had with these women, and I’m really grateful to have these pictures:

The title speaks such volumes about the approaching end of the school year that I am not sure what else needs to be said.

I made pineapple salsa last night. It was quite tasty, and I will post the recipe that I loosely followed. I never really follow recipes–I am told it is because I have a problem with reading and following instructions, but I think it stems from my intense depth of creativity.* Whatever the reason, my culinary creations always turn out okay, or much better than okay; such is the case with the pineapple salsa. The recipe called for chopped green chiles, but I only had chopped jalapenos, so my salsa was horrendously hot. I don’t really do hot, but the salsa was so good I kept eating it. Apparently what they say about hot foods suppressing the appetite is true: I pretty much had salsa for dinner, and I haven’t been very hungry at all today. I’m also happy to report that my sinuses, which have been stuffy and irritated for weeks, are now clear as a bell. Note to self: eat more salsa–it’s cheaper than that Zyrtec prescription.

I spent some time on the screened porch listening to night approach, but sadly, I didn’t make it to Earth Fare for my chocolate fix. Mia fell asleep on me, and it was either cuddle or risk waking her by putting her in the car seat. I chose to cuddle. I’ve planned a rendezvous with those cookies for later this evening, though, which will coincide nicely with J’s suggestion of Sin Day. Gayle and Mia and I are having dinner at Fuddruckers (where I spent a great deal of time during the 2nd and 3rd trimesters–Mia should feel right at home) and I can hardly wait to down an ice cold beer.

Thanks to the Memorial Day holiday there’s no school on Monday. Mia and I are heading to Papa’s house and Nonna’s family reunion Saturday and Sunday. My mother’s mother has 5 sisters and 4 living brothers (and 3 deceased), so we have a huge family. They’ll be meeting Mia for the first time, and I’m excited–they were such a huge part of my childhood and I want her to know them. I plan to take lots of pictures. Of course, I haven’t packed the first item, and I’m not looking forward to that process. My goal is to abide by the rule I always made my students follow when we traveled abroad: don’t pack more than you can carry in one load. I’ll let you know how it goes.

First of all, let me just promise you that I will never be so late to celebrate your birthday or Christmas as I have been in posting these monthly letters. You may want to remind me of this promise when I am sitting at the kitchen table making Christmas gifts at 3 a.m on Christmas Eve. I’m sorry about that ahead of time, because I will probably be a lunatic, complete with midnight trips to the craft store and last minute brilliant ideas that take way more time than I actually have, and you will probably inherit this practice of gift-making procrastination from me, and I am sorry. But I will never give you late presents, even if that means buying you a $400 miniature Escalade* or standing outside the toy store for 12 hours to buy the latest in a long line of vibrating Elmo dolls.

It’s been another exceptionally wonderful month in my world thanks to you. I expect I’ll be saying that for the rest of my life, but it’s hard to imagine life getting better. That Book About Childrearing says we are in the “golden age of babyhood,” and I can see why. You smile at everything, and I do mean everything. Sunday I held up a chocolate covered espresso bean I was about to eat (because that’s the only source of coffee in our house since my coffee pot is at work where it’s much more important for me to have caffeine) and you gazed at the shiny brown wonder and then grinned with absolute joy and amazement. Forks fascinate you. Water bottles. Store ciculars from the mailbox. You are quite easy to entertain, and it’s a good thing, because earlier this month you went on your first road trip, and while you are usually the long-suffering sort, you were in need of entertainment by the 300th mile.

On the Friday morning before Easter your grandpa picked us up and we drove to Georgia so you could meet your great-grandmother and the other half of our family. What should have been a 6 hour trip took most of the day, and I claim full responsibility–after all, we’d never traveled together, you and I, and I was ill-prepared. And also over-prepared, depending on your point of view. The volume of stuff was akin to the gear one might pack to go trekking in the Himalayas, but I wanted you to be comfortable, so I took everything you might need, just in case. My three small bags–one for clothes, one for toiletries, and one for books and snacks–seemed insignificant next to your stroller, Bumbo, portable swing, car seat, diaper bag, diapers, bottles, cooler, toys, portable bed, and clothes. The good news is that there was never an “Oops, I should have brought…” moment. In retrospect, we could have gotten by with one bag for clothes between the two of us, as you wore one outfit per day just like a regular person, but I just never know when you’re going to have a four-outfit day, and I figured it was easier to overpack than try to do laundry at your great-grandmother’s house.

While I was totally exhausted and tired of riding by the time we finally got home  (read: jarred to the point of nausea thanks to the uneven driving surface–note to the NCDOT: are you EVER going to pave I-85 again?), and even though I had to go to work the next morning, I was glad we went for lots of reasons. I had recently begun to fear that you were going to be one of those babies who screams bloody murder when Mommy leaves the room. Truth be told, you may yet become one of those babies, but I’d like to think that thing you do when you refuse to take your eyes off of me now matter how far across the room I am or who is holding you is just a sign of our mutual admiration and not the beginning of unhealthy attachment. But I digress. As it turns out, you rather like people and enjoy seeing new ones these days. You smiled at every new person you met on our trip, including that annoying waitress at Cr@cker Barrel who couldn’t find to-go cups and thereby denied me a second cup of coffee for the road.

But I was most interested in your reactions to the family, and I am happy to report that your whole body smile was not reserved for Cr@cker Barrel waitresses. With the exception of a few minutes of lip-puckering and pitiful whimpering when you first met your Uncle Palley (too bad for him that he caught you when you were fighting a desperately needed nap), you seemed happy to see everyone. You even squealed and jabbered when you met your four little boy cousins, who were equally enamored of you.

But you seemed to be the most interested in your grandpa. You stared at him a lot, even when he was not looking at you, as if trying to telepathically get his attention. When he was looking at you, you were grinning back at him with an expression I can only describe as satisfied amusement. I believe you are genuinely fascinated with him, and even though it is unlikely that you comprehend the statement, “This summer I’ll put a sidecar on the 4-wheeler and take you for a ride,” or my subsequent terror-stricken face in response, you seemed into whatever he suggested. He explained to you upon seeing my reaction that “Mommy used to ride on the tractor with her grandpa and that’s kinda like a 4-wheeler.”  The grandpa to which he is referring is the grandpa for whom you are named, Nonna’s dad and my Papa**, and he and I were very close. Your grandpa knows this and often talks about Papa–they spent a lot of time working on Papa’s farm together when Nonna and your grandpa were still married, and they thought a great deal of each other.

So after a weekend of playing airplane with, laughing at, and falling asleep numerous times on your grandpa, he asked me on the way home what you were going to call him. I told him it was his call; after all, Nonna got to choose her “grandma name.” He jokingly suggested Grumpaw and Grandpappy, and then said he didn’t want to be called Poppa since that’s what your little boy cousins call their grandpa. And then, with what I believe was a knowing look in my direction, he said he wanted you to call him Papa. I don’t know for sure if he meant for it to be so, but this is very symbolic to me because I had a Papa and there was nobody else like him in my life–on Earth. I have to believe your grandpa–your Papa–knows that, and all I have to say is that if your Papa is anything like mine, you are one lucky kid.

Ti amo,

Mommy

*Actually, that is a big lie. I will never buy you a mini Escalade, as the Escalade is a symbol of waste and extravagance, values I do not wish to instill in you. But I won’t be surprised if your Papa buys you a little Volkswagen Beetle or a miniature John Deere tractor.

**Pronounced “pop-paw”

I was watching the tape that’s been in the video camera since Christmas day, and there’s a scene from my hospital room the day Mia was born that nearly makes me wet myself every time think about it. In the background music is playing–specifically, Joan Baez’s Dark Chords on a Big Guitar. There is a song on this album called “Wings,” which was written by another of my favorite artists, Josh Ritter. My sister Megan likes him as well, and when the song came on I said aloud to Megan, “That’s a Josh Ritter song.” This is the conversation that followed:

My Grandmother: He performed at the Civic Center a while back, and I was going to go but I didn’t, and then we found out the next week that he had died in that plane crash.

Me: Who?

G: John Denver.

Me: I said Josh Ritter.

My sister Charity: John Denver’s dead?

At this juncture my father tells a joke about John Denver’s driving skills that he heard on the John Boy and Billy Show. To my knowledge, Megan never actually heard a word I said. Country roads indeed.

I mentioned last week that my middle sister moved to California to attend art school. Last Tuesday my mother flew out to help her get settled. Her flight pattern was Charlotte-Atlanta-Orange County. At least it was supposed to be.

She arrived at my house late Monday evening, as I’m about an hour closer to Charlotte than she is. Her flight was scheduled to leave at 8-something the next morning, but with all the new flight restrictions*, and considering she doesn’t fly much, she wanted to get there extra early. It was a breeze–she was over an hour early and had plenty of time to relax before her flight left for Atlanta. More than plenty, as it turns out: her flight left Charlotte late, and she missed her connection in Atlanta. The rest of the day is sort of sketchy for me, but this is what I think happened based on the frantic call I received from my sister in the middle of the work day**: they booked her on another flight, but lo and behold, it was overbooked and she got bumped. Her luggage, however, did not, so it went on to Orange County without her. She was then booked on a flight to “somewhere in Utah.” Since SLC is the only city I can think of in Utah right now, we’re going to assume that’s where she went. Her flight from SLC was to LAX, not Orange County, so the plan was that the airline would arrange shuttle service to OC once she arrived at LAX.

She was originally supposed to land in OC at 12:30 PT, but when she finally called me once my sister had collected her from the Shuttle of Death (it seems Mom doesn’t care for the 12-lane 70-MPH madness of the Southern California highway system), it was almost 5:30 in Orange County and she was stressed. She claims the shuttle driver tried to kill her by not paying attention to his driving; she confessed that she actually entertained the idea of slapping him with her shuttle voucher. And my sister’s boyfriend’s car has no AC, so not only were they flying down Death’s Highway at frightening speeds, but they were doing so in a hot car. She had to hang up because she needed to concentrate on driving. And she wasn’t even the one driving.

The sequel to this episode, “The One With the Flying Mother, Part II” aired yesterday, and it was much less eventful. No missed connections, no major glitches. She landed in Charlotte at 11 and drove back to my house. Piece of cake. Well, sort of. See, we have this new road in G’boro that allows highway travelers to completely bypass G’boro altogether. If you’re actually trying to get to G’boro and you’re not careful you could miss the G’boro exit and end up in the next town over, which is exactly what happened to my mom when she was trying to get to my house in G’boro at 1 in the morning. She arrived eventually, and all was well, but I think it’s safe to say she won’t be going on any long trips any time soon.

*It seems that you’re not allowed to take a bottle of Jergen’s lotion on a plane these days, but pack all the personal lubricant you want. Mile High Club, anyone?

**I was already worried enough about my mother flying across the country–it’s just my way to worry–but when I got my sister’s message that went something like, “Call me. I have to talk to you about Mom’s horrible plane experiences” I sort of freaked. A word to my family: if you are going to leave a message on my phone in the middle of the workday, please either give me more detail, or give me no detail at all. Another case in point is my mom’s voicemail message on Wednesday: “H., I can’t find Megan. I don’t know where she is. See if you can get in touch with her. Call me.” I’m not sure which category that one falls into–too much or not enough–but I sort of handled it badly.

Dear Megan,

When you finally recover your cell phone and listen to your messages, please disregard the one from me. You see, when I got the message from Mom that said, “I can’t find Megan. She’s not answering her phone. I can’t get in touch with [her boyfriend] either. Have you heard from her? Call me,” I panicked. She was, of course, calling from California, and some quick math told me she had called me at 7 a.m. Pacific time, so I assumed the worst. The last time I talked with you, you were on your way to Boyfriend’s apartment to watch the Redskins game; that was two days ago. All kinds of thoughts went through my head. You know how I am. So please don’t be upset by my tone. I was in a workshop that was being led by an incompetent presenter with no command whatsover of subject-verb agreement, so my mood was already sullied. And really, I would never actually drive up there and kick your ass. That was just a…a figure of speech. Yes. So, uh, sorry about that message, and I’m glad you’re okay. Oh, and give me a call. At your convenience, of course–no rush!

Love,

Your Sister

I can’t even remember if I’ve mentioned that I’m taking two graduate courses this semester. It was all part of The Plan That Wasn’t To Be: I was going to be working in a school media center, which was going to limit my constant contact with kids, which was going to limit my exhaustion; I was going to be filled with second trimester energy; I was going to get these two time-consuming classes out of the way while I was pregnant, rather than try to take one in the spring once Chickie is here. The reality of the situation is this: I’m still in the classroom, teenagers are life-sucking organisms, and by the time I get home I want to eat and go to bed by 7; on Sundays when I should be working on class stuff, I am lying around in a big t-shirt and my underwear watching Magnum repeats and taped Ellen episodes; and now I’ve discovered that one of the required courses for my degree is being offered in the spring and won’t be offered again for two years, so I’ll be taking a class once the Chickie arrives after all. I should really be on campus at the library, but they require pants there. So I’m pretending to be productive; after all, if you saw someone sitting around with a laptop typing madly you’d assume she was doing something important…right?

~~~

Tomorrow is September 11, as if any of you needed reminding. That’s why this post over at Life is Sweet, Baby struck such a chord. I’m not sure I’ll even watch TV tomorrow, and God, I shudder at the papers, the images that will once again be plastered all over the internet, the comments from drama-seeking colleagues and kids who are parroting their parents. Don’t get me wrong–my head isn’t in the sand–but is there someone out there who doesn’t remember? Is there someone who actually needs to see a real-time re-broadcast of news footage from 9/11 in order to be reminded of the horror? Is it just Lorem and me, or is someone trying to perpetuate a nation’s fears by “honoring” 9/11?

~~~

I’d like to publicly harass my sister over at Torching Time, Talking Rhymes. She hasn’t posted since May 5. When I gave her a hard time a few months ago I was brutally reminded of my own lapsed blogging, but I’ve gotten better. Megan, just so we know, Summertiiime is almost over; Autumn begins in about two weeks. And we’ve all fully celebrated El Cinco de Mayo. Also, you are no longer at home with the slow computer, and certainly you have stories to tell from your first two weeks back on campus.

~~~

Speaking of sisters, my middle sister is on her way to California where she will live and attend art school for the next two years. It’s still a little surreal for me, but every time she calls from another westward location it grows a little more concrete. I’m really proud of her–it takes a lot of cajones to pick up and move 2000 miles from home in pursuit of a dream. I think she should start her own blog. Hint hint. Hint.

~~~

I know there hasn’t been much talk of pregnancy on this blog, but I thought I should at least let you know that things are moving along on the right track, with lots of emphasis on the “moving.” My abdomen seems to have a life of its own now; objects placed on or close to its surface will be challenged from within. I’ve reached the conclusion that I’m either carrying the Incredible Hulk or a descendent of Michael Flatley, Lord of the Dance. Below, submitted for your approval, is a photo taken of me yesterday at 24 weeks, 2 days. Don’t worry, I’m wearing pants.

Note: when I uploaded this picture to Flickr and then looked at it I was horrified to see what appeared to be stretch marks all over my stomach. I have no stretch marks. Sure, my navel looks like the tied end of an inflated balloon, but ZERO stretch marks. I can only assume that the wavy quality of this picture is a result of its having been snapped with a camera phone.

…to the coolest 19 year-old sister a girl could have!

106
Originally uploaded by tbgdee.

…and I can totally forgive her for only saying my name and acknowledging my existence when I am driving away after just having spent two hours with her.

I couldn’t resist adding some photos of my parents. I couldn’t find the picture of my mom holding me, the two of us wearing matching dresses, her hair past her butt. This shot from our days of touring with the Von Trapp family will have to do. Please note the silk flower in Mom’s hair, her furry pink cape, and the furry puff balls with which it is tied.

As for my dad…well, I told you he looked like a cross between Kenny Loggins and the Unibomber. Most of the pictures of my mom from my childhood looked normal for the day and time, but every single picture of my dad looks like it came from the Manson family scrapbook. Bless his heart. His appearance bore no significance to his personality. Well, not entirely, anyway. Today he still sort of looks like Kenny Loggins, but without the mane and beard.

First of all, thanks, Calliope, for suggesting this topic. I love looking at people’s baby pictures; I love looking at MY baby pictures. I like the idea of revisiting some semblance of innocence, and of trying to imagine how it felt to be two, or four, or one.

That being said, it was hard to choose pictures for this week’s Friday Photo, and not because I was so damn cute. The hard part was deciding which funny looking outfits, injuries, goofy looks, and hippie parental figures I wanted to share with you. It was the 70s, after all, and didn’t we all wear some interesting ensembles? Note the Betsy Ross hat I’m wearing in the photo below, as well as my bruised, scabby knees. At least my face is intact in this picture; I could have posted the end result of this incident (see item 11), but it’s not nearly as cute. And my parents? Yeah, my mom had long hair and wore flowery dresses and tube tops and platform shoes. And my dad? He looked like a cross between Kenny Loggins and the Unibomber. My college roomate, uopn seeing photos of my parents from the late 70s, asked if my middle initial (M) actually stood for Moonbeam. I’ll never tell.

As for the second picture…truthfully, I did pick this one because it’s so damn cute. I mean, sweetness and innocence are just oozing from every pixel of this photo. We were at a petting zoo, and I was a little afraid of that deer, that sad, pitiful, emaciated deer. It just walked up and stuck its head in the crook of my arm. I cropped its skeletal body out of the picture, but if you could see it you might understand my fear. I think it was planning to eat me.

I think I remember the day this picture was taken, when someone (my mom? my grandmother? my aunt Karen?) saw a photo op and took this picture. Or perhaps I’ve just seen other pictures that were taken that same day and constructed a memory based on those images.

It was warm outside. My great-grandmother was with us. She was old to me even then, her coal black and silver hair shining in the summer sun. The whole family was there, in fact, and everyone was happy. My grandfather was talking to my soon-to-be uncle Mike. My aunt Karen was taking lots of pictures, and my mom was drinking soda through a straw. My grandmother was wearing yellow and holding my hand as we looked at the goats and bunnies and lambs. “Look,” she said, “these are just like the ones you and Aunt Stella put flowers on in the cemetery,” and I reached out to touch one but it was warm and wiggly, not hard and cool like the graveyard lambs, and I giggled and clung to her shirt, buried my face in her shoulder, inhaled her Emeraude perfume. I was the only child then, the only grandchild, the only neice, and they all loved me fiercely, and I felt it that day. I stood in the middle of the little barnyard and watched them all taking their pictures, sipping their drinks, talking their adult talk, but they were aware of me and formed a tangible circle around my small form. When the deer nuzzled my elbow I gasped and suddenly I was the center, the true center, and every eye turned in my direction. My own eyes widened in fear and amazement, and my grandfather, my protector, knelt down a few feet away and said gently, “It’s okay, Darlin’, he just wants to be near you just like I do, ’cause you’re so sweet,” and I relaxed and smiled and someone snapped a picture.My grandfather is gone now. My great-grandmother died a few years ago. My aunt Stella is buried in the cemetery where we used to walk, where the white stone lambs mark the graves of children. There was so much I didn’t know then–that children could die, or that any of these people could leave me forever, or that the circle would widen and more children would come and join me in the center, or that someday I would be a grown up, too. What I knew then–what I know now when I look at this picture–was the belief that no harm could ever come to me in that impenetrable circle of love, that when I called out a voice would answer to soothe me, that when I reached out my hand someone would be there to hold it.

Behold: my family a la South Park. Seriously, I need help. I don’t think I can collect unemployment if this is the reason I’m not working.

Mom

Megan
Charity

the shelf that ennis built
Originally uploaded by tbgdee.

My grandfather built this bookcase when he was in high school. It is my favorite piece of furniture, second only to the table and chairs that sat in my grandparents’ kitchen for as long as I can remember, and which now reside in my dining room. Both the table and the bookcase are scratched, and the finish has faded or worn off in places, but I’ve never had the desire to refinish them. They are perfect just they way they are, and they hold their respective contents with such sentimental grace.

To see the dog that bit me on the leg and drew blood THROUGH MY PAJAMAS on Christmas Eve, the magnets my sister and I made over the holidays, my middle sister under the influence of pomegranate martinis, my youngest sister and me getting tattooed, and my youngest sister’s cool lizard king tattoo, go here.

For my own personal account of these images and events, stay tuned.

I’m supposed to be packing for my Thanksgiving trek to points south where I will spend the next three days with my dad’s side of the family, but in spite of the piles of clothes strategically placed about my bedroom and the open suitcase on my bed, here I sit talking to “my friends in the computer,” as the bloggers say.

Here’s the thing–I’m already starting to freak out about Christmas. It’s not even Thanksgiving yet, and already the “what the heck am I going to get (fill in the blank) for Christmas?”/”when am I going to put up the tree?”/”maybe I should host Christmas this year…” tape is playing in my head. I’m blaming the commercials. Have you noticed? Every commercial, from department store jingles to new car ads, features some allusion to the red and green holiday. Target may be the worst offender, but Walgreens is the most frightening. Is anyone else disturbed by their series of commercials featuring people walking into their dark back yards plucking wrapping paper and batteries from trees? And the radio stations are adding insult to injury–they’ve been playing nonstop Christmas music since Saturday. I know, I know, I was listening to Christmas music weeks ago, but not constantly!

And then there are the crafts. You see, my family is crafty. My mom is extraordinarily creative, and she passed that gene to my sisters and me. But there is an aberration in the gene. Inevitably, at least around the holidays, we wait until the last minute to begin the creative process, thereby finding ourselves wide awake at 3 a.m. on Christmas morning making that year’s gift du jour. It is not unusual to stumble upon the following scene at my mother’s house on Christmas Eve: Mom at the sewing machine surrounded by fabric with pins in her sleeves and the iron on full blast; Charity in front of a canvas covered in paint; Megan huddled on the floor with her bead box open and a pile of magazines and an open jar of decopage glaze in her lap. By this time I’ve already pulled my all-nighter, or else I have wrapped written descriptions of what I’m going to make for everyone over Christmas vacation, and I’m wandering around from project to project guessing who is making what for whom.

But it’s not really any of that. I enjoy all of that. I even like a few of the commercials. My problem is the rapid rate at which the season approaches, and the alarming speed at which it passes. I know the advertising world thinks that by beginning Christmas just after Veteran’s Day they are giving us more time to enjoy the season. What they fail to realize is that the moment Christmas officially starts, time warps into supersonic speed. We could begin hanging greens and stringing lights in March, and December would still arrive seemingly without warning. People would still start their Christmas shopping late, the calendar would still be full to overflowing with parties and drop-ins and open houses–and my mom and sisters and I would still stay up until four in the morning making stuff. When are we supposed to truly enjoy the fruits of our labors?

This Christmas season I’m applying what I learned in yoga class to my holiday approach. Taking lots of deep breaths, making slow deliberate movements, staying in one place for as long as I need to stay there. I doubt I can slow time, but I can slow me, and perhaps that’s been my problem all along. So happy Thanksgiving, people, and Namaste, and Om, and if you know what’s good for you, when those damn Christmas commercials come on, downward facing dog is a nice way to pass the time.

…a poem about my grandfather

Russell Square

The song playing on the country radio station
was “Drivin’ My Life Away” by Eddie Rabbit.
It was raining hard, like in the song,
and we were buying day-old hot dog buns
at the Wonder Bread Bakery Outlet
across from the Woodrow Wilson duck pond. I sat
in the middle of the truck seat, close as I could
get to your denim jacket and Old Spice,
and you stroked my bare arm with your thumb
to the windshield-wiper cadence of the music.

I don’t remember the season, my age,
or if you had already lost the borrowed kidney
that would be your end–just the comfort
of my small frame against your presence,
and the sound of your whistling, and nothing
in particular filling up our days. If I could
I’d go back there to the red truck and rain
and resting my head on your arm–back to ordinary,
everyday, before I grew too tall to sit on your lap–
before your lap became a place in my memory.

I still see you sometimes when I stop
to mind the details of my life: you come
while I am moving soil into the garden,
mailing letters, making grocery lists,
mowing the grass–and once I even saw you
walking away from the tube station
at Russell Square. You met my stare
and smiled, then someone walked between us;
when I found you again you were headed for the bakery,
whistling an old country song in the London rain.

1999

Today is my sister Charity’s 20th birthday. TWENTY. I’m not sure which is more unbelieveable–the fact that she’s two decades old, or the fact that I can clearly remember things that happened two decades ago. She fulfilled my life’s greatest wish–to have a sister–and she’s been fulfilling that wish since. There is no one on earth like her, and for that I am sorry for the rest of you. She is beautiful and smart and funny as hell, and I raise my glass to her today.

Charity, c. 1987

Heather: “How much is this tie-dyed hoodie?”

Crafty tie-dye man: “Forty-five.”

Heather: “Dollars?”

Crafty tie-dye man: “Yes, I hand tie-dyed it. These regular sweatshirts are twenty.”

Heather (to Megan): “So a hood costs an additional twenty-five bucks?”

Megan: “Yeah, right, and I’m sure it cost him about five dollars to make the whole thing. I could get a two dollar tie-dye kit and make that myself.”

When I started reading my sister’s most recent blogger post I got all teary and misty because she’s so damn sweet, but then my sentimental tears turned into tears of insane laughter. A student actually stopped in my doorway to ask if I was okay. I think you should read it, too.

My fall break with a turkey and a praying mantis

My sister Charity has been making me laugh at inappropriate times and at inappropriate things since she was five months old. I will never forget sitting in church on a Sunday night with her on my lap. I was 12, and drawing attention of any kind to myself was, at that time in my life, emotional suicide. But right in the middle of a very long Southern Baptist prayer, Charity started blowing raspberries at me, and then giggling at herself. I giggled back. She was encouraged, so she did it again, and this time I stifled a laugh. She continued the game, and I slowly inched my way to hysteria, the kind that only gets worse when you try to control it. I had tears streaming down my face, and I was doing that silent shaking laughter that is actually painful. All of this was encouragement to Charity, who was by now causing people to turn around and smile that “oh, isn’t she cute” smile that only babies can score for interrupting a church service. My mom was an innocent bystander, but she, too, got sucked in, and eventually the three of us–my mother and I with Charity in tow–had to get up and retreat to the empty church nursery where we sat in the middle of the floor and laughed like the insane.

This evening at dinner Charity and I had already started eating before we realized that everyone else at the table was staring at us expectantly. Perhaps they thought us barbaric. Perhaps they were waiting for us to choke or keel over from eating unblessed food. We sheepishly withdrew our forks and joined hands like everyone else at the table, and just as Big Dave began the prayer, my mother’s cell phone, which Charity had programmed on the way to dinner, began ringing loudly, proudly belting out the theme song to “Sex and the City.” I tried to control my laughter, but I was holding Charity’s hand, so I could tell she was laughing, too. I thought I was going to have to crawl under the table.

Before the evening was over, my Uncle Mike almost fell out of his chair (I swear he wasn’t drunk), and Big Dave had a gigantic marinara stain down the front of his shirt. It could have been embarrassing, but I was happy–I got to laugh with my sister.

Megan, we missed you.

My baby sister turned 18 today. It wasn’t her best day. She’s having a rough start at James Madison University, where I am convinced that things will take a turn for the better and she will be immensely content. But today I’m just sorry JMU is almost four hours away, because I’d sure like to be with her on her birthday.

Happy Birthday, Megan. I love you.

Megan, Circa 1990

My mom is the Easter basket queen. For as long as I can remember, my sisters and I have hit the jackpot where these small gift-giving vessels are concerned: jewelry, books, gift certificates, and of course, candy. Mom doesn’t waste her time on hollow chocolate bunnies and jelly beans; she goes for the good stuff: M&Ms, Lindt balls, truffles, Dove bars, and my personal favorites, Cadbury Creme Eggs and Reece’s peanut butter eggs. God, I get high just thinking about the chocolate rush.

As I’ve gotten older, the basket itself has changed a bit. I’ve gotten Easter purses, coffee mugs, even candy-filled shoes. Once, after I added a new kitten to my household, I got an Easter kitty dish. But this year some things are a little different. For one, I turned 30. Now, perhaps from a butt-thigh-tummy perspective, excessive candy consumption is not the best idea at this time in my life, but my love for really sweet gooey chocolate is alive and well. But there’s something else. I recently told my mom that I want to have a baby, and that I’m starting the process immediately. She is beyond excited. My younger sisters are 17 and 19. Let’s face it–we just don’t get as excited about the Easter Bunny as we once did. I know that somewhere in the back of my mother’s mind she is planning the as yet unconceived child’s first Easter basket, and it’s going to be way cooler than Cadbury eggs in a cat dish.

So it’s three days until Easter, and I got my “basket” in the mail yesterday. It was a card with a $25 check inside. Perhaps it’s true that my mother has simply moved on to thoughts of grandchildren and holiday fun. Maybe she’s preparing me for the fact that once the child arrives, no one will pay me one bit of attention. Whatever the case, I’m gonna miss that Cadbury egg.

Note: March 28, 2005–On Easter Sunday upon returning from the morning dog walk expedition, I spied a green gift bag hanging precariously from my front door handle. Alas, it was a big honkin’ bag of chocolate (Cadbury Creme Eggs, in both regular and miniature sizes; Milky Way Eggs; Dove chocolate bunnies; and Lindt truffle bunnies). The attached note said “From the Easter Bunny,” but I’m not fooled. I hereby issue a formal blog-apology to my mother, who remains forever and always the Easter Basket Queen.

I’ve been dropping hints to my dad about moving south for two years now. He hates the long cold winters in West Virginia where he was born–where I was born–and where he has remained for over 50 years. The cold makes his head hurt, he tells me, makes him feel tired. He hates the snow. He works 6, sometimes 7 days a week–too much, I keep saying. My brother is grown. The last of the old Italian uncles died in January. There is no concrete reason for him to stay. You could retire, I tell him. It’s warm down here, I keep saying. He hasn’t budged. I think I know what keeps him there, and it’s not the promise of spring.

Of course, today in the warm South it is snowing. Huge papery flakes are swirling and the wind is blowing. I am home from work–no school for students due to inclement weather, optional workday for the teachers. I am opting to stay home and watch the snow fall, although I’d rather be on the lake with a kayak and a warm breeze. It’s March–four days until spring, and here it is snowing. I would have paid money for a day like this in February when the days were so long and I was running so hard, in need of a random day of pajamas and hot coffee. In February we had a week’s worth of 72 degree days and no one had the time to enjoy them. Now it’s light until after 6 and the air is crisp, cold, barely 40, and people are restless inside their warm living rooms. I can smell woodsmoke from a neighbor’s chimney and the power of suggestion is immense. The dogs would like a fire, the cat, too, and I could finally get some reading done. Sometimes you have to make your own spring.

My father’s father operated a coal tipple in the heyday of the coal mining industry. Everyone warmed their houses with coal then, and life was good. He was second generation Italian, born Luigi but called himself Louis his whole life. He worked hard, just like my dad. Too hard, just like my dad. He died working hard, doing someone else’s job. That’s all I know…no one has ever really told me what that means, but I’m guessing he had that family workaholic gene, the over-achiever complex, gotta be doing something or I’ll fall behind. I do know he fell–literally–while he was working another miner’s shift. No one really knows what killed him–might have been the fall, might have been something else that caused the fall–stroke, heart attack. My grandmother wouldn’t let anyone touch his body, so they buried the mystery with him and everyone was left to their own guilt and grief. My dad was 15, the oldest still at home, and he started driving the next day because his mother didn’t know how. He’s been driving ever since, mostly too fast and far away, but he’s slowing down now, and I get the feeling he’s finally figured out where he’s supposed to be going.

The snow is melting already. The thermometer on the screened porch says 40. Typical. It’s the third “winter event” this season, and none of them lasted more than a day. We paid our winter dues last year and the year before–12 inches of snow, 4 inches of ice, a week with no power. I’m glad it’s temporary, this beautiful snow. I’m ready for spring. When my power went out two Decembers ago I refused to leave my house because most people I knew didn’t have power either, and those who did wouldn’t let me bring my cat along. He was still a kitten then, a life for which I was responsible, and so I stayed. I kept a fire burning and we all–the cat and dog and I–slept on the pullout sofa under every blanket in the house. It lasted 4 days. On the second day my dad brought me a generator and a space heater and took me out for a hot meal. At the restaurant you could tell who had power and who didn’t. All through dinner we played a little game trying to identify my fellow winter weather warriors. We’d been speaking regularly for 8 months then, and the power outage gave us something to talk about. Now when we talk it’s warm. Some power outages last longer than others.

I was 19 when it started. It happened like this: my mom, 14 years post-divorce, wrote my dad a letter and told him he should send me money; he called my dormitory and left a message with my roommate; I called back and left a message on his answering machine. My brother was eight then, and I remember his small voice on the message, awkward and broken from being coached in the background. Weeks later when he still hadn’t called me back I announced to my then best friend that I was done. I wasn’t going to be the only one who called anymore. I was tired. For the next 8 years I was a nervous wreck every time I visited my mother’s family in West Virginia. I didn’t want to run into my father. I didn’t know what to say to him, and I assumed he had nothing to say to me. And then some planes flew into the WTC in Manhattan, and the pleas from total strangers–tell your family you love them, don’t let another day pass–got to me. I started to fear that this 8-year communication gap was the result of one big misunderstanding. That Christmas I wrote a letter: “I just wanted to make contact,” it said. “I don’t want money. I just wanted to you know I’m well. I’m 27 now.” I was too chickenshit to include my phone number so I sent my email address instead. I got an email from my little brother–then 18–telling me they got my letter and wanted to see me, wanted to talk to me. I panicked. He gave me their new number. I didn’t call. And then one day in April, smack in the middle of the school day, the classroom phone rang. I was covering another teacher’s class and I answered quickly. It was for me. I had mentioned my job in the letter. He had called information for the number, finally realizing that perhaps I’d been waiting for him to call for 8 years.