Merry Christmas to all

With Christmas but a few days away, I want to send my wishes that your Christmas will be filled with love and peace. Our condo is decorated simply this year and while many of our decorations are from our early years together, we do have some more recent arrivals. My favorite is is a  humble little tree sent to us by our oldest daughter, Ginger. When we were here for our first Christmas, she asked me if we would have a tree. I said, "No." That just didn't sit well with her. And so, a few days later, our tree arrived. It fits in quite nicely with all the "old" decorations we've accumulated over the years.

Over the years, we've all kinds of trees---tall spindly ones, short chubby ones. Will always went out and picked out the tree. Often, one or more of our daughters would go with him. Whoever braved the cold to do so always would claim "their tree was the best ever." We'd all gather around and decorate together, at least until they grew far into their teens. I confess my favorite part was tinsel, something that we don't see nowadays. Not sure why. Will would repeat his directions every year: "drape the tinsel, don't throw it or drop it on the branches."

Looking back on my childhood, I am amazed about how my parents created the magical feel they did especially knowing how stretched their budget was after WWII. When we went to bed at night as little children, there was no sign of Christmas. We believed Santa brought everything on his sleigh.

In the morning, we'd awaken to a tree centered on a large platform. Trains chugged around it. Our gifts snuggled at one end and our stockings were stuffed with candy, always a tangerine, and sometimes a bit of coal, too. Often our stocking held a note that led us to another part of the house where we'd find ice skates, a new sled, and once, for my sister, a bicycle.

My dad sometimes fell asleep in his chair while my mother made our Christmas dinner. Now I know why! For some reason, I never shared my appreciation with them. I wish I could now. Somehow, though, I think they know...

Christmas Seasons

With Christmas but a few days away, I want to send my wishes that your Christmas will be filled with love and peace. Most of us can recall those special Christmases, perhaps those of our childhood, or with our first love, or later, those with a growing family, followed by those with grandchildren.

Over the years, Christmas celebrations tend to evolve as each of us builds our own treasure trove of memories. If you're like me, some of the memories fuse into others. As a child, I remember getting a tangerine in my stocking and so, the smell of a tangerine will always evoke childhood Christmases for me. Over the years, time changes our celebrations. I can't imagine ever putting a tangerine in my children's or my grandchildren's stockings!

I remember meeting my husband, Will. Those were the days when we took lots of pictures. This picture, taken in 1959, was our first Christmas together. We were young, then, and carefree, too. I recall we had to visit both sets of parents that year. And try to eat two turkey dinners, as well.

Since then, we've celebrated fifty-five Christmases together. If I had a chance to relive those years, I would have kept a Christmas journal. Then, I would be able to go back and check out each one. Now, they merge into a lovely pattern much like a quilt made of many hues.


In quick succession, our four daughters came along and with them, late nights of putting toys together, then arranging them under the tree. Ginger, our oldest, was always the "scout." While her sisters quivered with excitement, she would run down the steps, check out the scene, then call up to her sisters, "Santa came!" Then we'd hear another three sets of feet bound down the steps. And our Christmas morning would begin...way too early, but nevertheless, filled with joy.

Way too quickly, they grew up, married and began their own Christmas traditions. Again, Christmases evolved but with glad tidings as life was developing as it was meant to be.

Soon, grandchildren hit the scene. Another golden time, another gilded, ribboned wrapped growth of Christmas change. This, for me, was really special. This picture of me with our grandsons Nathan and John, was taken a Christmas that I'll never forget. Nathan, four months old, was sleeping on a blanket close to the tree while we were all in the kitchen. We heard a thud and ran in. The tree had fallen over and Nathan was under it! Not a sound was uttered by this dear baby boy. We pulled the tree off of him, unsure if he was hurt, but thankfully, not a branch had touched him.

Those years went quickly, way too quickly. And now my beloved and I find we're back to the beginning. Our children and our children's children all live far enough away that Will and I are two once more. We still celebrate with gifts and phone calls, then visits after Christmas day. We're content and feel blessed to be together and well. We rejoice in the day and knowing all of our loved ones are safe and celebrating, too.


May you and your family have a blessed Christmas and fun making memories together!

Thank You, Mrs. Bunting

If you’re like me and someone asks you, “Who were the mentors who influenced you?” you probably can reel off a few names very quickly. We can all recall those who've had a major influence on our life choices, but how about those who enter your life only briefly?

 

One of those people in my life was Mrs. Bunting. She lived near us in a small white bungalow badly in need of paint, but lovely still, with a beautiful rose arbor gracing the back. When my mother returned to work for a brief time so we could buy our first television, we were told we’d be going to Mrs. Bunting’s house after school until one of our parents came home. I groaned as loudly as my two sisters about the prospect of staying with boring and OLD Mrs. Bunting.

A lady in every sense of the word as described in the ‘40's and ‘50's, she dressed discreetly in a pressed house dress and wore beaded, dangly, earrings, pierced ones, which in itself was a rarity in those days among the locals. Her necklaces always matched the baubles in her ears. Her gray hair, was always modestly waved, with nary a hair out of place. An aura of floral scent surrounded her when she moved.

Mrs. Bunting took her responsibility to care for us seriously. Each day when we arrived home from school, she had a snack waiting. Not the usual cookies we would have grabbed on the run at home, though. Instead, she would direct us to her dining room table where she had placed pedestaled crystal glasses filled with chocolate pudding or jello on small crocheted cloth doilies. A dab of whipped cream adorned the top. Dessert spoons with a “B” monogrammed on the handle rested precisely to the right while a pristine white napkin was to the left of the fluted dish.
 

 Filled with pent up energy from school, we were impatient to go outside if the weather was nice. Mrs. Bunting had a long driveway, excellent for jump rope. We tried to rush through the snack as quickly as we could, but Mrs. Bunting didn’t allow it. “When young ladies eat, conversation is important,” she said, with a frown. “The outdoors will always be there, but manners must be observed.”

Then one day I needed to use the bathroom. “It’s the door off the living room,” said Mrs. Bunting. “Just past my boudoir. Remember, you must never enter my boudoir. No one ever goes into a lady’s boudoir without permission.”

I was fascinated by this additional word to my vocabulary! Boudoir. It sounded exotic and special. After that, I made it a point to go to the bathroom every day so I could peek into the “lady’s boudoir.” In the room, made dark by the heavy closed velvet drapes, the interior appeared lush. I’d pause on my way in and out of the bathroom to catch as long of a glance as I could.
And so, Mrs. Bunting began my more formal education of “comportment.” I practiced walking up and down the sun parlor with a book on my head. “A young lady must always know how to carry herself.” She had a rule for just about everything a young lady should do. I practiced sitting quietly on the porch, hands folded. “A young lady does not fidget.”

My sisters didn’t escape all the instructions, either, as Mrs. Bunting always started her lessons at the table. “Always unfold your napkin slowly and place it on your lap before you pick up your spoon. That’s how a lady conducts herself.

          “And when you are finished, place your spoon beside the dish, not in it. Then, blot your lips with your napkin, even if you don’t think you need to do so. Then fold the napkin and place it next to your plate.”
          And again, she would repeat, “That shows you know how to act like a lady.”
          “Always say thank you as well, no matter how simple the meal or food.”

At this point, my two sisters would ask the prerequisite question, “May we now be excused?”

Mrs. Bunting would nod her regal head and as they scrambled from the table, they always rolled their eyes at me since I chose to remain behind. Years later, I questioned my understanding about the word she used, “comportment.” Had I confused it with deportment, a category on our elementary school report card? I looked up the two words and realized the subtle difference. No, Mrs Bunting was definitely teaching me how to comport myself as a lady. Each time I unfold my napkin, I think of her.

And to this day, if I sit in the sun and close my eyes, I can see myself sitting on Mrs. Bunting’s sun porch, practicing my ladylike behavior. Now, I wish I could have acknowledged the awareness she gave me during that brief time we spent together---the appreciation of common courtesies. If you have Mrs. Buntings in your life, consider letting them know they’ve influenced your life. And so, today, I want to say “thank you, Mrs. Bunting,” for taking the time to teach me the value of manners.

 

It's all in a word

            Recently a neighbor told me a story about an old man she’d met at a graduation party.

“How old was he?” I asked.

“Old,” she said, “Had to be seventy-five, at least.”

“Oh, you mean he was an old(er) man.”

She looked at me with a blank stare and must have realized that I had to be approaching the age of the man she was telling me about. It was at that moment I decided I would never be “old,” but simply “old(er).” So much young(er) sounding, don’t you think?

 

The word “old” is a word to describe food left too long in the refrigerator. It just doesn’t smell right. Or underwear with holes in it.  Something to throw out.

As I ponder the vast chasm created between these words simply by adding -er, I realize what power the simple suffix holds. After all, who wouldn’t want to be rich(er) rather than just rich, smart(er) rather than smart, or thinn(er) rather than thin. Ah, scratch that last one. I’d settle for just thin since that’s not been an adjective applied to me in too many years to count… But the adding of this mighty mite of a suffix can also have a negative voice too. After all, who would want to be fatt(er) than fat or mean(er) than mean?

Just below that article, I see another headline, "Baby delivered by Atlantic City Policeman." Now there's an age word that conjures all positive images like cuddly and cute. All good unless you happen to be a new parent, then you might add sleepless nights.

I begin thinking of other words that connote ages. Teens, now there's one that definitely has a note of cool to it. Then again, for parents, it probably translates to more sleepless nights. How about middle age? I remember viewing that milestone as the first stumbling block in the world of age descriptors. That term resonated as rather frumpy and indecisive. Looking back, I see it as the approach to the precipice of negative age words.

And now, I’m really feeling unnerved by this whole age quantifier. I decide to check out some of the experts’ views. Erikson, that’s where I’ll start. During my graduate counseling courses he was always my go to guy for a psychosocial theory of development. Each stage of life, he believed, involves a particular task in order to move on to the next stage of life. I consult my number one research tool: Google.

Definitely, a downer. Strange, I think, how as a forty-year old student, I believed he was right on target, totally hitting the bulls eye of life. Now I’m not so sure. I read on and see I’ve reached the eighth stage of development. The point at which I must answer the question,  Did I lead a meaningful life?

 

Wait a minute. I’m still in the midst of that meaningful life, busy trying to do all the things I never had time to do. No time to worry about the past. Maybe lat(er)… I read on and see that according to my former counseling super guru I am also at the final stage, the last step on the stairs, of my earth journey. That sounds so final. And according to Erikson, this stage started at age 65. I don’t let that number get to me, though, because a lot has changed since he developed his thesis sometime in the ‘50’s. 

 

     I continue reading and see my present life task is all about reflecting back on my past life. Well, I have to grudgingly admit he may have a point there. I do find myself thinking about my former experiences from time to time and I know my children and grandchildren get a glazed look in their eyes when I repeat stories they’ve heard a gazillion times. The word “gazillion” is one of their words, not mine. And so, I guess I must admit that I am in that place. Sort of, but not totally. 

But more than I think about my past life, I think of the present and the future with hope for what is ahead. Instead of focusing on reflections of past accomplishments and misdeeds, my efforts include tasks like finding a place to dance—before 11 PM to music I love. And if not, I can always dance in the kitchen with my lov(er), the old(er) man who’s danced with me for the past 50 years.

So, I will continue to grow old(er), but never be old.

  

psychology.about.com/od/psychosocialtheories/a/psychosocial.htm

Remembering 9/11

As the tenth anniversary approached, I found myself trying to avoid thinking about that day in 2001. I stopped watching TV several days ago, but this morning I realized I couldn’t simply tune out by not watching. For that day and its anniversaries, however many years pass, will always be sharp and clear in my memory. Many of the tributes say “Never Forget,” but that admonishment is not really needed.

Each of us will always remember in vivid detail where we were and how we were feeling that sunny September morning with all its wonderful promise. I was staying at my daughter, Ginger’s house in North Carolina to care for the children while she was at a business conference in Maryland. My husband, Will, had just returned from walking the kids to the bus stop.

I remember feeling a wonderful sense of the whole day stretched out ahead of the two of us. I took my second cup of coffee into the living room to slowly sip it and watch the “Today” show. When Katie Couric announced a plane had crashed into one of the Towers, I initially believed it was a tragic accident.

But when the second plane hit, I knew. A wave of cold washed over me, taking me back in time to a November day when my neighbor ran from her upstairs apartment shouting that John F. Kennedy had been shot. I held nineteen-month-old Ginger tightly and hurried inside. I felt the same fear and panic then as when I watched the terrible tragedy on 9/11.

And so, I turn on the TV to be a witness for those who died that day, as well as for those who loved them. The empty space in their lives will never be filled, but remembering and sharing that with those who care can help. Throughout it all, the thread of all the brave and unselfish giving throughout that day and the days following weaves a ray of hope. I cry, too.

    We will never forget, but we will go on.

Flowers of Winter

God gave us memories that we might have roses in December.  ~J.M. Barrie, Courage, 1922

 

Every December, as Christmas approaches and the end of the year draws near, for me, is a time of reflection, a looking back. Generally, this contemplative time begins after the shopping and mailing of packages is completed. But this year, my annual life review threatened to sabotage the necessary tasks that come with the holiday.  Daydreaming replaced concentrated, organized gift selection!

I blame the change on my neighbor, Harry, a consummate gardener whose talents we enjoy all summer from our front deck. The day before Thanksgiving, he brought over brought over an armful of roses from his still flowering garden. We were enjoying a wonderfully warm fall, even eating lunch in the sunny protected corner of our porch. "Hard to believe they're still growing," he said.

"Yes," I answered. "Hard to believe, but wonderful, too." I clipped the stems and placed the bouquet in a green vase on my dining room table. In the next few weeks, I passed by the roses a lot. Each time I did, I thought how comforting it was to see them bloom this time of year.

As the temperature dipped and we moved further into December, Harry's bouquet brought to mind Barrie's wonderful quote and my thoughts turned to how increasingly important the role memory takes as we get older. Not that I'm done making memories—not by a long shot, I hope! After all, I'm only seventy now. I still cling to the autumn years of my life, with their wonderful lingering warmth from my summer season.

I like to think the winter of my life is still far from away, but based on how rapidly my life has gone thus far, I know the approaching winter of my life is much closer than I want to believe. Sometimes, I wonder about what it will be like once my winter fully arrives.

We visit a senior center once a month to do a program entitled, "Remember When." These seniors (older than I am, of course!) are firmly entrenched definitely in the winter of their lives. They prefer sharing their memories, memories evoked by old the movies, events, and songs of their summer years, mostly the forties and fifties, rather than their later years. I learn from them that the days ahead can also be filled with joy and laughter, but most of all, bolstered by the memories that keep us warm.

Here's a few nonscientific things I've come to believe about how memory works as we get older:

• Memory is fluid and dynamic, ever changing. Each memory takes on a different hue, tone, and meaning when we view it from a distance created by time.
• Memory is a way of holding onto the things we love. It tells us who we are in our innermost self, and is tied to things we never want to lose. As a result, it only a natural evolution that we find it holds so much a larger part in our lives as we age.
• Memory is the book we write in the silence of our hearts. And like writers, we can discover the freedom to alter our history and tell it a little more like we wanted it to be. Have you ever noticed how the fish in any fisherman's tale gets larger with each telling?
• Memories, like the proverbial fine wine, improve with age. And as we get older, we gradually may become the only one who is the memory keeper of our family. An awesome, but joyful thing to contemplate!
• Memory is selective. As Austin O'Malley notes, "Memory is a crazy woman that hoards colored rags and throws away food. Nora Ephron speaks of this in her new book, "I Remember Nothing." Have you ever searched your mind for details of some neamingul event in your life and come up blank, yet you can remember an incident that would appear to have no significance whatsoever in the broad schematic of life?
• Memory, like the sea glass we find on the beach, holds fragments that we treasure without reason. Or as Cesare Pavese (The Burning Brand) says so well, "We do not remember days; we remember moments."
• Memory of our childhood remains imprinted in our memory bank for all of our lives. Sometimes, I ask myself why I remember all the details of my elementary school yet scarcely remember the hallways of the college I attended when I was forty years old?
• Memory of bad moments come mostly in the middle of the night. Have you had any of those moments when what you failed to do or did haunt you?

Bob Hope always finished his performances with a song called, "Thanks for the memories." Yet, memories are the flowers of our winter and it would be a very cold time without them. And like the roses of winter, they keep us warm. They're what we're made of and what we're left with.

Strawberry Moments Forever

"… the smell and taste of things remain poised a long time, like souls· bearing resiliently, on tiny and almost impalpable drops of their essence, the immense edifice of memory" -Marcel Proust,  "The Remembrance of Things Past"

Do you have a smell that reminds you of special memories? Perhaps the redolent smell of your childhood Sunday dinners? Or popcorn at Saturday matinees? Does a particular aroma take you back where you can see the scene as vividly as if you were right there now?

Proust's words speak volumes to me because throughout my life, the distinctive perfume of fresh strawberries has prevailed as my memory prompter. Perhaps it can even serve as a metaphor for much of my life. This love affair began in my childhood and I write about this in one of my past blog entries, "A World Without Childhood?"

Since that early experience, strawberries have continued as the framework of my most treasured moments.

Consider our honeymoon, for example. The year was 1962 and segregation was still an issue. Neither Will nor I had ever seen signs "for whites only" before, and the sight of so many appalled us. A truck loaded with cartons of berries pulled in behind us on a Chesapeake Bay ferry boat. Two black men got out of the truck and stood in the hot May sunshine. They couldn't go inside where it was cool since the boat wasn't large enough to have an extra space for what then was referred to as "for coloreds only." I spoke to them and said, "It must be nice to drive a truck with such a lovely cargo." They smiled back and tipped their hats.

When we returned to our car, one of the men handed us two quarts of berries. We thanked them profusely and thought about them as we continued on our way. That night, in a modest motel, I poured the lush, red fruit into the tiny sink to wash them and we ate our fill in bed before turning out the light. So, forever they will represent passion and love, along with a little sadness, too, at how badly people can treat other people by considering them as less worthy.

The following years went quickly for us—perhaps because our four daughters were born within the first five years of our marriage. When our youngest was four, we began taking them to a nearby farm to pick strawberries every June. My mother-in-law, Lib, would often join us and then come home to help clean and hull the berries.

After I washed the scarlet stains off the kids' faces and fingers and tucked them into bed, I'd come back to the kitchen to make pie crusts, usually twelve in all. As I kneaded and rolled, I could hear Will and his mother on our jalousie porch, a soft, gentle sound while I reveled in my solitude and the tactile feel of the dough.

Years later, in California, I picked huge, almost meatball size fruit on a California hill with my second daughter, Cindy, and three granddaughters. And as Yogi Berra says, it was "déjà vu all over again." That evening, however, I was the person hulling the berries while Cindy scrubbed away the ruby hue of the fruit that just couldn't wait another day to be eaten.

Now our family is grown and scattered from the East to the West Coast, but this succulent fruit continues to bring additional memories. Last week, we escorted our youngest daughter down a sandy beach on her wedding day in Santa Cruz, California. A joyous week for all of us with, you guessed it, more strawberries. As I hulled them, I inhaled deeply, drinking in one more strawberry moment while I listened to the chatter of gathered family. And as I did so, I thought how blessed I am to have this thread through my life and look forward to seeing what else this succulent fruit will bring in the future.

So, tell me, do you also have a special scent that takes you back in time? If so, drink it in and find yourself right there in that special place, that special moment. If not, consider creating memory markers by using your sense of smell during future happy moments—perhaps the smell of perfume you put on or notice on a loved one some New Year's Eve, or the sweet distinctive fragrance of the ocean after a storm.

A World without Childhood?

My lunchtime drink of choice is always Diet Peach Snapple. I love the taste. An added bonus is checking out the fact printed on the lid of each bottle. Some are funny, others surprising, but all are conversation starters. Yesterday's was thought provoking: "Bees are born fully grown."

Now, many of you may have already known that, but somewhere in my science education, I missed that lesson. The thought of anything being born fully grown never occurred to me. Imagine no frisky puppies, soft little kittens, or pink piglets. Sounds rather glum, doesn't it?

Sure enough, Will, my significant other, and I became fully immersed in thinking about this phenomenon. Will brought up a movie we'd seen entitled "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button." The lead, Brad Pitt (Benjamin), is born old and gradually grows younger—the opposite of what really happens in life. And while not quite the same scenario as being born fully grown, it's the same kind of premise that can spur the "what if" in many of us.

So, what would it be like to be born fully grown? As I went through the day, the concept continued to tickle my imagination. Who would I be if I had no childhood? The older I get, the more I realize how my childhood shaped me. I find myself thinking more about those earlier years than I ever seem to reflect on those spent working and raising a family.

We lived in the country—not the countryside you might think of with rolling hills and other houses nearby, but the isolated kind of country in one of John Steinbeck's books. Our house stood surrounded by fields of weeds. And to reach our nearest neighbor, we had to walk down the dirt road in front of our house to get to a paved road to a huge farm.


Until I went off to first grade, I didn’t see too many other children. In today's world, I guess that would sound grim and lacking in socialization, but I had my imagination and daydreaming to nourish me. I spent hours alone in the fields and the woods. Wild strawberries grew in some of the fields and I can still see myself in suspendered overalls eating them, alone but not lonely. That time spent in solitude, I believe, made me self sufficient, but perhaps a little bit of a loner.

Each spring, I followed my cat to find where she'd hid that year's litter of kittens. I'm not sure how I knew she would have them every year but I think it was because she grew fat, then thin. The question of how the kittens came to be within her never occurred to me. I think it was trust—the innocence of a child who assumes all will continue to be the same in her world.

That simple, artless time of growth is why childhood is not something to be missed. What would it be like to be born fully grown? To be without that time to be, to think, to daydream? It's a treasure we carry our entire lives, but often holds pain, too. My childhood, like most people's, is an amalgam of good and bad memories. For me, the good news is that the distance of time helped put the unhappy moments more in perspective.

My wish for you is that if your childhood was laced with more sadness than joy, you will reach that moment when the sadness is like the sting of a bee, intense when it happened, but short lived in your memory.