Tag Archives: Family

A little Springtime Nostalgia…

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It happens… if you don’t like the reminiscences and voyage into the sappy, softened memory-thing, scroll on by. I’m sure you will find something more to your taste. However, I’m going to spend just a moment traveling in my own past.

This morning (it is Easter), I visited a house of Christian worship. This is something that doesn’t happen over frequently with me as an adult. However, it was a rather common occurrence of my youth. It always manages to trigger memory overloads as I see familiar faces, and, whether I want to be or not, am recognized by those same faces. As the years have gone by, there are fewer of the faces I find familiar… and fewer still who recognize me. It’s bitter sweet for me because I love fading into the back and observing without inciting riots or high pitched noises. However, it is a very lonely feeling when you realize that many of those who would recognize you are gone, and those who are still there do not recognize you due to the changes (and age) that makes you… well, unrecognizable.

It is no wonder that my mind drifts on these occasions to points in my life where (and when), like the familiar watering hole in Boston, everybody knew my name… often the full one… and proclaimed it regularly at full volume because of something or other I had done. I remember Easter Sundays of years past when after all the prerequisite ecumenical festivities, my family would gather at my great-grandmother’s home to show off our new Easter finery (which was ditched in favor of jeans and t-shirts as soon as proper oohs and ahs were performed). Afterwards, there was copious amounts of food, fun, more food, egg hunting, additional helpings of food, laughing and practical jokes…passing out from food… you get the picture.

When I talk about these family gatherings, I am not speaking of a mere constellation or a few close relatives, I’m talking about nearly hundred individuals including the children, grandchildren, and great grand children of the woman for whom I was named. Many, many dozen eggs would be boiled and dyed to accommodate the traditional family egg hunts. There were rules… to which no one really paid attention. People played dirty. The only unbreakable regulations were for the “littles.” There were always eggs “hidden” in such a way that they were clearly visible and reachable by those under the age of 10 and the height of 3 feet. Adults, teens, and adolescents who were older and taller were forbidden these finds.

Everything else… fair game. There were years that acquiring some of the deviously hidden ova meant risking life and limb. Definitely extra points for courage and sometimes a strong stomach were given. Participants ranged in age from toddler to nonagenarian. The hiding was done in teams (there were several dozen eggs, remember). The teams generally consisted of the trickier members of the clan, and their favorite trick was to hide in plain site. Sometimes, however, they were so good at this, even the hiders could not find them afterwards… leading to some interesting occurrences in the warmer months of the year.

One of my favorite memories of my great grandmother’s home was the violet carpet. There was a patch of ground that was literally so covered with the small purple flowers that you could not step without stepping on several. In my young, imaginative mind, that one area became a magical place where the fae held sway and the courts of elven royalty hosted feasts and balls.

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As an adult, I know that many people work hard to eradicate the broad-leaved interlopers that mar their golfing green-like yards. I know it’s a weed. I really do, but when I found a similarly enchanted patch of ground behind my own house, I could not bring myself to rid the yard of the hundreds of tiny purple and white faces that sprang up each year. At least each time I see them, I can revisit, however briefly a time when I wasn’t rushing around, overwhelmed with obligation, or irritable from trying to be realistic and responsible all the time. For just a moment, I can look at the violet carpet and believe in magic.

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Real Plastic Snow, and Other Holiday Traditions

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It was November when we stepped off a very long flight from Houston, Texas. When, I managed to get my bearings, my first thought was… Brrrrrr and then, Um, I thought they always said this was a desert.

To say that the weather was dreary was a tad understated. It was raining, and while Houston had included me wearing shorts and t-shirt sleeves, I was really wishing at this point that we hadn’t packed away winter clothing. Seriously… I swear they said it was a desert. However, my excitement about a new adventure almost overrode the jetlag and general psychological dissonance that Saudi Arabia was not sunny with palm trees and sand dunes like all the artwork I’d seen in the bibles and the Tales of the Arabian Nights floating around various family abodes in my youth. Aside from the shock that it just didn’t look the way I expected, I suppose it answered pretty well for an adventure. It looked in all other ways very different than where we’d started the journey.

It was beige. I don’t mean a little bit here and there. I mean it was varying degrees of a tan color that embraced buildings and surrounding land. It was also flat. Coming from mid-Atlantic United States and the Appalachian territory, I was more used to hills and green. This was another clue that we were no longer in Kansas… or in our case Tennessee.

We crossed the wet tarmac with spots of standing water… I swear they said desert… and made our way into the immigration and customs hall. I don’t recall a whole lot else. I possibly wrenched a neck muscle trying to take everything in, but for the most part, it was all a blur. Once we were through the technicalities of visas and luggage search for contraband, we made our way to receiving where our employee liaison met us and escorted us to our temporary lodgings. It was called the Babtain Building. I think it was originally built to encourage the Bedouin to come to the town/city and forgo their nomadic lifestyle. It went over about as you might imagine. The indigenous tribes of nomads were quite pleased with life as it was (thank you very much) and the very nice accommodations remained empty. This is how we came to be living in what would probably cost in the 4-digit pricetag in any city in the United States: Fully furnished with a full bath, huge tub, marble floors, full kitchen and two bedrooms with very high ceilings… and completely alien. The fixtures were European (and the bathroom included a bidet). I might also say that the elevator was an adventure in itself, since it frequently wanted to stop between floors. I thought it was a hoot. My parents were quite as impressed. Additionally, we were smack in the middle of Al Khobar. Talk about your culture shock. Our guide did take us around to local markets and out to eat at what was soon to become one of my favorite restaurants, The Gulf Royal Chinese Restaurant (home of the best hot and sour soup, EVER).

Returning home, I was excited. This was an adventure to me. The company had provided a box of basic supplies to start us off until we could do some shopping (though, to this day, I always wondered if the Campbell’s Cream of Asparagus soup was some sort of hazing ritual). I was exhausted and despite the jetlag, I found myself falling into bed… only to wake up to the sounds of what I knew to be crying. My mum. Unused to the marble and amazing carrying power of sound through the apartment, she thought she had escaped to cry in the solitude of the amazing bathroom. But I heard. I didn’t understand why she was crying, but I listened from my bed. To be honest, I didn’t even have a clue how to address this issue. Years later, I finally found out what prompted the tears. My mother thought she would never be able to navigate this alien world and find food and manage to keep us from famine and pestilence. I blame it on the jetlag and the immense amounts of Dramamine that was required to keep her from puking on the plane.

The next day, the cure for all my mum’s ills presented in a trip to the commissary (post exchange). The Dhahran Ladies Group managed to dispel all the woes and terrors my mother managed to concoct in her mind by the astoundingly western market. We were saved. There were shelves stocked with food items that had labels… in English. I know it sounds silly, but this was a serious fear of hers. After a couple of decades, she could go downtown and shop in the souk without blinking, but that first week, surrounded by tan landscape, unfamiliar smells (not all of them pleasant), and foreign fixtures, my dear mother who had never left the United States was suffering from some acute traumatic issues.

As it was, we managed to get through the end of November and Thanksgiving without any of the imagined concerns of dysentery or starvation. However… the month of December loomed with additional concerns. During orientation, we had been drilled on the customs of this new country we were calling home. We were informed of their religious laws and the fact that as a theocracy, there was no separation of church and state. Additionally, we had been told that anything that hinted at non-Islamic faith could get us into trouble ranging from deportation to execution.

Prior to the move, our family had a full calendar at Christmas. Aside from cantatas and choral shows, there were family gatherings. Christmas was a constant flow of lights and family and friends from mid-December through New Year’s. Now, we were in a country that we had been told might throw us in jail for a “Merry Christmas.” Queue the waterworks again. I heard mum in the night. This time, I had figured it out. We had packed away all the ornaments collected and crafted for years. There would be no smell of evergreen filling the home. In fact, I could read her thoughts, “We aren’t even going to have a tree!” Queue more involuntary ocular leakage.

Again, I’ve got to give it up to the Dhahran Ladies Group. First, they dispelled the horror stories pretty vehemently. While, our host country was not big on evangelism, they were not opposed to celebration of our Christmas holiday. In fact, in the main camp, people decorated much as people in the states did. There were tours of houses in the camp and their decorations. At night, for the houses lit up, many of the Saudis would bring their families and drive around looking at the lights. So… no jail time for having a little holiday cheer. Good to know.

But we still did not have a tree, much less ornaments to put on a tree if we had one. Queue the tear ducts. It was a rather depressing time. However, that is when we heard a rumor about a miracle worker and procurer of rare articles, Mr. Al Swami. That was the name. I’m not kidding. I never knew whether that was his real name or not. It was the name of the store. The best I can describe it is a cross between Hallmark and the convenience stores with tourist crap packing the shelves. It was a curiosity of Al Khobar that you might find Legos and Waterford crystal side by side in any given establishment. Well, the rumor was that you might be able to go to Al Swami’s and find, not a Christmas tree, but a Holiday tree. In my head, I had this scenario of sidling up to a swarthy man and saying “Psssst… know where I might get a… *looks around*… holiday tree?” As it happens… that is sorta what it worked out to be. My mother’s heart sank when the man looked at her with pity and shook his head. We were in danger of a flood… when, all of a sudden, the miracle occurred. Someone came from the back and it seems that a customer had returned shrubbery just that afternoon. Christmas… I mean Holiday… was saved! We were in possession of a lovely 4-foot fake tree. While there, we also managed to obtain some white fairy lights and a few ornaments. For whatever reason, it seems we also came away with something labeled “Real Plastic Snow.” Yes, we bought it for the comedic value (and I have it to this very day… yellowed through the years, which makes it even funnier than it was originally).

Our tree traditionally had been filled with colorful lights (those hot ones that blink and make patterns on the ceiling… and fire hazards), memento ornaments, handmade ornaments, and wrapped in gold garland, icicles (probably giving us lead poisoning), and popcorn and cranberry chains. It was a homey tree. It had tradition and memory on every limb. It had a star made of cardboard and aluminum foil, and a wreath made of computer punch cards sprayed gold hung on our door. It was a tree that spoke of lean pockets, but rich hearts.

Now, that was gone; packed away in a storage facility somewhere in the U.S. We had a short tree with no attachments to the past. Since there was no way to replicate our traditional tree, we elected to go a completely different route. We purchased ornaments in white and gold. It would be tasteful and generic, but it would work. We had managed to find cassette tapes of holiday music (very likely pirated). The little tree looked almost classy with the white and gold. One of our finds during the mad dash for holiday spirit was some needlework ornaments. Mum and I worked on the tiny little canvases and their intricate stitchery framed in brassy-looking plastic frames. It was a far cry from clothes pin toy soldiers and painted wooden animals, but it was hand-done and something to tie tradition to this new tree. It was our first Christmas in Dhahran. Through the years, the little gold and white tree gained new ornaments (always keeping to the gold and white theme). Soon, we ran out of room, and after moving into camp and having more space, we found a larger “holiday tree” that became the new gold and white tree in the main entertaining area of the house. The original fake evergreen moved into the den upstairs where it started collecting a new plethora of mementos from travel, friends, and family. Eventually, even those overcrowded the small, well-loved holiday symbol. It was packed away to possibly be a gift for another family that may arrive in kingdom without a “holiday tree” too close to the season. However, the old friend found a more important purpose in 1990.

That Autumn changed our lives in many ways, but most of you may remember it as Operation Desert Shield (see, I told you it was supposed to be a desert). I worked with the 85th Evac Hospital and 28th Combat Support, Candlelight Base, and the Desert DOGs with the military to provide support and MWR efforts during that and the Storm and Farewell that followed. During that holiday season, our little tree got a new life. We dressed it up in the finest, and it traveled into the field (sometimes even by Apache helicopter). It brought a symbol of spirit and warmth to the men and women of our armed services standing between “Iraq and a Hard Place” (as we sometimes said). We carried the tree to every base and encampment we could. We may not have been able to send those soldiers, Marines, and sailors back to family and home, but we could bring a touch of it to them. Not bad for a little tree that someone returned to a shop in downtown Al Khobar so many years ago.

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and may all of you have a Prosperous New Year!

Cornbread and Buttermilk

Some of the strangest things can trigger memories.

Today it was a random commercial. To be honest, I don’t even remember what they were hawking. That is a sad, sad statement on the people who designed that particular commercial just to draw the attention of the viewer to their client’s product. Regardless, I was drawn because the commercial showed a very tired man coming home at dawn with his wife disparaging the rigors of the “graveyard” shift. This was followed by the magical passage of time to the man getting ready to go back to work and finding his young son at the refrigerator. In a scolding tone he asks the boy what he is doing up so late. To which the child replies, “I wanted to eat breakfast with you.”

Touching, isn’t it. Brings a tear to the eye. In these hard times, so many people are having to make compromises and give up time with loved ones just to make ends meet. This brings up a whole other conversation/argument/battle royal with my best friend about the cost of living vs. the potential wages earned. Not really where I was going.

That commercial stirred a memory, actually a couple of different memories. Both my father and my grandfather worked some non-traditional hours. Dad worked long hours. I often wouldn’t get to see him except for the brief time we got to spend as he drove me to my grandparents early in the morning to catch the bus to school. Dad’s old Volkswagon station wagon. It smelled like smoke and mustiness from his firefighting gear. The ride every morning was usually less than 10 minutes, but still those rides are some of my best memories of my father from early childhood, listening to the AM radio and shivering because the heater was practically non-existent.

My grandparent’s house was where I spent a lot of time, before and after school and during the summers. My grandfather, worked shiftwork. Sometimes days, sometimes 3-11, and sometimes graveyard. When Pappy worked the 3-11 or graveyard, I would sneak up well after my designated “lights out” to tiptoe into the kitchen. My grandfather’s favorite after work snack or pre-graveyard repast was a glass of buttermilk with homemade cornbread (you know the kind, cooked in a cast iron skillet) crumbled into it. Pappy always pretended to be surprised to see me, no matter how many times he found me at his elbow. He would pour me my own glass and slice me a piece of the cornbread for me to crumble into my own glass. The two of us sitting at the very 50’s-style Formica-topped kitchen table eating cornbread and buttermilk in silence while the rest of the house slept.

When asked about their best memories from childhood, many people think of beloved pets, winning the big game, or a trip to Disneyworld. Like a few of us, my best memories of childhood are quiet, purely mundane moments: A 10 minute car ride on frosty mornings with the smell of old smoke and the sound of classic country music on a tinny AM radio… and the taste of cornbread and buttermilk.

Did You Finish It?

Doyle, Dale, and William "Butter" Haren c. 1987
Doyle, Dale, and William “Butter” Haren c. 1987

I have about three other articles I really need to be writing at the moment. However, I couldn’t get my heart into it for some reason. Looking at the calendar, it finally dawned on me what has been floating around the edges of my consciousness since my eyes flew open pre-alarm…

I have never forgotten the extraordinary luck I had in having so many in my life that were supportive. I’m not sure exactly how many of them believed that I could accomplish my goals or dreams, but at least no one ever discouraged me from pursuing any particular path that suited my fancy. However, there was one who always seemed as invested in my future and my aspirations as much as I was myself.

My paternal grandfather and I had a very close relationship. It wasn’t that any of my other known forebears were less loving or that I loved them less; it was that for a good portion of my childhood, he and I spent most of the time together. Before and after school, summers, and when I was sick with chicken pox or other childhood ailments, my pappy was my companion. I have very strong memories of hearing my pappy sing to me. I think he actually knew more than one song, but the one he always sang to me was “My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean.” His voice was one of comfort. It was a baritone that sounds in my memory to this day much like Bing Crosby. Perhaps this is why I love those old songs so much. Pappy was a trickster. He liked playing jokes. He loved to laugh, even if he had no part in the cause. And he loved me… The only time I ever saw this man who retired after 30 years in the Navy cry was the day my parents took us across the seas to live for what came to be about 20 years. My pappy cried that day. I saw it when I turned for one last look before walking out on the tarmac. I remember being puzzled and frightened because I had never seen him shed a tear.

We made visits back to the U.S., at least once per year. Eventually, I moved back to the states permanently after the first Gulf War, before my folks retired, to complete school and start my own path. I lived in Atlanta for a while and would drive up to Tennessee for visits to all of my grandparents. Living in North Carolina, the trip to Northeast Tennessee to see my paternal grandparents was significantly shorter than the long drive to Southeast Tennessee to see my mother’s parents. I tried to make it back as often as possible to spend time with all of them. Pappy had some significant health issues, not the least of which was bone cancer. I never consciously thought about it, but perhaps living away from family so long made me realize that time is precious.

I moved back to Tennessee eventually to become a student once again and get a Master’s degree. I did well enough in school, but working multiple jobs and going to school full time wasn’t always without its bumps in the road. Nevertheless, my pappy was the person who was always my cheerleader on the sidelines. I never really knew why that degree seemed to mean so much to him. No one else in the family seemed to pay much attention to what was going on with my classes or progress, but my pappy would ask every so often, “How much more do you have?”

It became our own little game. Eventually, I was able to tell him that all my classes were over, and all I had to complete was the thesis. If going to classes and trying to work full time (plus some at times) was difficult, trying to conduct a research study and write it up in any resemblance to scholarly work was a bit of a nightmare. I admit, I became a crispy critter. I was burnt. I procrastinated. At one point, I considered just leaving it where it was. I had a full-time job by then working as system administration and technical management for an internet company. It wasn’t precisely what I had dreamed of doing, but it would pay the bills and put food in my mouth. I was tired of school, and I just didn’t care anymore. One voice kept me going. One simple question that I heard every day, “Did you finish it?”

Every day, I would go to see my pappy. We had a hospital bed in the den for him by then. The cancer than he fought off and on for years had gotten into his bones. We had home health nurses who came to take care of him. I always kept my appointments, though. I would go by after work or take a little detour if I had a meeting that took me closer to their house. Every day, he started the conversation with “Did you finish it?” And every day I would tell him, “Not yet, pap. Not quite yet.”

Eventually, something changed. Slow though it was, I started to see a light at the end of the tunnel. Some part of me saw it and started, like a long distance runner, to push a little harder in the last leg of the race. My committee chair saw it as well and scheduled my defense. I took the whole week off that week to finish up the final chapters and edits and prepare for the “grilling.” I saw my pappy the day before my defense, and he said, “Did you finish it?” To which I replied, “We’ll see…”

The following day, I’m still not sure how I got through. I think I threw up three times before going into the room before the committee to defend my work. As you have probably gathered, it was all right. They passed me. I was congratulated and moved into the less “nail-biting” but more frustrating portion of trying to get through the graduate school’s editing requirements. Regardless, I was DONE!

I drove, miraculously without breaking the sound barrier, to my grandparents’ house. I walked in, and heard the familiar question, “Did you finish it?” But that day, I said, “Yes, Pappy Dale. I did.” It took a moment to sink in, but then he laughed. It was the same laugh I had heard my whole life. It was a contagious, deep laugh. Then, I sat down and we watched some pre-season baseball and discussed what we thought would happen with the Braves pitching staff.

The next few days involved multiple trips to the graduate school offices and the stationery store to make sure I had the correct weight white paper. On the following Monday, I was back at work. I had a week of catching up to do. On Tuesday, close to quittin’ time, I got a call. They needed me at my grandparents’ house. They said my pappy would not make it through the night.

I don’t remember the drive over there. I remember a house full of people. I remember when we could no longer feel a pulse and my father and I performed CPR, though there was an order for “no heroic measures.” I remember my father and me, standing silently together and hearing the life leave my grandfather’s body. The rest of the evening was a blur. I was elected to break the news to my grandmother and Pappy’s sisters (who were at the house). My cousin and I managed to put dinner together… I think we made taco casserole. The rest was the usual ritual and responsibility of providing that last goodbye for one who has departed.

That was 16 years ago today. I don’t miss him any less. I think it was his voice in my head during the last difficult months of my doctoral dissertation. “Beth, did you finish it?” I think it was realizing that I had neither him nor my father with me this time when I finished my defense successfully that prompted the unexpected tears. I can imagine that he laughed and laughed, just as he did that day more than 16 years ago when I gave him the news. Other challenges have faced me: Personally, professionally… Each one that I faced and continue to face, I feel that part of me fights to overcome the obstacles because I still want to be able to say, “Yes, Pappy Dale. I finished it.”

Memoirs of a Former Button-Pusher

Back in the days of my existence as a particularly unpleasant species of teenager (shortly after dinosaurs roamed the earth), I found that I had the extraordinary superpower of button pushing. And this was well before the days of Nintendo and Xbox and whatever other gaming systems exist out there with their controllers that require two hands and several tentacles to find the sequence of down-down-left-right-up to unlock a secret ninja move (FINISH HIM!!!). I can assure you that buttons exist within every person on the planet, and I had all the cheat codes.

Granted that teenagers are generally a misery to themselves and everyone else, I was just a prodigy at the skill of pissing everyone off. Misery loves company, and there is no doubt in my mind that I was as miserable a teenager as they come. The unwilling and pitiable recipient of my mad skills of manipulation was my mother. It wasn’t that she was worthy of such ill treatment, but as is common in the parent-child relationship; she presented a ready target for my adolescent angst. It is not a chapter of my life that I look upon with pride or pleasure.

My mum is pretty awesome generally. She has a touch of the Mary Poppins thing going on, but she is loving and supportive, if somewhat overprotective. I still am not quite certain what she did in a former life to be saddled with me as a daughter, but there it is. Some have “greatness” thrust upon them, and so I was my mother’s particular burden to bear. On the down side, my mother has a hair-trigger emotional response system. This isn’t entirely negative. She never was one to scream and yell, though the sound of my full given name is still a bit of an issue for me. However, she would cry for almost any emotional extreme. I am talking about happy, angry, sad, touched, proud… you name it. If there was an emotion involved, mum’s tear ducts got a workout. This was the particular facet of her personality that prompted my sadistic teenage prowess. I found that if I pushed all the right buttons, the tears would flow. Right-up-up-down-left… and cue tears. I win! Evil, right? I was a horrible child. I am well aware of it. I suppose that somewhere in the cockles of my consciousness I was aware of it even then, but as is the way of the self-centered adult in forming, I never let that awareness get in the way of me trying my superpower on my most convenient victim.

Karma, as they say, is a bitch. That being said, my years of torturing my mother’s tear production led apparently to a career path rife with the angst of teens and their conflicts with parental units. No one likes being reminded of their less than stellar moments, and I had chosen a field that put the mirror of my flagrantly ungrateful and malicious emotional manipulation front and foremost during the majority of my waking hours.

I recall one particularly dreary evening in the emergency room. I was not entirely certain if the reason for the parents bringing the child to the ER was due to her behavior or due to something else and the behavioral issues were just a bonus. Whatever the scenario, I was called in due to the excessive emotional conflict that ensued. I should have been warned by the looks on the faces of doctors and nurses alike in the ambulatory ward. This would have immediately prepared me for the onslaught of vexatious personality that was to greet me, but as usual, in the rush of my normal working life, I was primarily focused on task and failed to see the rolled eyes and looks of consternation on the faces of my colleagues.

I entered the room to witness a full blown stand-off worthy of a spaghetti western. Adult female on one side of the room; smaller and younger version of same on the other side sporting the makeup and clothing that appeared for all the world that a gang of Marilyn Manson groupies had attacked her with charcoal and chalk. The glares were palpable, the silence deafening and deadly. I immediately reassessed and took stock of my surroundings, noting every potential weapon (or shield) available in the room. Now was my cue. I broke the tableau by announcing my name and role. The mother had a momentary response of relaxing shoulders and look of relief. Here was someone to fix her problem child and relieve her of the parenting burden! The response from her antagonist was a narrowing of black-rimmed eyes and a visual assessment of my person, tinged with a soupçon of curiosity.

Much of what I did back in the day was a form of diplomatic negotiation. I assessed the situation, heard both sides, and attempted to reach détente between the warring parties. Occasionally, this was not possible and other arrangements had to be made. Primarily, though, my job was to keep the battle off the hospital grounds and avoid collateral damage. In this particular case, it appeared that the issues at hand were that the mother was completely ignorant of the latest trends without which life was not worth living in the social circles of middle school. Mother’s issue was that her child looked like she was playing as an extra on a new sequel of The Crow. There was much maneuvering by each party to get me to take their respective sides. I valiantly parried their advances to remain in neutral. However, it was a vain attempt. I really should have known better. As an adult, with no apparent fashion sense, I had been clearly relegated to the tribe of “THEM” in this pitched battle of wills. I witnessed the mother take a few shots of vituperative spleen and her eyes filled. As I attempted redirection, I received “What do you know?!? You’re just taking her side, and you obviously don’t care what you look like!” It really got no better after that. I did manage to gain some concessions on both sides. I convinced the young diva that perhaps she might try using less than half the cosmetics aisle at the Walgreen’s during the daylight hours of school, and I attempted to sooth the mother’s feelings with some tried and true wisdom about this being a developmental phase and was her daughter’s attempt to define herself as an individual. This too would pass… or else she would be authorizing us to lock her up in a tower until she reached her majority. Thus is the plight of the parent. I’m not sure any of my efforts actually resulted in relational improvement, but it kept down shrapnel and both parties were escorted from the unit sniffing and huffing with reddened eyes to make their way home.

I sat in an emotionally exhausted heap behind the nurses’ station to complete my charting. Beside me was the obligatory 17 billion line phone that is the norm in hospital settings. I stared at it for a few moments before picking up the receiver. Without thinking, I dialed the number to my parents’ home. It was not so late in the evening that it would register alarm, and my mother answered on the second ring.

“Hello?”

“Hi, mum. I am sorry I was ever 13.” Click. I would have given some excessive sums of money to have seen the look on her face. It was likely a mixture of bafflement and awe. That was the first of my apologies throughout the years. Over the course of many long hours in emergency services and working with children and adolescents, I have now apologized for every year of my life from age 10 to age 21. I’m pretty certain that there are a few questionable choices and actions that I made outside that general span of years, but I figure I have caught the majority of the glaring errors of my ways. Perhaps with the years have come a little wisdom, and perhaps, if I show true remorse, my mother will never regret not drowning me at birth.

“When I was a boy of fourteen, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be twenty-one, I was astonished at how much the old man had learned in seven years.” ~ quote attributed to Mark Twain but never verified

Snow Day

There is something different in the air when you expect a snow. Living in the south, we do not get the opportunity to enjoy the experience of a covering of white very often. The memories are still with me, though. When I was a child…

Mom was a school teacher. It worked well for all of us as a family, because her schedule matched mine. I went to school in the same county, though not the same school (that would have been too much for my independent ego to have my mother in the same building). That meant that our daily schedules during the school year were pretty close to the same, and during the summers, she was home while I was out of school. The benefits of the arrangement extended to snow days.

Snow days were magic. From sometime towards the end of November through March, there was the expectation that there might be some of the glorious precipitation we call snow. People would start counting the fogs in August and watching the wooly bear caterpillars to engage in the age-old art of weather witchery and predictions determining whether we would have a gray and brown season of cold or a winter wonderland. During the cold months, each evening would bring the prognostications and questions of whether someone’s elbow ached or the “snow headache” were present to give the hope of something wondrous in the morning. Sometimes, it wasn’t necessary to rely upon the divinatory infirmities to provide the weather watch. You could smell it in the air and feel in on your skin, that cold with the moisture that said “Snow!”

Nothing compared to waking before dawn and turning on the radio to listen for the school closings. Crossing fingers in anticipation that the radio meteorologist would proclaim that Washington County schools would be closed (not on a two hour delay). The joy of hearing those words buzzed through the house, and unable to return to bed, I would gaze out of the window observing the familiar landscape brilliantly covered with a dense white icing that soften the familiar features of the neighborhood and even seemed to muffle any sounds to make the world silent and mysterious.

Snow days were not like any other day. Sick days, while allowing absence from daily activities, required bed rest and ginger ale. There was no fun in that. Planned days off involved an agenda and a “to do” list of chores that filled every moment, and then some, often resulting in the feeling that there were not enough hours in the day and going back to work or school was a relief. But snow days… those were different. By definition, they were unplanned, a gift of nature to slow down the frantic pace of our everyday lives. Snow stopped time and the world stood still for a day. The beautiful, white icing made driving treacherous. So, no errands, no fieldtrips, no rushing about was possible. We were effectively captive in our forced day of inactivity. Let the fun begin!

Without fail, there would be bundling up in layers upon layers of socks, thermal underwear, clothing, and overcoats so that for all intents and purposes, I frequently appeared a more colorful version of the Michelin tire mascot. The old wooden sled with metal runners would be dragged out to act as a magic carpet as I flew down the driveway and the circle, carving thin lines in the unblemished surface of the snow. Snow angels and sculptures of all kinds decorated the yard and soaked me to the bones with the damp cold. Eventually, I had to return inside, despite my protests, cheeks and nose brilliant red from the cold and extremities numb. We stomped off the packed snow from boots and attempted to dust of the worst of the frozen encrustation from our gloves and outer clothing. Without fail, some of it would cling tenaciously to come with us into the house. There by the wall register, we would remove the soaked coats, scarves, hats, gloves, boots, socks, and even pants to drape by the heat to dry and warm, filling the air with a damp steam as the clothing dried.

Invariably, lunch would be grilled cheese and cream of tomato soup. It warmed all the way down to get rid of the last of the chill clinging from expeditions out of doors. The afternoon might include more play in the snow, but there were also books to read, sometimes together aloud, and sometimes alone by the heat registers. At some point, it would become necessary to bake cookies, as well. Piling into the kitchen, I would do my part measuring and stirring with the oven providing additional warmth to the house. Before sunset, I always went back out in the snow. The afternoon light shining off the surface made me squint painfully with the brightness, but I wanted to drag those moments out for as long as I could, because the next day might mean the roads were once again clear and the magic would be gone. Life would resume its normal pace, and there would be no more time to spend together away from the rest of the world. I could feel the spell breaking with the melting snow, and time started again.

Today, the modern technological conveniences have made this scenario of a snow day haven from the world less possible. Telecommuting and access to online classrooms and emailed assignments don’t give the opportunity for time to stop. The pace of life has changed, making all the more poignant the memory of our snow days of the past.

A Rose By Any Other name

Recently, I made a post to Facebook about family and what defines that term. A response to that post made me think about what being a family actually means. I am not alone in my contemplation. The question of who can claim the rights and privilege of relation has been considered not only by individuals seeking to enter into affairs of the heart, contracts defined by legal or religious terms, custody agreements, financial institutions, and even state and federal government.

In terms of history, the term family (from the Latin familia) designated a particular tie through genetic bloodlines that pertained to parentage and relatedness of birth. I suspect this came in handy in terms of evolution when humans pretty much existed in isolated clumps of social interaction and minimal population. The family group identified individuals that belonged to the same genetic line. When you think about the purpose of evolution, mutation and recombination of genetic material to encourage the improvement of the species would be significantly helped by knowing who might share too much DNA to make a blending beneficial to the resultant offspring. As we know from modern science, the mating of individuals who share too close a profile allows for recessive genetic traits to manifest more often. For some of the more maladaptive traits, this does not work out so well for the continued vigor of the species. The ancient Egyptians, for all their seemingly advanced knowledge, never quite got that point (as evidenced by the pharaonic practice of married siblings… if you can’t keep it in the pants, keep it in the family). Defining the family as those of the same bloodlines served its purpose by indicating appropriate people to reproduce with or not as the case may be. This also led to ideas of good and bad blood, or even pure and not so pure lines.

As populations expanded, travel increased, cultures spread across geography, and generations were fruitful and multiplied. Interaction and interbreeding brought humanity new genetic material, new practices, new traditions, and new knowledge. Family grew to be “extended” and associated constellation and extended family groups became clans or tribes. So the spread of humanity across the span of continents and the globe extended to bring various groups together into different municipal and societal organizations for safety, convenience, and commerce. Unfortunately, the closeness of interaction paired with some questionable hygiene practices made a playground for various diseases that at various points in time decimated populations to near extinction. In fact, whole communities and towns were erased from existence by such epidemics as the Black Death. Events led to distrust and fear which set back the intermingling a bit. People pulled back into the idea of loyalty to the blood. Trust only within your own genetic clan, tribe, or family.

But that time is past. The population continued to recover and expand. People eased up on the “stick with your own kind” crap. Well, sorta; if we ignore all the racism, sexism, and all the other ‘isms that divide people from each other. The nostalgic days of the late 19th and early 20th centuries when there were rife with images of family time around hearth or table, brought the warmth of affection and family connection to the standard that would lead the charge against the evils of materialism and other distractions of the secular world. All of these heartwarming sentiments easily whitewashing the poverty and hardship of the majority of working and lower classes and painting a much prettier picture of what was going on than the more harsh realities of the time.

With the first and second World Wars, the role of the family and the idealization of the family image became something to improve moral of the troops and give the boys “something worth fighting for.” Of course we had the Third Reich and their own take on purity of the species that put a whole different slant on the idea of family as a way to improve the overall genetic strain of the population. Ignoring the science of survival of the fittest and the improvement of genetics with wider combination of genetic profiles, the scientists of that philosophy focused on identifying the superior race and trying to achieve that through selective breeding, eugenics, and genocide. Not a high point in human evolution.

The 1950’s brought a greater influence of the new-fangled technology of television. Shows like Father Knows Best and Leave It to Beaver painted the ideal picture of the American family emphasizing the patriarchal pattern where the man is head of the house and all females and children submit to his greater wisdom and intellect. Personally, it makes me a bit nauseous, but I understand where the premise arose. All the men back from the great wars found that the women folk had done just fine without them. Amazing, right? The “weaker sex” had rolled up her sleeves and donned Rosie the Riveter scarves to take on the more traditional roles of the men. When Johnny came marching home, not all the Marys and Janes waiting were so ready to go back to their submissive roles. And… cue Hollywood and its influence upon the masses.

However, time and societal evolution threw another wrench in the mix. Suddenly, the idea of family wasn’t quite fitting into the tidy mold. We had single parents, blended families, children raised by someone other than parents (The Courtship of Eddie’s Father, My Three Sons, Mayberry RFD, Family Affair, The Partridge Family, One Day at a Time, The Brady Bunch). Still, for the most part, the family image involved blood connections, but that didn’t quite fit everyone.

We’ve expanded again, but now technology allows us to defy the boundaries of geography to connect with people all around the world. It is a boon for families that have been separated and scattered as diaspora across the globe. Communication on an almost instantaneous media allows for people to remain close emotionally, even when they may not come within physical proximity for decades. So, what does that do to the meaning of “family”? Does that reinforce the concept of family as only that with genetic link? Certainly the number of advertisements and subsequent amateur genealogists point to the curiosity and desire to know and understand our own biological origins, but does that mean that we are bound only to those with whom we share the blood tie?

Definitions of “family” that I have found:

  • a group of individuals living under one roof and usually under one head  – doesn’t really say anything about genetic connections there
  • a group of persons of common ancestry  – how far back are we going?
  • a people or group of peoples regarded as deriving from a common stock – again, is there a time or quantifiable limitation on this? I’ve got common stock with 80% of the planet, and don’t get me started about shared DNA with our ape population
  • a group of people united by certain convictions or a common affiliation – aha! no bloodlines discussed again
  • the basic unit in society traditionally consisting of two parents rearing their children; also : any of various social units differing from but regarded as equivalent to the traditional family – and there it is… that TRADITIONAL definition

Now, in addition to all of these, there is a whole realm of other definitions that relate to chemical and biological science, and more interesting in the dramatic sense the term used to define branches of particular criminal syndicates.

For my own experience, I have been particularly lucky to have had a substantial number of biological family members when I came into this world. At one family reunion, I recall something along the lines of 200 people showing up, and that was just the local representation. This was when I was younger. As the years have passed, so have a good many members of the prior generations. As the various progenitors departed this mortal coil, their progeny moved away, spreading to far geographic provinces. The family gatherings dwindled in number and attendance. My own family moved far away from the proximity of blood relatives even before the dwindling started. Gallivanting about (not entirely at my own whims) I didn’t have the consistency of extended family or even of a particular long term consistent social group at all. This is the lot of military or contract “brat”. We move with the assignments, and while the benefits can be great, there is a tendency to be unstuck in the world and feeling a bit unanchored. The phrase “there’s no place like home” doesn’t always have as much meaning. What many of those in my situation found is that we needed the human contact and interaction to fulfill something in our hearts. Instead of holiday gatherings with blood kin, we gathered in groups of friends with shared interests and experiences, drawn together by circumstance, but over the years developing closer ties and emotional connections than the tenuous ones to biological family so geographically distant (many of whom had never been seen, much less engage with through interaction enough to develop affinity of shared experience). I developed from style of life the idea that family was not defined by what flows through the blood vessels and tissues of the body but something that was more greatly defined by the emotional ties of shared experiences and friendship.

Many years have passed since that first epiphany. I still have some close relationships with those who are related to me by genetic lineage. I dearly love many of my genetic family and have great affection and care for them no matter the years or miles that separate us. However, I have developed significant and truly meaningful relationships with those to whom I have no biological connection except as we share the same species. I have occasionally been ridiculed or even chastised for referring to this group as “the family” as they have no biological ties. To distinguish between those of blood and those of heart, many of us have referred to this second category as “chosen family” or “sworn family.” This is not a designation that indicates hierarchy or importance, but merely a nomenclature that lets people know that while there is no shared genetics, the affection and loyalty is there.

A friend commented on my post that his mother does not believe in the concept of “chosen family”. Apparently the lady believes only in the progeny of the loins as the connection to which any can have love or connection. So, here is my argument:

If family is only that which is connected by ties of blood, what is the status of the legally adopted or those fostered for long enough terms that they mature into adulthood as one of the household? Does this mean that the parents who find it within their hearts to provide and care for children who have been bereft of this affiliation or care cannot claim the privilege of family? And those children, are they unable to feel the affection and loyalty to those who have taken them in? Are they less important and less children of the family than those born biologically?

And what of the biological family that has abused, neglected, or disavowed a child, an elderly parent, the disabled (mentally or physically), or the individual who does not fit particularly into their ideology, philosophy, or social sphere? Is that family more worthy of loyalty and love from the victim of their cruelty or neglect than others who accept them and have affection for them regardless?

How about these strict biology adherents who have a Judeo-Christian (and any of the resulting sects or denominations) religious bent? I have heard their strictures that family is one man, one woman and the progeny of their mating, but in the very next breath they talk about their “church family”. Not that the Judeo-Christian faith has a corner on the market for this ideology, but they appear to be the loudest proponents. If we run some genetic testing, how many of them are going to share DNA? I have seen the cruelty (physical, mental, and psychological) inflicted on people by others who claim familial ties. No one can harm us like those who claim the nearest relation and are supposed to stand for us and with us against the world or at least in support of the trials we face. Is that betrayal and harm so deserving of the title of family over and above people who provide support (emotional or material), stand with us against those who wish to harm, and share emotional times across the breadth of affect spectrum?

I say it is not. I believe that there are people who, without their chosen or sworn family would be bereft of any ties. They could spend their time alone during the days when family is celebrated. Others who have been harshly treated by those of their own blood would be condemned to believe they deserve the ill treatment or at least submit to said treatment. Instead, would it not be preferable to have people interact and associate with people who would positively impact their life?

I am sure that there are many who would disagree, and there are many that have their own beliefs about family and who qualify for the “honor” of membership. However, my bottom line is that my chosen and sworn family is no less real in my heart than those who claim kinship by blood. I would and have been known to do as much for them as I would for those born to the same genetic line. I cannot honestly say that all of them would feel the same, but I do not believe that it is the right of anyone else to define for you who family is in your own understanding. To all the families out there, in all the different configurations, thank you for being there for each other.

Too Much Attention or Not Enough…

Most, if not all of us have heard the phrase “even bad attention is still attention.” This has been used to explain the delinquent behavior of youngsters possibly since the first humanoids started walking bipedally.  “Mog act bad… Mother of child not give proper attention… Must give attention with club.”

Actually, it is more likely to have been attributed much later in the nature vs nurture argument by other patriarchal types, like Freud, who like any good Victorian, blamed all things wrong with a child on the mother. It seemed like a reasonable explanation at the time. Fast forward to modern day. It seems that every single report of criminal behavior at some point focuses the microscope on the childrearing behaviors of the perpetrator’s parental authorities (be they the actual biological parents or not).

Now, I am not saying that the responsibility of molding of our young breed does not actually start with the parental figures. If you believe in tabula rasa (which I do not, entirely), humans enter this world as a blank slate with boundless potential and opportunity for the adults in their life to completely screw up. Yep, I said it. However, as I previously insinuated, I might not buy into all that. Aside from biology and genetics, of which I do not think even the under-rock dwellers can completely discount at this point in scientific discovery; there is the whole “village raising the children” philosophy (thank you Hilary for plagiarizing an African proverb and removing responsibility from satellite families and giving them someone else to blame). The point being that there are a good many adults that have influence over any one child. There are parents, extended family, teachers, coaches, youth leaders, and a plethora of other individuals who come in contact with and have some impact on the experiences of the child. As we all know, we are, at least in part, a sum of our experiences. In fact, sometimes it isn’t even a family member or caretaker that has the most significant influence upon the child. Sometimes it is someone they do not even know, but through the power of the media or the synchronicity of some other exposure to that child’s fertile mind, perfect strangers, fictional characters, and professional athletes and entertainers can have easily as much influence over the development of our young as the parents or guardians who raise them.

So, about this attention thing; I heard it again this morning in some news story or other, probably on a true crime story in the wee hours (thank you insomnia). The most amusing part of the story was the irony that the reporter or writer or narrator never once saw in what they were saying. The tale was one of a modern day “Bonnie and Clyde”. Both of them were ruthless, party-obsessed, and addicted to drugs and each other. I heard the announcer say that the girl was neglected and abandoned as a child, and she found in the boy a willing supplicant who would care for her and meet every whim and wish. The boy, well, this is where I wonder that the writers did not see what they were saying. He was a well-loved child, raised by his mother with excellent opportunities and upbringing. He wanted for nothing growing up.

Ok. We’ve got “Bonnie” who had a crappy childhood, and “Clyde” who didn’t, and they both ended up being horrible human beings cooking, selling, and using meth and stabbing a friend to death with a kitchen knife. Let’s see now… was it too much attention or not enough. Is there some magical correct amount of attention that results in a well-balanced, honest, and successful human? If I could figure that out, I would not nearly be as concerned about paying my bills for a while. What is this mystical, magical calculation of what constitutes “just enough” attention to give a child?

I’ve heard all the old school comments and conjectures about sparing the rod and about how when women stayed at home and were mothers. Don’t even start with me. Seriously, who, in this day and age can afford to be a stay-at-home parent full time? It isn’t even a matter of the excesses or luxuries that make it completely infeasible. Feeding and clothing is only part of the job. What about development and socialization? Then, there is the medical side. The cost of raising a child to adulthood at this time is approximately $241,080. That does not include college, if you desire your offspring to flourish with higher education and future occupational compensation. Also, this is a healthy child with no illnesses or unexpected injuries, and you can just forget about braces or birthday and holiday presents. Besides, it is attention that matters, right? Not the stuff? Even so, what does this mean for the average family? If you consider that the median income of your average American family is around $45,000 per year, that makes one wonder (at least it makes me wonder) how anyone has one child much less more than one child and manages to pay for them, and then expecting a parent to stay home to well… parent? Then, of course, there is the whole single parent situation. In that case, there really is not a choice, unless that parent is independently wealthy or receiving a more than realistic subsidy from state or federal funds.

Now that I have rambled sufficiently long to write myself into a corner, what conclusion can I bring this pondering to? Human beings are a mish-mosh of biological and sociological factors contributing to the best survival of the individual and their genetic make-up to be passed on to another generation. The human organism is indolent by nature. It wants the biggest bang for the least buck, so to speak. How can the least amount of energy result in needs met comfortably and adherence to the maxim “be fruitful and multiply”? What that boils down to is that cute tiny organism that comes into the lives of the individuals who fulfilled their biological directive will probably be mostly well balanced if provided with their basic needs (also providing that the genetic materials contributed were in pretty good shape). As the child grows, as far as I can deduce, the object is to arrange circumstances so far as to make the right choice less painful than making the wrong one. This is where parenting becomes less intuitive that you might suspect for all that the biological drives and instincts are supposedly programmed into all of us. The beauty of a society made up of individuals is that each person is unique in how their chemical and sociological combinations have created their preferences and abhorrences different than many others.

Sorry mums and dads, that means you can’t use one blueprint for all diaspora of your loins. Sucks for you. The ATTENTION required is that you need to know your kid. Know what they like and what they don’t. Know what motivates them and what keeps them from pursuing their best goals, and sadly, know what might be a deterrent from making a choice that would result to their own harm or harm to another. The hardest part is that once you have gotten through the proving ground of instilling some of these notions of what is ideally right or not so much, it is time to take off the training wheels and let them go to make some mistakes, fall and scrape their knees, and learn that the world has a few rough edges that they may bump against occasionally. Preferably, this should initially be practiced when the scrapes and bruises will not result in permanent damage, but will result in some permanent knowledge. A lot of times, this is where parents have the most difficulty. They hang on too long. They fail to give the child a sense of independence resulting in fear of making their own decisions or a lack of responsibility for doing so. It’s not that any parent wants to instill this sense in a child, but it remains too difficult to allow a beloved one to suffer pain, even if less than what they will suffer in future. As hard as it is, parents owe it to these individuals they wrought to provide them the best opportunity for success. The best opportunity, it seems is to pay enough attention to know the child. Spend enough time to make your company as much or more enjoyable than the TV, videogame system, or media stars that might otherwise be their primary interactions. And remember, parents, these are the people who may be choosing your assisted living center!

Wrapping memories…

Wrapping Memories

It was a tradition, always, that my father wrapped the presents. I’d even seen it go so far as for him to wrap his own, cleverly camouflaged in nondescript boxes provided by department stores the year before. I often questioned how the tradition came about, and considered whether his yearly holiday task had started in his tender years. I found myself imagining him as a small boy, rummaging around in the bin of colorful paper and juggling scissors and cellophane tape.

There was no question as to why the tradition continued. No one compared. His skill in fitting the paper. Always efficiently using only what was necessary to conceal the package within. The corners never gaped, and no matter the shape, he managed to create neat edges on all those brightly covered items arranged decorously around the tree.

At some point my independent spirit rebelled and I demanded my share in the holy wrapping ritual. I was graciously allowed to try my small hand at the task. I cannot precisely recall whether my efforts resulted in triumph, but I must not have done too badly as it soon became our shared chore. Not so much dreaded as relished. The time spent together estimating paper and ribbon, drinking hot chocolate or coffee, and listening to Bing Crosby and the Andrews Sisters, Perry Como, or Tennessee Ernie Ford.

The lights that made patterns on the ceiling changed through the years from multicolored flashes the small, white twinkling points. The tradition remained.

And as the time passed, new parts of my life invaded my sacred rite. Frequently working holidays in the emergency rooms, I would cross my fingers and race to the house, not even daring to pray that the pager would remain silent for fear of rousing the crisis gods and keep me from my wrapping with dad. It didn’t always work, but he tried to save me at least one, to keep our pact as the family wrappers.

It almost seems a metaphor now, as I think back. My father wrapped those gifts just as he wrapped our family, smoothing edges, tying loose ends, managing the dodgy elements that would mar someone’s experience. Yep, my dad did that. I never realized it for so long.

Then, he was gone. I remember that first year. I think I put everything in gift bags. It was a cheat. I just couldn’t bring myself to attempt the task alone. And I couldn’t ask anyone to help. Everyone else was suffering the same, well… almost the same grief. We all dealt with it our own way.

Little by little, I found myself stepping back into the position. Never fully. I could never fill those shoes.

So, as I sat in the middle of the living room floor, wrapping presents, the memories flooding  back. It wasn’t the same, sitting here alone and thinking as I fold each corner. Then, I caught myself. That frown. The way my hand folded the corner and I was carful to fold the cut edge to make a smooth edge on the end of a difficult package.

I stopped, stunned for a moment. I looked down at my hands at the nails that were more rounded than my mother’s. I saw my hands, built on a larger scale than most women, but the lines more delicate than would be considered masculine. I saw through the lens of memory my father’s hands guiding mine to fold the edges and place the tape. My eyes clouded. Had I hardened myself so much to fear of pain that I had also blocked the other part of my sacred charge, joy? That was what my dad always tried to protect, even when we moved and we didn’t have a tree or our old vinyl albums or any of the other anchor to the holiday traditions of home half way around the world.

I stared a while longer before returning to my task. I wrapped every gift. I regretted the reduction in number. Sadly, the reduction of individuals in our holiday gathering has changed the way we approach gifting. In years past, the sheer number of people created a mountain of gift offerings under the bedecked tree.

Through the years, those of us left have attempted to replicate the appearance through expenditure (that most of us could ill afford). This was a mistake.

The number of packages or zeros is inconsequential to the love and good will of spending time will of family and friends. Yeah, that’s all kinds of cheesy. I know it. It makes my back right molar ache a little typing it. Regardless, it is the realization that dawned upon me as I tried valiantly to coral the few boxes that were before me to bedeck with festive paper.

I finished my self imposed “chore”. I looked at the packages, arranged beneath the tree to best advantage despite the diminutive number. I realized that I had chosen paper as dad would have. No tags necessary because of the number, but also because of the way the paper and package spoke of the recipient.

I was correct in my anger towards the television commercials that stressed the importance of spending more money. Spending time is what matters.

So, this blog has turned into one of those sappy, emotion-ridden, epistles chastising you, like Ebeneezer to repent your monetary ways and seek the true meaning of Christmas (Ham? No, not ham you fat @#$%). However, that was not the intent of this particular (wordy) first entry into the world of blog. It was to say that this Grinch’s frozen heart was thawed slightly today. In memory of one who quietly loved the season, loved his family, and held it together without ceremony or letting anyone else know it.

May I carry that spirit beyond holidays to safeguard those who are dear to me, and may any reading this have a blessed holiday (with no reservation to any particular faith) and may your new year blessed in every way.