1. Actual weather conditions. Not the pansy steady 80-degree stuff you can always count on in places like San Diego, CA. We have real weather: rain, snow, sleet--and a wind that'll blow right through you. It's the kind of weather that makes one appreciate an occasional vacation to places like San Diego, CA.
2. Driven snow. I used to think of it only as the snow flyin' in those white-out, white-knuckle driving situations, but the product is that beautifully drifting snow that seems too perfect to have been formed at random.
3. Extra refrigerator space. Yeah, I like storing my 2-liter soda bottles, a crockpot full of soup--or whatever else is too big or bulky to fit in my fridge--just right outside my kitchen door on my deck.
4. Cold clear water. Every summer I secretly lament the fact I don't have a water and ice machine handily provided in my refrigerator. Every winter I enjoy glasses full of ice cold water right from the tap and I am perfectly content with what I have.
5. The sense of power and pride I feel when I do the math and realize that while shoveling my walks and my driveway I have single-handedly moved literally tons of snow. You go girl!
6. White mountains. Face it. The Wasatch Front mountain range is spectacular. But those majestic mountains are even more awe-inspiring when they are dusted with white and set against a clear blue sky or the tempestuous black and grey clouds of a winter storm.
7. Slippin' and slidin'. Yeah, I'll admit it. As long as none of my impressionable kids are in the car and there are no all-seeing and all-questioning officers of the law nearby, I love to take a corner just a tad too fast and catch a little skid. But don't worry, I also keep an eye out for pedestrians and the friendly neighborhood mailbox.
8. Simple things: Stephens Gourmet Hot Cocoa, black leather gloves, wool socks, performance fleece, hot showers, down comforters, vinyl windows, a crackling fire and the proximity of other warm bodies--just to name a few.
9. The exhilaration of perfect powder. Although its been far too long since I have hit the slopes myself (this will date me, but I used to schedule my classes for M, W, and F only so I could take advantage of those $10 lift tickets at Park West, Solitude and Alta), I can still appreciate that we are blessed with the greatest snow on earth. I love seeing my kids get a rush from a great day of snowboarding. And someday I just might get brave enough (and rich enough) to tackle my favorite--the moguls--and play in the powder again.
10. Contrast. I am always amused by the fact that in the fall when it cools down to 65 we get goosebumps and go grab a jacket, but in the spring when it warms up to about 45 we do somersaults in our shirt sleeves. I'm sure that little quirk is completely lost on those poor people from San Diego.
Sunday, December 18, 2005
Monday, November 28, 2005
three wishes...and, what goes around comes around
A few Christmases ago I got it into my head that I needed three things.
1). A winter coat for my daughter. Not a new coat--because I was trying to teach her a lesson for having misplaced the most warm and beautiful fur-trimmed robin egg blue coat (that I had had my eye on all the winter before and played my cards just right to grab at the very last moment and at the very best clearance price)--but something that would keep her relatively warm through the winter.
2). A pool table. Yes, I know pool tables don't just fall from the sky. But my boys were turning into teenagers and they needed something to do for fun with their friends since we don't own a trampoline or a swimming pool or the latest Nintendo.
and 3). Well, my memory is usually a little cloudy about three, but it might have been an outdoor basketball standard. See reason for wanting item two.
So I kept wishing for these three things to just magically appear. And guess what. They did. Two different neighbors handed down two not-so-the-latest-fashion coats. Coats which kept her warm, but were not too cool to keep her from learning her lesson (I hope). Then another neighbor just called out of the blue and asked if I didn't want their pool table--so thankfully they don't fall from the sky, but sometimes they do fall from heaven. And another neighbor gave us their basketball standard. And I was very thankful. Sometimes you do get what you ask for.
This season I have had a couple of opportunities to be generous.
On one occasion I had tickets to the Shakespearean Festival that I really wanted to use, but couldn't before the fall season would end. I was able to totally delight someone I didn't know too well--so she would never have expected them. But she had been ill and needed something to look forward to and it was one of her favorite plays that is not often performed. I was so happy to have just the right gift to share.
And recently I was at a benefit and I wrote a modest check out for someone who really needed the money even though I really couldn't afford it either. I thought twice about my unbalanced bank account. But I wanted to give; so I did.
Imagine my surprise when just this past week--during a time of Thanksgiving--I got back just what I gave. Someone gave me enough comp tickets to take my whole family to Hale Center Theater's "A Christmas Carol." I'm delighted! And I won a random drawing at work and received a gift card for the exact amount of my check.
Although the giving itself is its own reward, sometimes the good stuff comes right back at you as well.
1). A winter coat for my daughter. Not a new coat--because I was trying to teach her a lesson for having misplaced the most warm and beautiful fur-trimmed robin egg blue coat (that I had had my eye on all the winter before and played my cards just right to grab at the very last moment and at the very best clearance price)--but something that would keep her relatively warm through the winter.
2). A pool table. Yes, I know pool tables don't just fall from the sky. But my boys were turning into teenagers and they needed something to do for fun with their friends since we don't own a trampoline or a swimming pool or the latest Nintendo.
and 3). Well, my memory is usually a little cloudy about three, but it might have been an outdoor basketball standard. See reason for wanting item two.
So I kept wishing for these three things to just magically appear. And guess what. They did. Two different neighbors handed down two not-so-the-latest-fashion coats. Coats which kept her warm, but were not too cool to keep her from learning her lesson (I hope). Then another neighbor just called out of the blue and asked if I didn't want their pool table--so thankfully they don't fall from the sky, but sometimes they do fall from heaven. And another neighbor gave us their basketball standard. And I was very thankful. Sometimes you do get what you ask for.
This season I have had a couple of opportunities to be generous.
On one occasion I had tickets to the Shakespearean Festival that I really wanted to use, but couldn't before the fall season would end. I was able to totally delight someone I didn't know too well--so she would never have expected them. But she had been ill and needed something to look forward to and it was one of her favorite plays that is not often performed. I was so happy to have just the right gift to share.
And recently I was at a benefit and I wrote a modest check out for someone who really needed the money even though I really couldn't afford it either. I thought twice about my unbalanced bank account. But I wanted to give; so I did.
Imagine my surprise when just this past week--during a time of Thanksgiving--I got back just what I gave. Someone gave me enough comp tickets to take my whole family to Hale Center Theater's "A Christmas Carol." I'm delighted! And I won a random drawing at work and received a gift card for the exact amount of my check.
Although the giving itself is its own reward, sometimes the good stuff comes right back at you as well.
Thursday, October 27, 2005
titles to a blog...
I keep starting a blog about the interesting experiences I have caring for my aged and dear grandparents three mornings a week, but I can never get past the title. I want to share my observations in a general way--there are moments that are both poignant and amusing--without being specific enough to be disrespectful to the individuals involved. (Many good lines from "Monty Python and the Holy Grail" come to mind, but they would, of course, be wholly inappropriate.)
So I decided to tell this story through the titles with which it could begin.
1. "Old Age Ain't for Sissies"
Grandpa, who has maintained his keen sense of humor long for nearly 97 years, says this to my husband on a regular basis. At first I just laughed when I heard this. But as I have witnessed firsthand the increasing humilities and decreasing of such hard-won independence that are inherent in growing old, I am no longer amused.
2. "Waiting to Die"
It gives one an entirely new perspective to the phrase "endure to the end." I'll spare you the details, as if we knew what lay ahead we would not try quite so hard to grow up so fast.
3. "Waiting for Togo" (In honor of my grandfather's sense of humor and love of good literature.)
Perhaps you would have to have read "Waiting for Godot" to appreciate my weak attempt to be punny. But since I have read it, I will simply snicker to myself.
4. "Almost Heaven"
It is a sacred experience to watch people as they prepare themselves to meet their maker. I have noticed a sweetness about their relationship that I hope to attempt to achieve myself when I grow up. I hope it doesn't take me 4 or 5 more decades to come close.
5. "Groundhog Day"
'Nuff said.
So I decided to tell this story through the titles with which it could begin.
1. "Old Age Ain't for Sissies"
Grandpa, who has maintained his keen sense of humor long for nearly 97 years, says this to my husband on a regular basis. At first I just laughed when I heard this. But as I have witnessed firsthand the increasing humilities and decreasing of such hard-won independence that are inherent in growing old, I am no longer amused.
2. "Waiting to Die"
It gives one an entirely new perspective to the phrase "endure to the end." I'll spare you the details, as if we knew what lay ahead we would not try quite so hard to grow up so fast.
3. "Waiting for Togo" (In honor of my grandfather's sense of humor and love of good literature.)
Perhaps you would have to have read "Waiting for Godot" to appreciate my weak attempt to be punny. But since I have read it, I will simply snicker to myself.
4. "Almost Heaven"
It is a sacred experience to watch people as they prepare themselves to meet their maker. I have noticed a sweetness about their relationship that I hope to attempt to achieve myself when I grow up. I hope it doesn't take me 4 or 5 more decades to come close.
5. "Groundhog Day"
'Nuff said.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
my big fat geek life
In applying to be a chaperone for a high school choir tour, I am being asked to evaluate myself based on some interesting criteria. Some of it has to do with being a responsible adult. I think I can fudge my way through those tough questions. But the part that's got me stuck is the section that deals with, in essence, being cool enough not to ruin the tour for the kids. It got me thinking...
I finally came to the realization this morning, that, despite my best efforts to the contrary, I am a geek. Of course I've the clues have been evident all along, some subtle, some not so much. Like those times when you say something that sounds socially acceptable in your head, but comes out all wrong and leaves you feeling stupid. It doesn't even matter if no one else noticed it was uncool. You still scream at yourself in your head, "I am the biggest geek" and bang your sorry head into the wall over and over and over (one of the first signs of geekness, to be sure).
Maybe the litmus test for geekness versus coolness could be one's reaction to the movie "Napoleon Dynamite." If themes in the movie resonated with you, you must contain some degree of genetic geekness. If you "got it" and reveled in the redemption at the end of the movie, you're a true-blooded geek. But if you failed to laugh out loud or are one of those who said, "This is the stupidest movie I ever saw," you are either too cool to care or too old to understand the universal struggle between geek vs. cool.
In high school--and even in college--I was only fringe geek. I could be friends with everyone and anyone. I was tolerated and liked by the cool faction--even allowed to participate in "cool" events--but never allowed to be a full-fledged member. Although I do still get an occasional Christmas card from some of my cool friends. Maybe it's because I went to a small high school. Maybe it's a bit easier to hang on the fringe when the same people are the jocks, the brainiacs and the student body officers. Maybe being one of the few who stayed sober and virginal gave me some iota of cool factor--it made me just weird enough to be interesting. Who knows?
But whatever the reason, I have to admit it. Those days on the fringe are long over. Since I've spent the last 20 years of my life far removed from the "in" crowd, busy acquiring a mini-van and a mortgage, my frump factor has soared. I no longer even merit fringe benefits. I have achieved full-fledged geekness.
Which brings me back to my self-evalutaion. How should I rate myself on a scale of 1-10? Cool teenagers who know me do speak to me when spoken to. Only some of them look the other way when I drive my mini-van up to the pick-up lane at Provo High. Some will even wave or say "Hi!" in the halls of Provo High, but only if no one is looking. None of my high school-age children has outright forbidden me from stepping foot in the school (YET). Maybe this will qualify me to chaperone the choir tour. I don't know. I'll keep you posted...
I finally came to the realization this morning, that, despite my best efforts to the contrary, I am a geek. Of course I've the clues have been evident all along, some subtle, some not so much. Like those times when you say something that sounds socially acceptable in your head, but comes out all wrong and leaves you feeling stupid. It doesn't even matter if no one else noticed it was uncool. You still scream at yourself in your head, "I am the biggest geek" and bang your sorry head into the wall over and over and over (one of the first signs of geekness, to be sure).
Maybe the litmus test for geekness versus coolness could be one's reaction to the movie "Napoleon Dynamite." If themes in the movie resonated with you, you must contain some degree of genetic geekness. If you "got it" and reveled in the redemption at the end of the movie, you're a true-blooded geek. But if you failed to laugh out loud or are one of those who said, "This is the stupidest movie I ever saw," you are either too cool to care or too old to understand the universal struggle between geek vs. cool.
In high school--and even in college--I was only fringe geek. I could be friends with everyone and anyone. I was tolerated and liked by the cool faction--even allowed to participate in "cool" events--but never allowed to be a full-fledged member. Although I do still get an occasional Christmas card from some of my cool friends. Maybe it's because I went to a small high school. Maybe it's a bit easier to hang on the fringe when the same people are the jocks, the brainiacs and the student body officers. Maybe being one of the few who stayed sober and virginal gave me some iota of cool factor--it made me just weird enough to be interesting. Who knows?
But whatever the reason, I have to admit it. Those days on the fringe are long over. Since I've spent the last 20 years of my life far removed from the "in" crowd, busy acquiring a mini-van and a mortgage, my frump factor has soared. I no longer even merit fringe benefits. I have achieved full-fledged geekness.
Which brings me back to my self-evalutaion. How should I rate myself on a scale of 1-10? Cool teenagers who know me do speak to me when spoken to. Only some of them look the other way when I drive my mini-van up to the pick-up lane at Provo High. Some will even wave or say "Hi!" in the halls of Provo High, but only if no one is looking. None of my high school-age children has outright forbidden me from stepping foot in the school (YET). Maybe this will qualify me to chaperone the choir tour. I don't know. I'll keep you posted...
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
My 6-year-old thinks I'm buff
So this morning I'm lying in bed trying to bring my 6-year-old back into consciousness so he can get to school on time. He wakes up and we get in some good cuddle time (especially appreciated because two of my other kids aren't approachable even with a ten-foot pole). He looks up at me and says, "Mom, how did you get to be so buff?" I laughed (and those of you who know me are undoubtedly laughing even harder). My buff days have been over for about 16 years (age of oldest child), when I quickly realized that if I had a few moments for myself during the day they had better be spent in a sanity preserving catnap, not doling out my last drop of energy on a treadmill. (Which was fine, because we've never actually owned a treadmill.)
About 20 years ago I did manage to find two hours in the day to work out. Back then it was still all about me. I wasn't responsible for anyone else (or their tightly packed schedules). I could do whatever I wanted with my designated 24 hours per day--even spend some of them developing tightly packed abs. My roommate and I used to ride our bikes hard and uphill about 7 miles from Centennial Apartments in Provo to Spa Fitness Center in Orem for aerobics. Sometimes we'd even do a double session before riding home. In those days, I was definitely buff and I could do the "Maniac" dance with the best of the inside-out-sleeveless-sweatshirt-wearing crowd. But those days are long, long, gone.
Which brings me back to the wonderful question about why my six-year-old thinks I might be buff. First of all, where could he have heard the word? (Is one's degree of "buffness" a topic of conversation during first grade recess?) What does being "buff" look like in the mind of someone so young? And how could he possibly apply the term to me? I don't really know. And, frankly, I don't really care. I just hope he continues to think of me as such, so someday, at my funeral, he will get up and say, "The thing I loved about my mom is that she was really buff!" Revisionist history works for me. If someone believes it's true, won't that make it so?
About 20 years ago I did manage to find two hours in the day to work out. Back then it was still all about me. I wasn't responsible for anyone else (or their tightly packed schedules). I could do whatever I wanted with my designated 24 hours per day--even spend some of them developing tightly packed abs. My roommate and I used to ride our bikes hard and uphill about 7 miles from Centennial Apartments in Provo to Spa Fitness Center in Orem for aerobics. Sometimes we'd even do a double session before riding home. In those days, I was definitely buff and I could do the "Maniac" dance with the best of the inside-out-sleeveless-sweatshirt-wearing crowd. But those days are long, long, gone.
Which brings me back to the wonderful question about why my six-year-old thinks I might be buff. First of all, where could he have heard the word? (Is one's degree of "buffness" a topic of conversation during first grade recess?) What does being "buff" look like in the mind of someone so young? And how could he possibly apply the term to me? I don't really know. And, frankly, I don't really care. I just hope he continues to think of me as such, so someday, at my funeral, he will get up and say, "The thing I loved about my mom is that she was really buff!" Revisionist history works for me. If someone believes it's true, won't that make it so?
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
blogging in my sleep
As I woke up this morning I realized that instead of dreaming I had been blogging...in my sleep. All I remember is looking at another one of kactiguy's great sketches, which for some reason compelled me to write a cheeky comment about how sleeping under the stars is overrated. What woke me up was the startling realization that I was using italics in my blog--in real life I don't know how to italicize in blogwrit.
Anyhow, I'm wondering if blogging in my sleep isn't a sign I may be spending too much time in blogworld. (The last time I remember trying to do something real in my sleep was when I was working two full-time jobs. I was a hoe-r by day and I worked in a pizza joint by night. Pulling weeds in one's sleep actually sends one into a deeper sleep, but frantically trying to take a pizza order in one's pajamas is a little disconcerting.) I guess one can only put off doing yesterday's dishes so long before they become last week's dishes. It would be tragic to get so busy blogging I pull a Rip Van Winkle (or Wrinkle, as Lorien aptly put it) thing and didn't return from the land of blog till after my children were grown and retirement was looming. Although there are days when that would be quite tempting...
Anyhow, I'm wondering if blogging in my sleep isn't a sign I may be spending too much time in blogworld. (The last time I remember trying to do something real in my sleep was when I was working two full-time jobs. I was a hoe-r by day and I worked in a pizza joint by night. Pulling weeds in one's sleep actually sends one into a deeper sleep, but frantically trying to take a pizza order in one's pajamas is a little disconcerting.) I guess one can only put off doing yesterday's dishes so long before they become last week's dishes. It would be tragic to get so busy blogging I pull a Rip Van Winkle (or Wrinkle, as Lorien aptly put it) thing and didn't return from the land of blog till after my children were grown and retirement was looming. Although there are days when that would be quite tempting...
Thursday, August 18, 2005
the joy of reveille
School starts in less than a week and although returning to some semblance of a routine appeals to me, there is one thing I am not looking forward to...getting two teenagers, both teeming with testosterone, out of bed in time for them to arrive at Provo High by 7:30AM.
I am one of those unfortunate mothers cursed by the mixed-up-genes fates, who I imagine take great delight in my situation. First Son, the grumpy one, can't get out of bed (even after knock down drag out battles with his mother) and--being the budding metrosexual he is--requires an exact and exorbitant amount of time in the shower, grooming his hair, chewing his french toast and then brushing his teeth and gargling mouthwash for the requisite 2 minutes! Second Son--the previously (till the hormones took over) cheerful one--can get out of bed and in and out of the shower in a flash and be out the door somewhere between zero and ten minutes, not caring at all about the end results. Of course any other genetic balance of these three traits--disposition, ability to get out of bed, and attention to grooming detail--would've worked better in my favor. To quote Snoopy (or was it Charlie Brown?), as I am often wont to do, "ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGH!"
I frequently remind my husband that getting four--yes, I only have four--children out the door in the morning is like cramming in an eight-hour work day in between the hours of 6:00 and 8:30 a.m. I have a lovely ritual when it's all over, however. I calmly shut the door, fasten the dead-bolt, then--depending on what kind of morning it has been--either let out a long and luxurious sigh as I slide down against the back of the door to the floor, or let out an ear-crushing primal scream. Either makes me feel much better.
I am one of those unfortunate mothers cursed by the mixed-up-genes fates, who I imagine take great delight in my situation. First Son, the grumpy one, can't get out of bed (even after knock down drag out battles with his mother) and--being the budding metrosexual he is--requires an exact and exorbitant amount of time in the shower, grooming his hair, chewing his french toast and then brushing his teeth and gargling mouthwash for the requisite 2 minutes! Second Son--the previously (till the hormones took over) cheerful one--can get out of bed and in and out of the shower in a flash and be out the door somewhere between zero and ten minutes, not caring at all about the end results. Of course any other genetic balance of these three traits--disposition, ability to get out of bed, and attention to grooming detail--would've worked better in my favor. To quote Snoopy (or was it Charlie Brown?), as I am often wont to do, "ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGH!"
I frequently remind my husband that getting four--yes, I only have four--children out the door in the morning is like cramming in an eight-hour work day in between the hours of 6:00 and 8:30 a.m. I have a lovely ritual when it's all over, however. I calmly shut the door, fasten the dead-bolt, then--depending on what kind of morning it has been--either let out a long and luxurious sigh as I slide down against the back of the door to the floor, or let out an ear-crushing primal scream. Either makes me feel much better.
Sunday, August 14, 2005
of work and women
Yesterday I was talking to a real rarity--a woman who has remained a stay-at-home mom even after all her kids have been in school for some time now. She is also rarity because she's one of the first people who hasn't asked me what I'm going to do now that all my kids will be in school full-time this year.
To be fair, this is a question I have asked myself a hundred times (or more) over the past year in anticipation of this major milestone in my life. But there are several implications in this question and the resulting discussion that make me wonder if this milestone must necessarily become a turning point. The first is that all of a sudden motherhood isn't such a huge job and I have time for something like, I don't know--another career--in my life. The second is that my kids somehow don't need a full-time mother any more. The last--and the one that perhaps disturbs me the most--is that I can't/won't be contributing to society if I don't get some kind of demanding important job. (Like I need two of those?)
Even with maybe 5 1/2 more discretionary hours in the day--the actual time from when I return from getting the last ones off to the time the first ones might reasonably be expected to be home--I still feel the heavy responsibilities inherent in managing schedules, home and finances. And that's really just the secondary aspect of motherhood. The real job--raising kids--doesn't get any easier. In fact, I'm finding the problems get bigger and motherhood takes even more energy now than it did when I was chasing toddlers around. Even though they would never admit it, my kids need me now more than ever. I still need to be an active volunteer in their schools and be present on the first row at every choir or band concert, football, basetball or soccer game, and be there when they walk out the door and when they walk back in.
What bugs are comments like "You're only 40--you still have time to get in a good career, " or the encouragement from well-meaning family and friends to find a good job as a way to contribute to society. The implication is that my work as a mother is not as valued as the paid work of someone outside the home and that I must now pursue a career in order to become a productive citizen.
In spite of knowing better, I still find myself seduced by the whisperings of the world: "Now it's time for you. Now you can be somebody. Now you can make a difference." As if those possibilities haven't existed all along. As I contemplate what's next for me I will try to keep priorities in perspective. I do know that whatever I choose I will find ways to challenge myself, share my talents and develop new ones and use my energy in ways that are meaningful--whether or not a paycheck is attached.
To be fair, this is a question I have asked myself a hundred times (or more) over the past year in anticipation of this major milestone in my life. But there are several implications in this question and the resulting discussion that make me wonder if this milestone must necessarily become a turning point. The first is that all of a sudden motherhood isn't such a huge job and I have time for something like, I don't know--another career--in my life. The second is that my kids somehow don't need a full-time mother any more. The last--and the one that perhaps disturbs me the most--is that I can't/won't be contributing to society if I don't get some kind of demanding important job. (Like I need two of those?)
Even with maybe 5 1/2 more discretionary hours in the day--the actual time from when I return from getting the last ones off to the time the first ones might reasonably be expected to be home--I still feel the heavy responsibilities inherent in managing schedules, home and finances. And that's really just the secondary aspect of motherhood. The real job--raising kids--doesn't get any easier. In fact, I'm finding the problems get bigger and motherhood takes even more energy now than it did when I was chasing toddlers around. Even though they would never admit it, my kids need me now more than ever. I still need to be an active volunteer in their schools and be present on the first row at every choir or band concert, football, basetball or soccer game, and be there when they walk out the door and when they walk back in.
What bugs are comments like "You're only 40--you still have time to get in a good career, " or the encouragement from well-meaning family and friends to find a good job as a way to contribute to society. The implication is that my work as a mother is not as valued as the paid work of someone outside the home and that I must now pursue a career in order to become a productive citizen.
In spite of knowing better, I still find myself seduced by the whisperings of the world: "Now it's time for you. Now you can be somebody. Now you can make a difference." As if those possibilities haven't existed all along. As I contemplate what's next for me I will try to keep priorities in perspective. I do know that whatever I choose I will find ways to challenge myself, share my talents and develop new ones and use my energy in ways that are meaningful--whether or not a paycheck is attached.
Sunday, July 31, 2005
You can always go home
This past weekend I had two--not just one--but two family reunions to attend. It had been one tough week at our house (more on that later, maybe, but I prefer to live in the land of the light and mundane rather than the dark and dramatic) and by Friday afternoon I wasn't feeling up to anything more than curling up in bed and turning the world away for a few days.
But duty to family will drag one to do just about anything, so we left a kitchen full of dirty dishes, hopped in the dirty mini-van--completely ill prepared for two days of camping--and just drove.
I'm glad I did.
We stopped at my dad(deceased for 20 years, but the product of a very big and connected family of almost 250)'s family reunion first, on the way to my husband's immediate family reunion out by Moon Lake. As I made the rounds to say hello to my favorite incarnations of what I remember about my dad, I found myself buoyed up by the enthusiastic hugs and genuine pleasure they expressed over our arrival. Aunt Charm hugged me so hard I cracked, and as her (for whatever reason unusually intense) hug lingered my usually stoic resolve disintegrated and I teared up. I needed that hug. I realized I needed this family.
Later that night I began with Uncle Steve what I thought would be the usual light banter reserved for most people, especially those you might see only once a year. Soon I found him mentioning a positive personality trait he has noticed in me and frankly telling me in a beautiful way what my dad would have had to say about it. The tears welled up again and as I held them back--along with all the rather intense thoughts and emotions behind them--I saw the same struggle reflected back at me. We no longer needed words. In that moment--and since--I felt connected across the ages and beyond mortality to something I usually stay too busy and too distanced to contemplate.
These are my people. They love me not for who I am, what I know or what I do, but simply because I was born to them. To love and be loved like that is pure and beyond compare. And that, is the beauty of family.
But duty to family will drag one to do just about anything, so we left a kitchen full of dirty dishes, hopped in the dirty mini-van--completely ill prepared for two days of camping--and just drove.
I'm glad I did.
We stopped at my dad(deceased for 20 years, but the product of a very big and connected family of almost 250)'s family reunion first, on the way to my husband's immediate family reunion out by Moon Lake. As I made the rounds to say hello to my favorite incarnations of what I remember about my dad, I found myself buoyed up by the enthusiastic hugs and genuine pleasure they expressed over our arrival. Aunt Charm hugged me so hard I cracked, and as her (for whatever reason unusually intense) hug lingered my usually stoic resolve disintegrated and I teared up. I needed that hug. I realized I needed this family.
Later that night I began with Uncle Steve what I thought would be the usual light banter reserved for most people, especially those you might see only once a year. Soon I found him mentioning a positive personality trait he has noticed in me and frankly telling me in a beautiful way what my dad would have had to say about it. The tears welled up again and as I held them back--along with all the rather intense thoughts and emotions behind them--I saw the same struggle reflected back at me. We no longer needed words. In that moment--and since--I felt connected across the ages and beyond mortality to something I usually stay too busy and too distanced to contemplate.
These are my people. They love me not for who I am, what I know or what I do, but simply because I was born to them. To love and be loved like that is pure and beyond compare. And that, is the beauty of family.
Greetings
As a child, I always wanted to grow up to be a blogger. But it wasn't until I was required to do so in order to post on Lorien's amusing anecdote about poop (so happy that finally, thanks to the wonders of the Internet, these types of highly entertaining stories are no longer confined to venues such as the Regis and Kelly show), that I finally had the opportunity.
Since it's after midnight and I get a little too punchy when I'm sleep-deprived, I'll cut this first entry short.
We'll see what I feel like ranting, raving or rambling about on Monday.
Since it's after midnight and I get a little too punchy when I'm sleep-deprived, I'll cut this first entry short.
We'll see what I feel like ranting, raving or rambling about on Monday.
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