Christmas Traditions

Each year on the first Saturday of December, we venture out to cut down our Christmas tree. Over the years, we have visited several different tree farms as older farms run out of big enough trees and new farms open for business. Cutting down the tree was always one of our family’s favorite traditions. The tradition of stringing popcorn and watching It’s a Wonderful Life the night before was, perhaps, not as well-loved by all!

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When we were first married, our apartment was near a major garden supply and craft center. In late October, we watched as truckloads of Christmas trees were unloaded and stacked in their storage lot. Horrified, we decided to cut our own to be sure it would be fresh (and safe) since our tree goes up in early December and stay up into early January.

The next year, I carried our newborn son in a carrier on my chest. There were several years when it was a challenge to carry a snowsuit-clad toddler. As they grew, the children took turns cutting down the tree and helping to carry it. Pictures document each outing.

As we decorate our tree, the adults always enjoy warmed Christmas wine from a local winery. Many years, we visited that winery with our freshly cut tree tied to the roof of the car. Now, we make a point of having the wine in house ahead of time.

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Once, in the throes of an addition to our home, we couldn’t spare the day to make the outing. In our thirty five Christmases together, it was the only year we didn’t cut down our tree.

What had started out as an adventure for the two of us grew to three and then four. Now there are just two of us again. In coming years, we hope to share this tradition with our grandchildren.

 

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Photos from my family collection

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Lost at Sea

November is National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo as it is affectionately known by those who participate. 300,000 people around the world are busy trying to write a 50,000 word novel in the 30 days of November. I am one of them. This is my first foray into fiction.

Almost ten years ago, I heard the story of a man who was lost at sea while sailing alone in the Bahamas. His boat was found, in tact, but he was missing, presumed dead. No one knows for sure what happened. The seas in the area are known to be among the roughest for sailing. There are pirates around. Drug dealing was done from some of the islands near where his ship was found. The sharks were spawning. He had seriously injured his arm which may have affected his ability to handle his ship. There was reportedly someone who had relentlessly pursued the vintage craft the man had lovingly restored. His life was not going well at the time and he could have staged his own disappearance. No one knows.

PendragonLast summer, I came in contact with some journals written by the wife he divorced shortly before embarking on his journey. There were also copies of important papers regarding the ship, the police report, letters between attorneys, paperwork about the salvage of the ship and a preliminary report of death from the State Department.

As I read through the paperwork, I thought, here’s a story. I knew I would have to write it as fiction because there is so much I don’t know. I would have to invent a lot of the story. In early October, that’s what I decided to do. I committed to write a novel loosely based on this story during NaNoWriMo.

In Mid-October, I mentioned this to someone I was visiting. She thought she might have some information that would help me. We went through boxes in her attic and came upon letters sent by this man to his father during the journey. There were seven of them and they provided a wealth of information about his route, his schedule, and, most importantly, about his feelings. They are fascinating and will be invaluable to me in my writing. She also had a copy of the report from the private investigator who was hired by the man’s father upon the disappearance.

I shared my excitement about this development with someone who was visiting the man’s son. It turns out the son had the original ship’s log from the journey. He sent it to me! After all these years, and significant time in the salt air, much of the glue has dissolved and the log has fallen apart and there is mold on the pages. Some of the ink and pencil has deteriorated, but most of it is still readable.

It turns out the man used the ship’s log as a combination log of the journey and a journal, so the log contains a lot of interesting information. I don’t speak “sailor” so I will need some help translating a lot of the sailing passages. The journal-like entries add humanity to the content.

This story started out as an interesting mystery to me. As I’ve collected more information, it continues to get more intriguing. The book will still be a novel because there is so much I don’t know. But, the information I have collected has never all been in one place or seen by one person before. I wonder if there would have been something to learn if it had been, shortly after his disappearance.

I never knew this man, but I know he was dear to others. As I read the materials, I’m getting to know more about him. He was a hard worker. He had a sense of humor and, obviously, a sense of adventure. He seemed to sail with an appropriate measure of caution (of course, I’m not a sailor!) He was also a faithful son, a good friend and he loved his children. He was on his way home to them when he was lost.

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I Voted

I’ve voted in every election for which I was eligible. The voting age changed from 21 to 18 in time that I was eligible one election earlier than I would have been. I’ve always considered the right to vote an important privilege. My very first vote was conducted by absentee ballot while I was away at college.

The election I came closest to missing was three weeks after the birth of my first child. My new baby had a cold and I hadn’t slept for more than two hours in a row for days. It was an exciting presidential election and the news was filled with coverage of historically long lines at the polls. For the first time, I felt my vote was not all that important, that one vote one way or the other would not make a difference.

I votedMy loving husband (the one who slept at night) came home from work that evening and insisted we should go together to vote, that it was an important first for our new family. I think I was just too tired to argue my stand effectively. Reluctantly, I agreed. Of course, the baby would never remember, but I am glad we did it.

My streak is intact. I’ve voted in person, by absentee ballot by mail, by absentee ballot before the election or, now, by early voting, a convenient option here in Illinois. Maybe my one vote doesn’t make a difference, but I’m not prepared to take that chance.

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My Morning Soundtrack

Most evenings, my husband and I share a glass of wine by the fire. When it’s cold, that fire is in our fireplace. When it’s not cold (or not too cold), the fire is in our firepit outside. As we mull over our days, we listen to quiet music, usually smooth jazz or classical. It’s the quiet part of the day as we wind down toward slumber.

So why is it that each and every morning, both as I awake and during that transitional time before, I have a country song playing in my head? It’s not always the same song, it’s not even necessarily a song I like. It starts early, before my husband starts to stir, and plays like a soundtrack, weaving its way through whatever dream I’m enjoying. The problem is, part of my consciousness wants to sing along and the dream is derailed.

RadioI listen to music a lot and my taste is diverse. At my desk, my choice depends on the work at hand. Regular work might be accompanied by a Pandora station inspired by Adele. Intense focus requires a background of “Classical Music for Studying,” another Pandora station. With my grandchildren, I play soundtracks from Disney movies. In the car, I usually listen to country music.

What is it about the country music that trumps everything else as my mind moves from asleep to awake? Frankly, it can be a little jarring at times. I could use a gentler transition. Sometimes, I just wish I knew how to change the station in my head!

 

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Time Out Outside

My grandchildren were playing happily outside one afternoon when a little pushing ensued. They were taking turns going down the slide, but that turned into a race to see who could get to the top first. The little one was climbing the ladder when his older sister realized it was a quickest way to the top. She tried to push her brother out of the way.

It wasn’t a big deal, but I knew it could have been if they were a little higher up the ladder. Instantly, I stopped the action and set aside a chair for the culprit to spend a little “time out.”

Time out outside

 

“There’s no time out outside!” she complained indignantly.

“Well, sure there is,” I responded.

Valiantly, she argued her case, but Nana was unmoved. Into the chair she went, still under protest. I set the timer on my phone for three minutes and handed it to her to hold.

“When the timer goes off, you can come back and play.”

She continued to plead her case for another minute or so. Then my grandson pulled up a chair and sat right next to her. So much for that! I think she got the point, anyway.

 

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Just to be clear, the photo included with this post is a stock photo. To protect their privacy, I never use actual pictures of my family for this blog.

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With This Ring . . .

CigarOnce I finally convinced him to marry me, I would have been happy with a cigar band. But no, not him. He sold jewelry when he was in college. We needed to find a wedding band he had never sold or seen. We were on a mission. After a lot of searching, we found a custom jeweler who created our beautiful rings.

The day before the wedding, I went in to pick them up. The clerk came out with two rings in a box, my unique wedding band, and a standard gold woman’s band. Calm and collected as I was that day, I burst into tears. Fortunately, after a few calls, they located my future husband’s ring at another workshop and arranged to get it back in time.

Wedding RingOther than the four months before and after the birth of each of my children, I’ve always worn my ring. Friends marvel that I do so when I play golf, but I learned that lesson the hard way. Early in my golfing experience, I lost all my rings one evening at a driving range. Waiting for my husband to return to the car, I reached into my shirt pocket to retrieve my rings and they were gone! Sobbing, I rushed back to the range to look for them. To make matters worse, it was the end of the night and darkness had set it. Strangers stopped to help as I frantically searched the grass by the light of a flashlight.

Fortunately, my husband found them all. The very next day, I arranged to have molds made of our wedding bands. In the event one of us does lose a ring, another can be crafted. It wouldn’t be quite the same as having the original, but a duplicate would still be better than the sorrow of being without. I’ve grown quite attached to my wedding ring and the union it represents!

 

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On Not Being a Cheerleader

I had no early experience with football. I grew up in a house with no men. Then, in seventh grade, my new school had a football team. And my Big Crush was on the team! I became a football fan. Week after week that fall, my friends and I followed the team, travelling up and down the sidelines as the team moved the ball. We were there for every game, regardless of the weather or the opponent or the chance of our team actually winning the game.

The team appreciated our support, but it was the cheerleaders who really got their attention. The cheerleaders had been selected early in the school year, before such a thing was on my radar. I made a vow; in eighth grade, I, too, would be a cheerleader!

cheerleaderThe next fall, I showed up ready for cheerleading tryouts. I was enthusiastic and optimistic. By the end of the day, I was exhausted and the next day I was sore. I hurt all over from using new muscles. It was an experience I’d never had before.

Tryout day finally arrived. Through the school day, I couldn’t concentrate on anything else. I knew I was destined to be a cheerleader. I had mastered the routines and excelled in all the drills. I was confident.

Once school was out, I ran home to change and then hurry back for some last minute practice. As I left my house, the sidewalks were teeming with the kids just dismissed from the public school across the street. In my neighborhood, there was no love lost between the kids form the public school and those of us who attended the Catholic school.

Moving quickly to avoid their teasing and jeers, I tripped on a crack in the sidewalk. Although I didn’t realize it at the time, I was knocked unconscious. Although I was dazed, I remember some of the public school kids actually helped me up.  I don’t know how long I was out.

As I made my way back to school, my world was spinning and gray. Several times, I stopped along the way to rest my head against a building so I didn’t lose my balance. My mind was foggy and my knees were weak.

By the time I got to cheerleading tryouts, I really wanted it to be over. Time and again, we were called in groups to perform the different cheers before a panel of judges. When it was my turn, I couldn’t remember the routines or, when I could, I couldn’t keep time. When it wasn’t my turn, I sat on the floor, resting my head on my scraped up knees, willing the process to be done so I could just go home.

It was not a surprise when I didn’t make the squad. My mother went the next day to talk to the coach and explain how I had fallen and had a concussion. She tried to talk me onto the squad. The coach was sympathetic and admitted she was surprised I had done so poorly in the tryouts. Unfortunately, the judges’ decision was final and she couldn’t unseat someone else on the squad to make a place for me.

I always understood that, but I love that my mother went to bat for me that day.

I wonder how my life might have been different if I had made the squad. Would I have gone on to be a cheerleader in high school, rather than writing for the newspaper? I met my husband through my involvement with the theater department. As a cheerleader, would I even have had time for theater? When it happened, not making the team was devastating. Now, I think maybe it was a good thing!

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I No Longer

CreedThis quote, written by José Micard Teixeira, has been floating around Facebook for the last week or so and I thought I’d share it here for those who missed it.

“I no longer have patience for certain things, not because I’ve become arrogant, but simply because I reached a point in my life where I do not want to waste more time with what displeases me or hurts me.

I have no patience for cynicism, excessive criticism and demands of any nature.
I lost the will to please those who do not like me, to love those who do not love me and to smile at those who do not want to smile at me.
I no longer spend a single minute on those who lie or want to manipulate.
I decided not to coexist anymore with pretense, hypocrisy, dishonesty and cheap praise. I do not tolerate selective erudition nor academic arrogance.
I do not adjust either to popular gossiping.
I hate conflict and comparisons.
I believe in a world of opposites and that’s why I avoid people with rigid and inflexible personalities.
In friendship I dislike the lack of loyalty and betrayal.
I do not get along with those who do not know how to give a compliment or a word of encouragement.
Exaggerations bore me and I have difficulty accepting those who do not like animals.
And on top of everything I have no patience for anyone who does not deserve my patience.”

The quote was originally attributed to Meryl Streep as her creed, and maybe it is. My reaction when I read it was, do you suppose they have a support group for this? In a heartbeat, I’d join a group who would help me intentionally embrace this kind of self-respect on an ongoing basis. For now, I’ll go it alone. If you catch me falling off the wagon, kindly offer me a hand back up.

 

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Books I Love

I love the books I read. I’m always in the middle of a few books. I read real books and eBooks and I listen to audio books. Now, I read a lot of memoirs, but I’ve always appreciated a good book recommendation.

I used to work with a man who shared my love of books. In particular, he enjoyed audio books. Our job involved a lot of time on the road and we often compared notes about the books we listened to.

Reading a book

He lived in another town, with a different library. This worked well, because we would share our favorite audio books checked out from our local libraries. If I particularly enjoyed a book, I would lend it to him and he would do the same for me. If one of us was looking for a specific book, we had access to two libraries.

One day, I returned a book to him. “Did you enjoy it?” he asked.

“I didn’t finish it.”

He was shocked. It had never occurred to him to just stop reading a book because he wasn’t enjoying it. I explained that once I quit caring about the characters or the outcome, I would rather move on to another story that I will enjoy. I give a book a chance, but sometimes, it ceases to be fun to read a given book. Then, it’s time to move on.

It took him some time to think about that. Eventually, the time came when he was working through a book he wasn’t enjoying and he put it aside. He actually thanked me for the idea and the encouragement. Now he appreciates the freedom to read what he enjoys and walk away from what he doesn’t.

 

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Moments Just Happen

HeavenOne morning last week, my four-year-old granddaughter and I were at the breakfast table talking about family.

“Who is your mommy?” she asked.

“Grandma Barbara is my mommy.”

“I have a Grandma Barbara, too.”

“I know; she’s my mommy.”

“Who’s your grandma?” she asked.

“I don’t have a grandma.”

“Everyone has a grandma. You have to have a grandma.”

I hesitated. Then remembering her parents tell her thunder is angels playing in heaven, I replied, “My grandma is in heaven.”

Solemnly, she asked, “Did she die?”

“Yes,” I replied, “but she lived a good, long life.”

“I’m going to die,” she said. “I don’t want to die.”

“Sweetheart,” I said to her, “you’re going to live for a very long time.”

Concerned, she held up ten fingers. “I want to have this many birthdays before I die.”

“Oh, you’re going to have lot more birthdays than that,” I told her. “I have a birthday coming up soon and, watch carefully, I’m going to be this many.” I held up ten fingers and then again and then again and so on. “And I’m not going to die for a very long time. So you don’t have anything to worry about.”

I hugged her and asked, “OK?”

“OK,” she replied and went back to her breakfast.

In life with kids, moments just happen. You do your best; you think on your feet. I was grateful that keeping it simple seemed to work this time. I’d rather leave the heavy lifting to her parents.

After all, that’s their job, not mine. My grandkids will tell you they’re taught no bumps, no bruises, no blood on Nana’s watch. We clearly need to amend that to include no tough questions!

 

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