Christmas 2010

My favorite memory of 2010 will always be the visual of Colleen and me standing on milk crates in the laundry room of Dad’s old house, she with a broom and I with a sponge mop, trying to kill a snake. Let me explain…
Dad bought a new house this summer three doors down from me. We had spent June and July getting it ready, and he moved in the middle of August. Then we began getting the old house ready to sell. By the end of September, we’d had a yard sale, donated to charity, and filled a dumpster with what was left. In final preparation for putting the house on the market, we were cleaning it from top to bottom.
Colleen was sweeping under the dryer in the basement laundry room, when I heard a blood-curdling scream. I figured she’d disturbed a mouse. Would that that had been the case! No, my friends, she found a snake, and if there is anyone on the planet more afraid of snakes than me, it is Colleen.
I will spare you the details, but suffice it to say that knowing we couldn’t put a house on the market with a snake in residence under the dryer, we mustered up all the courage we could find and proceeded to try and kill it. The only weapons at our disposal were the broom and the mop, as all the other garden tools had been shipped to Dad’s new house earlier in the week. So there we were, standing on milk crates, trying to put this snake out of our misery. We were unsuccessful, and in the blink of an eye, it got away.
For the next 3 days, we searched for it. We moved boxes with caution. We refused to bring anything in our vans. We lived on fear and adrenaline every time we set foot in the old house. Finally on the third day, on my last trip to bring things up from the basement, I saw it.
Did you know snakes can climb up carpeted stairs?
It wasn’t pretty, but Dad and I, yes I, rid the house of one black snake. By this time, we had more substantial weapons at our disposal. I caught it with a shovel, and he cut off its head. Quite the bonding moment between parent and child! It wasn’t pretty, but we got it done.
And that’s kind of been the theme for this year: “Getting things done.”
Kirk started 2010 in Haiti after the earthquake and ended in Afghanistan with trips to Ecuador and Washington D.C. in between. He’s really enjoying his job and is happier than I’ve seen him in a long time.
Kyle started St. Xavier High School and is having an awesome experience. He played freshman football, is wrestling, and getting wonderful grades. In October, he went on an Honor Flight trip to Washington D.C. with WW2 veterans and was written about in the paper.
Claire continues to thrive at Holy Trinity. She is playing basketball and dancing tap, jazz, and ballet. She participated in the 6th Grade Academic Showcase for science and won the Geography Bee for her grade.
Emily has been bitten by the drama bug (don’t know where she gets it) and performed in Music Theater of Louisville’s production of “Annie” this summer as part of the Orphan Chorus. She also plays basketball and dances and gets good grades.
I continue to hold down the fort here. I see Dad much more now that he’s closer and help manage his house along with my own. It is really nice to have him so close. I’m starting a business called Kentucky Wonderful, hoping to market my photographs in a variety of formats. I’ll keep you posted.
I hope that 2011 brings peace and prosperity for all, but please, no more snakes!

American Soldier

I heard "American Soldier" on the radio this afternoon. As usual, it choked me up. As usual, I thought of MY American Soldier, and I remembered the first time I heard that song. It affected me so much that I can still picture myself sitting at the light at Brownsboro Road and the Watterson thinking at the beginning of the song, "This would be a good song about a soldier," then I heard more, and I thought, "This is a great song about a soldier!" It made me cry then. It makes me cry now.

I got to wondering today about my friends' perception of the military and our family's role in it. I didn't know many active duty soldiers when I was growing up. I knew a couple who had retired from the Army or served for a time, but even living so close to Ft. Knox that we could hear the tanks doing gunnery, the military remained a mystery to me.

The few service members that I did know were mysterious. They had a different air about them. They were no nonsense. They could kill me. They had "assignments" and carried a gun and were called "sir" by almost everyone. I didn't know what exactly they did do when they were at home, but I was sure that it was very serious, and no joking was allowed. They did not eat popcorn or snore or dress up like Klinger or Dr. Evil. They did not cheer at football games or cut the grass or go to Dairy Queen for Blizzards.

I thought about "normal" in our family as Kirk prepares for a short jaunt to Afghanistan. Our friends' dads don't fly to Haiti to help earthquake victims or dig folks out of ice covered roads or make nice-nice with the military in Ecuador. "You're off to the Pentagon again? Tell General So and So hello for me." How did this become normal? And what do other people think of Kirk? Is he just this regular guy who happens to work for the United States military or is does he have that air of mystery? It cracks me up to consider the latter. Kirk mysterious? Not in a million years.

And that's what makes me cry about this song. Our service members are not these mysterious men and women who lock down at night and sit with a rifle across their legs waiting to be called upon. They are dads and moms who cook spaghetti and go to the movies and ride roller coasters. They go to parent-teacher conferences and play checkers and snuggle with their kids after they tuck them in. They ARE cut from a little bit of a different cloth, but they are just average men and women who stand next to you in line at Kroger and sit in the same pew at church week after week. You'll see them at ballgames and raking leaves in the fall and dropping their kids off at school.

Until you don't.

Then you will know that they are off doing what other people can't or won't do for people who may or may not appreciate it. They will do it anyway, and we will all be better for their service. I am truly thankful and very proud to be married to one of these people who willingly puts on our country's uniform every day and goes to work, ready to do whatever is necessary to keep all of us safe and free.

60 Years

My dad's high school yearbooks stayed in the third drawer of the cherry secretary in the living room. When I was a little girl, I used to love to get them out and look at them, searching through the black and white pages for pictures of my dad as a young man. There were some, but not many, and my sisters and I were amused by the amount of dark hair on my dad's head. He was always smiling, with a twinkle in his eyes, which while gray in the photograph, were crystal blue in real life.

There was Dad as a freshman, all knees and elbows, with bushy eyebrows and a shock of black hair on his forehead. There was Dad as a sophomore, more confident looking, but a boy yet. There he was as a junior, becoming the man we will love one day. And, finally, Dad as a senior, off to face the world and all of its challenges. Dad as a young man, ready for anything.

In the senior yearbook, we would read autographs from his friends, these young men about whom we knew nothing, and we'd wonder what they were like. Did Dad get into trouble with these guys? Did they play sports together? Did they gripe about the cafeteria food like we did? Did they miss home? Talk about girls? Complain about teachers? What were they like, and why didn't Dad keep in touch with them?

My sisters and I would study Dad's classmates and decide who was cute, who looked nice, who was athletic. We laughed at their hair, all the same style, slicked back with Brylcream, shining for the camera. We marveled at them all in suits and dress shoes, all the time except in the gym. We'd wonder what they looked like now, and if, like Dad, they'd lost their hair too. We'd try to read the messages written in blue ink, fading with time, and thought it was cool that Dad had a nickname, "Fitz."

Dad lost touch with these guys once life set in. It's hard to maintain friendships over time and miles, and with a wife, three little girls, and a mortgage, some things just got put aside until later. "Later" came and went. Dad attended his 25th class reunion and his 50th, and a friend or two stopped in over the years on his way from one place to another, but that was the extent of his connection with his old classmates from Campion. There was something there, though, under the surface that told us that his experiences in Prairie du Chien, while difficult, had been some of the best times of his life, and that he missed his old friends.

When my mom died, Dad's circle, always small, closed even further. He withdrew into himself, and except for church, pinochle, and the Red Cross, he was with my sisters and me or home alone much of the time. Rarely did we see Dad interact with men his age, and even more infrequently did we see him smile.

This summer, amidst the uproar of moving Dad from his house of 42 years to a place 3 doors down from me, Dad got the invitation to his 60th high school reunion. Sixty years! My sisters and I were amazed that folks would want to get together after all those years, but I guess it spoke to the fondness we saw in Dad's eyes whenever he talked about Campion and his friends there.

Dad can no longer drive on the interstate, and there was no way he could fly alone, so Colleen offered to drive him to St. Louis so that he could join in the festivities. I thought it would be a great opportunity to get away with Dad for a weekend, and when Colleen proposed it to him, he literally jumped at the chance.

Once Colleen and I had worked out our home details, we began to make plans for the reunion. I called Charlie Meehan about adding Dad to the list, made reservations at the hotel, and ordered our vegetarian dinners. Dad called me several times during the week to check on the status of things, "Did you get the reservations made?" "Have you talked to Charlie? Are you sure it's okay if I come?" I could tell he was very excited.

Friday arrived, and we picked Dad up a little after 1 and headed to St. Louis. The drive was nice, just the 3 of us, and it brought back memories of trips long past. We arrived at the hotel around 4 p.m.

As we headed up to our rooms, we began to see older guests walking past, and Dad would regard each one closely to see if they were friends of old. The two men would look at each other trying to match the man they saw before them with the boy they remembered. All of a sudden, one of them would say, "Johnny Fitz?" and they would laugh and shake hands and the reunion would begin.

Dad would introduce Colleen and me immediately, and the friend would always thank us for bringing Dad and comment on what a nice kid he had been and how glad they were that he had come. The whole weekend, Colleen and I were looking for stories about Dad and any questionable scrapes he might have gotten himself in, but the whole time, all we heard was how nice Johnny was and what a gentleman he had been. (Nothing we didn't already know!)

It was interesting to watch Dad that weekend. He was still the very quiet man I have always known, but he seemed to come out of the shell he had built around himself since Mom died. He smiled more. He laughed more. He talked more. The twinkle returned to his eyes.

As the weekend passed, Colleen and I remarked that it was almost spiritual for us. We felt an instant connection to Dad's old friends. It was incredibly moving for us to watch the care and commitment they had for one another, even 60 years after graduation. "Here, let me help you with that." "No, please, you go first." "Really, it's my pleasure." Over and over again, we witnessed kindness after kindness, from Charlie Meehan's door to door shuttle service for Dad to others giving up a chair for Dad to sit down to someone bringing him a cup of coffee.

We were honored to be included with the wives in receiving corsages for Saturday's dinner. Camp's kind words about us being examples of filial piety were so moving that they brought me to tears. In fact, it was our pleasure to bring Dad to the reunion, and a small repayment to him for all that he has done for us over our lives.

I really enjoyed attending mass both Saturday and Sunday mornings. The intimacy of each celebration was so nice. I loved the fact that former teachers and classmates, now priests, were celebrants. It just made everything so much more meaningful.

As the weekend drew to a close, I found myself looking to make one more connection with one of Dad's classmates. One more hug. One more smile. One more minute with these guys I'd grown so fond of over the course of the weekend. Colleen and I both said we felt like we'd inherited about 30 new godfathers that weekend and how blessed we were for it!

I can't begin to thank these men enough for opening up their circle for my sister and me. We felt instantly welcomed and part of the Campion family. And what a wonderful gift it was for us to see Dad in such a different light! It was a weekend I will cherish for the rest of my life, and I hope that I am one day blessed to spend time with these men again even for a moment. It was an honor to get to know each and every Knight. Thank you for sharing your weekend with us!

September 11, 2010

I woke this morning with the date heavy on my mind. September 11 always takes me back. I remember driving home from Holy Trinity. I was sitting at the light at Brownsboro Road and Zorn Ave. when my brand new cell phone rang. I was 8 months pregnant with Emily, and the cell was new in case I needed Kirk at the last minute. What did we do before cell phones?

Anyway, it was my sister, Colleen. "Sharron, are you watching the news? A plane just crashed into the World Trade Center!"

I wasn't really sure what the World Trade Center was and had no idea where it was, so she filled me in. "Turn on your radio," she said.

I drove the rest of the way home listening to the news. It was on every station. When I got inside, I turned on the television and watched in horror as smoke and flames poured out of the North Tower. I called Colleen. Shock like this had to be shared.

"Those poor people!" I said. "Can you imagine? How are they going to get down?"

"What if your husband worked on the top floors?" she replied.

"Those poor people," I said again.

We sat in silence on the phone together, watching different stations in case one had some news that the other didn't, answering the other lines when someone would beep in to make sure we knew what was going on. Then the second plane hit and fear set in. Her channel showed someone falling. Mine did not. My channel was the first to report on the Pentagon. We watched the towers fall and wondered if anyone could survive. We learned about Flight 93. It was like that all morning, and together we watched in horror as our world changed. I knew my baby would be born into a different time...life after 9/11.

Each year, I relive those events in my mind and turn on the tv to watch the memorials and the replays and see us before we were what we are now, when every plane crash or explosion wasn't first considered to be an act of terrorism.

There wasn't much on yesterday. It has been nine years after all. People have moved on, life has continued.

So I was sitting on the bleachers at football practice yesterday morning looking out across the field when a big Southwest Airline plane came into view. Then another plane flew by. At first, I thought it was odd that planes were flying today. I thought it was odd that anything was going on today, on the anniversary of such a horrible day, but there we were...at football practice or work or shopping or flying to another place...continuing on with life. Cars were driving by on Poplar Level Road. Fans were coming into the stadium for a soccer game later in the afternoon. I even read in the paper that some folks were getting married today. And that is how it should be. That is what makes us strong. We remember, yes, but we move on. I like that about us.

For Sale

For Sale:

Nice three bedroom house on a quiet street. Master bedroom has two big closets perfect for hiding in or storing family treasures. One large bedroom excellent for sharing with siblings, dogs, or cats. Smaller room perfect for a studious type with just enough room for a twin bed, dresser, and a desk. Two full baths. Large hall bath can hold up to four adult women and a cat comfortably. The double sinks and large mirror allow for excellent opportunities to preen. Tub holds three small children and several toys at one time and makes a fabulous swimming pool, checkout lane, or pet wash.

Large living room has four nice corners perfect for holding toys on Christmas morning. Triple windows allow for beautiful display of lights and decorated tree during the holiday season. Wood floors underneath carpet are great for sock skating. Dining room makes excellent venue for holiday parties, birthdays, and showers. Holds eight people comfortably and ten if you push it, but crowds make everything more fun.

Good size family room with fireplace. Very cozy in the winter with a roaring fire and cookies on the hearth. Fireplace big enough for Santa to slide down on Christmas Eve. Nice eat-in kitchen allows for large congregations of people to stand around and help prepare dinner. Stove near the back door welcomes guests with wonderful aromas at Thanksgiving and other special occasions. Extensive counter space gives plenty of room for pot luck dinners with several dishes. Open bar area to family room allows those watching ball games to interact with those cooking the food.

Large basement, formerly a roller rink, now perfect for parties, movies, and sleepovers. Space for pool or ping pong table as well as television, record player, and speakers. Plenty of room for dancing and dramatic performances. Area in storage room makes excellent school with space for desks, chalkboard, and bookshelves. Laundry room shelves are great for storing canned summer produce such as green beans, pickles, okra, and jams. Deep freezer, large enough to hold frozen strawberries, peaches, blueberries, corn, jellies, cookies, apple pies, zucchini bread and leftovers, to remain.

Two car garage can hold two cars or one car and a lot of stuff or no cars and a whole lot of stuff. Plenty of room for old roll top desks and/or upright pianos. Makes excellent concert hall or pretend office. Garage is cool in the summer and cold in the winter. Perfect for that almost-frozen canned soft drink in winter months.

Large corner lot allows for mingling with neighbors on two streets. Fenced yard is nice for holding dogs, kids, swimming pools, swing sets, and any number of other play items. Space in the yard for an extensive garden in which to grow delicious tomatoes, green beans, peppers, zucchini, squash, green onions, and gourds. Also excellent place for composting coffee grounds, banana peels, and egg shells.

Huge yard great for games of whiffle ball, spotlight, frozen catchers, machine gunners, snowball fights, forts, and tree climbing. Not good for push mowing. A riding mower is highly recommended.

Well-loved home is ideal for young family with small children looking for a wonderful place to grow up. Guaranteed to create lots of happy memories and special moments.

Call today to schedule a viewing.

The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

The alarm went off this morning at 6 a.m., and I hate waking up that early.

I had bad dreams last night so I wasn't rested, and I started the day out with a headache. I hate headaches.

The kids got into a fight before school, and I really hate fights in the morning.

The fight made us late for carpool and then we were stuck in the bad traffic, and I hate traffic. It was starting to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

We didn't find the snake at Dad's, and I accidentally broke my parents' honeymoon wine bottle, the one covered with wax from years of anniversary candles. I hate not finding the snake, but I really hate breaking the bottle.

I got stuck by a train and was late picking up Emily for her doctor's appointment. She either has a staph infection or a strep infection. I hate infections. We had to rush to get there on time, and I hate rushing.

Our new insurance company didn't have our doctor as our primary care physician. I had to wait on the cell phone for 40 minutes while they figured out their mistake. It was somehow "not their mistake," and we'll end up having to pay for it. I hate paying for other people's mistakes.

"Today is a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day!" I said.

"I'm sorry," the insurance man replied. "It's not our fault."

My kitchen's a wreck. My laundry is piled up. My furniture is dusty, and I haven't made my bed in weeks. Most of my basement is in the garage in boxes. I hate chaos.

Our street is getting seal coated, and I couldn't park in the driveway. To get to my house, I had to walk across wet tar, and my shoes got messy on the bottom.

I was taking Claire to dance class and thinking about the missing snake and the possible infections and I rear-ended a Volvo. I hate accidents.

"Today is a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day," I told the lady in the Volvo.

"I'm sorry," she said. "Some days are like that."

I didn't get to make dinner again, and I miss cooking.

I had a meeting and church, and I hate meetings.

I didn't have enough wine for my bath, and while I was sitting here typing about my day, a mouse ran across my kitchen floor, and now we can't find it.

It is a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

I'm going to bed.

Snakes in the Basement

From the basement came a blood-curdling scream. "Oh my god! Oh my god!" shrieked my sister, Colleen.

I was upstairs in the kitchen at Dad's old house, and Colleen was in the laundry room sweeping up the lint from under the dryer. We'd found a few mouse droppings in the storage room, but no recent signs of any mice, so I figured that she had finally seen a live one. But the screaming didn't stop, and it sounded more serious than a mouse. Maybe a nest of them, I thought.

"Colleen," I hollered. "What's wrong?"

She replied with the unthinkable..."THERE'S A SNAKE IN THE BASEMENT!" and she bounded up the stairs and into the kitchen.

"What? NO WAY!" I replied. "Where?"

"Under the dryer in the laundry room. I almost put my hand under there!!!" And she had. It was at the last minute that she'd decided to use a broom instead.

I asked how big it was without considering that it really didn't matter. There was a SNAKE...ALIVE...IN THE BASEMENT.

If there is anyone on earth more terrified of snakes than me, it is Colleen. She doesn't even like to go in her backyard for fear of them.

"Holy crap!" I replied. "What are we going to do? I'm not going back down there!"

"But we have to," she said. "We have to get the basement cleaned out. Can you kill it because I can't."

Okay, I thought. I can do this. I HAVE to do this. Kirk is in Frankfort. John is downtown. Kyle is at school. It was Colleen and me versus the snake, and by God, we were going to win.

"I'll try," I replied. "Let me get a weapon out of the garage."

I went into the garage to get the shovel only to be reminded that we had taken all of Dad's tools to his new house yesterday. The only thing with a long handle was a sponge mop and a push broom. I grabbed the mop, and we headed back downstairs.

We tiptoed gingerly to the laundry room, both of us standing in the doorway waiting for the other to go first. Colleen spotted a plastic milk crate.

"I'll get on the milk crate, and you look under the dryer," she said.

Just then, Dad came in the back door, and we hollered up at him, "There's a snake in the basement!" He came down with the push broom and walked into the laundry room.

"It's under the dryer," Colleen said.

She was standing on the milk crate and had started lifting the dryer up when it occurred to me that she was raising the side facing me. If there was a snake still under there, it would slither out in my direction.

"Wait!" I yelled. "Let me get the other milk crate first." So Dad slid the other milk crate over to me, and the two of us, armed with a mop and a broom, lifted up the dryer to see a black snake, about 18 inches long, crawling along the wall behind the dryer.

"There it is!" we yelled. I wondered how we were going to kill it with a mop and a broom, but I figured I would just bash it with the back of the mop head. Then Colleen got the idea to go in the garage and get the tree loppers off the wall. It is about an 8 foot long pole with a curved saw at the top. We figured it would at least be something metal to hit it with.

I stood there on the crate with the mop in my hand watching the snake watch me. It crawled one way down the wall and then the other. It stopped between the wall and a dusty can just as Colleen came down with the loppers. I reached back to get the tool, not taking my eyes off the snake. "How am I going to kill this thing?" I thought. The loppers were too tall and got caught in the rafters. I looked up to untangle them, and when I looked back down, the snake was GONE!

"It's gone!" I yelled.

"WHERE?" said Colleen.

"I don't know!!!" I replied.

I thought maybe it had crawled into the can, so I took the loppers and pushed it around. It was a can of WD-40, so there was no way the snake could have gotten into it. Then I thought maybe there was a crack in the wall and the snake was in there. I took the broom and swept along the floor/wall area. Nothing. We looked under the dryer again. Nope. Under the upright freezer. Not there either.

Mind you, we were standing on milk crates this whole time, lifting up old pie tins and dryer sheets with our broom and mop, with a snake loose in the basement and no way to find it or really kill it once we did.

We looked for that damn thing for an hour and did not find it. We both refused to take any boxes home in our vans today in case it slithered into one of them. That's all we'd need is to be driving 65 miles an hour down the Snyder Freeway and have a snake crawl across the brakes!

Tomorrow we go back, armed this time with a rake and a shovel. I'll let you know how it goes...

Saving Time in a Bottle

In the corner of the garage in crumbling plastic bags sat hundreds of seashells from Sanibel Island. My sisters and I had collected them over the course of two, week-long trips, one in 1973 and the other in 1975.

I remember those trips like they were yesterday. We stayed in a cottage right on the beach. Mom had to bring all the linens, pots and pans, dishes, food, clothes, beach toys, and anything else we might need while we were there. I'm sure it wasn't much of a vacation for her, but for us, it was paradise.

We'd wake up every morning and head to the ocean. Dad liked the Gulf because it was calm, and Sanibel was even gentler than Pensacola or St. Pete. We could wade out for several yards and not be any deeper than our knees. The sandbars were excellent at low tide, and there was a shallow "pool" of ocean that we girls could safely play in pretty much by ourselves.

Our favorite pastime by far, however was to kneel in the water where the waves hit the shore and search for shells. Colleen and I would take our buckets and our sifters and scoop up load after load of shells. I can still see us kneeling there with our backs against the ocean, and our sun-kissed cheeks covered with Coppertone.

"Look, Sharron! I found a cat's eye!" Colleen would cry and drop it in her bucket.

"I found an olive," I'd say, and we'd look harder to try and find the next perfect shell.

We'd collect bags of shells. Back then, nobody really worried about "over-shelling" by tourists. Shells were the calling card for Sanibel. We even got plastic shelling bags from our hotel that we filled up with our treasures to take home and study back in Kentucky and remember and plan for our next trip.

We sorted them after one trip. The turkey wings in one bag. The sailor's ears in another. The conchs in yet a third. The other visit, we just dumped them all into a box, and that's where they stayed, on a shelf covered with dust and cobwebs, until today.

Today was the day we were cleaning out the garage. The dumpster had been delivered, and it was time to let them go. I pulled the box of shells out to the patio for one last look. I had called Colleen and Jennifer, and neither one of them wanted any shells for a keepsake. I wasn't so sure. I wanted to see them again. To study them. To remember.

I put a blanket down on the patio and reached for the old Sanibel Island bags. They were crumbling plastic by now after over 30 years in the heat and cold of the garage. Some sand dusted out onto my leg, and I brushed it off, remembering days at the beach when it would get stuck to my skin and scratch when Dad rubbed the suntan lotion on my legs and shoulders. I picked up the biggest conch that we'd ever found. It was always in my mind to pour hot wax into it and make a candle out of it like I'd seen in the gift shops. I saw the tiniest shells down in the bottom of the pile, and I remembered how I loved finding the perfect baby olive or cat's eye.

I started to put a few of these tiny shells off to the side for old times' sake. Then I remembered a small, glass spice bottle that I'd packed up an hour earlier. I got it and began dropping the tiny treasures into it. The whole time, I was picturing two little girls, one tow-headed and sunburnt, one dark haired and tanned, kneeling in the water side by side looking for shells. I found myself singing, "If I could save time in a bottle, the first thing that I'd like to do..." I couldn't get past that line. I just kept repeating, "If I could save time in a bottle..." over and over in my head because I felt like that's what I was doing.

One of the bags had some sand in the corner of it, so I dumped it into the bottle and shook it down. I kept placing shells in one by one, and when the bottle was full, I put the cork in it and set it aside. Then I picked up the blanket, carried the rest of the shells over to the dumpster and dropped them in. I picked up my spice bottle full of memories and went back to work.

Playing Dress-Up

This will be my third weekend in a row dressing up for Locust Grove. Two weeks ago, the girls and I were in character for the grand re-opening of the house after its remodel. Last weekend, Emily and I were in character for the free Fourth of July festivities. This weekend is the Jane Austen Festival, and I'm in the style show.

All of this got me to wondering, "What does it say about me that I dress up in Regency Era clothes and pretend to be someone else? What must 'regular' people think of my weird hobby?" If I look at myself from an outsider's point of view, I think I seem pretty odd! To me, it's totally normal to do this. I love the theatrical part of it. I love pretending to be someone I'm not, living in a time that is totally foreign to today, thinking on my feet and pulling it off. It is a big rush for me. Whenever someone comes in to my room and engages me in conversation, I feel a surge of adrenaline and my neurons start firing, and I'm "on."

But then I look at the folks who attend the Jane Austen Festival, say, with a different lens. I think they are odd because they dress up for fun and fun alone. I find myself putting me on a higher, less-weird plane because I do it for a reason (or so I tell myself). I reenact to teach and inform and educate others about life in the olden days and about the Clarks and the Croghans and life in Louisville 200 years ago. These JA fans are just weird grown ladies parading around the grounds of Locust Grove as if they were living there.

They are not much different than the men who dress in Revolutionary War or Civil War clothes and pretend to do battle. But really they are not so different from folks who dress like pirates or gangsters at Halloween and play like they are someone else.

I guess all of us, if we'd admit it, have a secret desire to dress up and become another version of ourselves. To escape from the stresses of today and slip back into the days when things seemed easier, slower, more relaxed. It's the lucky one of us who actually puts on the costumes and caters to our inner child who cries out, "Let's play!"

Closing Day

So today we close on Dad's new house. I am going through the motions and trying not to let myself think about what this means. I know it is the right thing to do. It will be good for Dad to be so close to us. He knows it too. The house is a nice house. Great location. Wonderful neighborhood. Still. This is the beginning of a life-altering change, and I am responsible for it all.

So much work has to be done before he can move. So much work. I can't even get my head around it. I feel so very guilty for my kids' sake that their summer will be spent doing our basement and moving Dad. It makes me sad, but it has to be done. Who knew when we signed the contract for our basement remodel that Dad would make an offer on a house the next week? Well, it is what it is.

I think about him all alone in his family room on Northridge sitting in the dark, watching CNN. So often I wish I could pop in to watch a show or a ball game or drop off a plate of food. Right now, even, I have a plate from Monday, gone bad in my fridge that I just didn't get to him. Now I can. That will be good. On holidays, we'll be so close. He won't have to be alone on Christmas Eve day or for the Superbowl or Derby. He can go to the kids' games or come over for dinner. It WILL be good. I am excited about the possibilities of becoming so much more a part of my dad's life and having him involved more in ours.

I can't think about leaving Northridge, though. Not yet. The image I have in my mind is one of us in our slippery socks, running through the hallway and sliding across the living room floor. I think of Christmases in our corners, each of us checking out our stuff and of tables laden with food at parties and graduations. I remember summer evenings on the patio with Mom, coffee, and a piece of pie or Dad's garden loaded with tomatoes, beans, zucchini. I know these days are long gone, and no matter where Dad lives, those memories will always be with me.

One "memory" that gives me comfort is one that has never and will never happen. It is one that I wish I had, and one that I think Mom is sending me to let me know this move is right. It is so very, very real. It is a vision of her, sitting at the table in the Florida room of the new house. She is in her short blue robe wearing her white slippers, drinking a cup of coffee and eating a slice of cantaloupe and a piece of toast. One of the kids has come down. "Hi Grandma!" they say. "Well good morning!" Mom replies. "How are you today?" And they sit together and talk and share breakfast, and it is all good.

Guilt

Guilt is listing all of you father's stocks for sale (the ones he's spent his whole life acquiring) in order to get money for a down payment on a new house for him (one that he doesn't really even want to buy) because it is just a half a block away from you and will make it easier on you when it comes time to take care of him.

Stress =

Having a suspicious "thickening" under your arm and pain to go along with that...Waiting two weeks for an ultrasound and MRI to see what it is...Convincing your dad to move into a house three doors down and then having him cry when you tell him you've made an offer on his behalf...Having your bid rejected and wondering what to do next...Planning a basement remodel and trying to figure out just what the hell to do with all of the crap you've collected thus far in your life...Considering paying for that AND a St. X education...Thinking that if your dad moves, you are responsible for all of his crap too...Having your oldest getting ready to graduate from 8th grade and start high school...Where did the time go...Having your middle child begging for an email...Having your husband gone a lot of the time and doing life by yourself...Fourteen loads of laundry in the basement waiting to be sorted, washed, dried, carried upstairs, folded, carried up more stairs, put away...having to do that again every...single...week...Teenagers...Needing to work in the yard and being unable to do so...Eighth grade teachers...An ineffectual school administration...Rain, rain, and more rain...Tiring...

Primary Election 2010

Last night, Kirk and I were down at the Marriott for a military function. In the same hotel were Jack Conway and Greg Fisher, Democratic candidates for U.S.Senate and Metro mayor, awaiting the election results.

Being the political junkie that I am, I left the military party and slid quietly into the Conway gathering. I could feel the electric excitement as soon as I entered the room. The anticipation was tangible. I walked over to the television and saw that Conway had an 8 point lead at that point. I stood around, making small talk with strangers, watching the results crawl in. I watched people glad handing and chatting. I saw judges and former governors, state representatives and mayors. I saw young kids and old hats. There were black people and white people, people with disabilities, people with money and people without. It was a microcosm of society, and it was awesome.

At one point, I noticed a former Republican state senator, Lindy Casebier, being interviewed by one of the local stations. I made my way over to him and said, "What in the world are you doing in this room?" He turned, seemed to recognize me, and said, "I've seen the light, honey!" We spoke briefly, and after sharing political philosophies, I figured it was time to make my way back upstairs to the other party. As I turned to go, he said, "It was good to see you, Sharron." That was really cool for me that a former member of the Kentucky General Assembly knew me by name.

Kirk and I decided that the Conway party was much more fun than the military one, so we went back down and rejoined the festivities. By this time, the 8 point gap was closing. Six points, then three, then two. The tension rose. People crowded around the television. Rumors spread through the crowd. iPhones were checked. Someone was passing info from a laptop. Soon the word got out that the number of votes needed for Mongiardo to win was more than the number of votes left to count. Conway had won!

A roar erupted from the crowd. We watched the door for his arrival and acceptance speech. The campaign manager came on stage and said Jack would speak at 10:30. I called Kyle, who was watching the girls, and let him know Kirk and I were staying to hear Jack speak.

Around 10:30, Crit Luallen came out. She's amazing in her own right. What a dynamic lady! I totally admire her math and accounting skills!!! She spoke for a moment and then introduced Jack Conway. The crowd went wild when he came out. We were fairly close to the stage, and we had a great view. The electricity was popping in the room. I stood there and listened to him speak, and I literally had goose bumps up and down my arms. I thought to myself, "Remember this moment." Kirk asked, "Can't you see him running for President someday?" I really can, and as stood there, I felt like last night was the beginning of something really special.

Something in me woke up, and I was reminded once again why I just love politics. It's messy. It's brutal. It's hard. It's honest, and it's full of lies. It's people at their best and their worst. It is the people working together to govern themselves. To choose for themselves who they want to lead them. It is all these things, and it is totally amazing.

Faking Holy Thursday

I took the kids to Holy Thursday mass last night. I hadn't planned on going this year. Kirk had to work late in Frankfort, and I had made dinner for Anne's family. It was gorgeous outside, and the kids were playing, and I just didn't feel like getting ready.

I'm in a tough place right now with the Catholic Church. I have a lot of questions and disappointment in a lot of areas, the least of which is the sex abuse scandals. How can an institution that proclaims to defend the innocent allow grown men to abuse helpless children for decades? How can they then try and deflect responsibility onto someone else? Why isn't the pope standing up and saying, "This was wrong. We made some terrible choices. We are deeply sorry. We will make sure it never, ever happens again."??? But I digress...

So anyway, all day, I was finding reasons not to go to church. I had been asked to have my feet washed, and I had said no because I hadn't planned on going. I needed a shower. I had a messy kitchen. The kids were dirty. My clothes were wrinkly. I could have given you 100 reasons why it would have been perfectly acceptable for me to stay home, but for some reason, after I dropped off Anne's dinner, I came home, fed the kids and said, "Get ready. We're going to church."

Not a single one protested. They put on something clean, I didn't care what, washed their faces off and combed their hair. I wore what I had had on all day, jeans and a t-shirt, and touched up my make-up. We left with 15 minutes to get to church. I'm sure we looked like misfits to everyone, but I thought, "God doesn't care what I'm wearing. He knows that I wrestled with coming and is glad I decided to do so."

Normally, I am moved by the services during Holy Week. I grew up in an era of incense and candles and silence at school on Good Friday. I can vividly remember the priests singing, "This is the wood of the cross..." as they walked down the aisle at OLC, and waiting in line to kiss Jesus on the crucifix, debating until the last minute whether to kiss his poor hands or his pitiful feet or the awful crown of thorns in his head. I loved the smell of incense and bowing as our side got blessed. I loved the red candles in the gold holders that the servers carried up.

We would go to services four times over Holy Thursday and Good Friday, once at school each day and once with our parents in the evening. One year, my mom got her feet washed by the priest. She was one of the first women in our church to do so. I remember she went to get a pedicure beforehand and worried over what color polish to put on her toes. She didn't want it to be too red, you know.

The Holy Thursday service was always a mystery to me with the big, sunburst monstrance paraded around the church, and Fr. Fred or Fr. Arnold in a gold and silver cape. We'd sing the Latin song, Tantum Ergo, and I would marvel that Mom knew the words by heart when I couldn't even pronounce a single one. After the blessed sacrament was placed on the altar, we would kneel for a bit and leave in silence. It was always a time of seriousness and majesty in my mind. I loved the rituals and found so much comfort in them.

That followed me throughout my life. Kirk didn't grow up in a Catholic school, and his mom is a convert, so he doesn't have this ingrained, deeply rooted sense of tradition that I do. I want the kids to have that because it has helped me get through so much stuff. Sometimes when I've been so messed up I couldn't even think, I could at least follow along and take comfort in the routine. Pretend, if you will, that I was with it.

And that's what I did last night. I pretended. I faked it. I went to mass, not really wanting to be there, doubting many things about my faith, but needing that consistency, that sameness, that unity that the Catholic Church offers, and I felt better after I left.

I cried at Tantum Ergo. I was 8 years old again, kneeling next to Mom in the middle section on the left side of OLC, looking up at her singing, "Salus, honor, virtus quoque..." (it's the "quoque" that I remember most), marveling that she knew all those words. I closed my eyes, and I was there, and so was she.

Today, I will take my kids to Good Friday services, maybe still faking it a little, still struggling, but doing it anyway. I have a holy card of Mother Theresa on my visor, and see her face every time I flip it down. If she can do it, so can I.

My Mimi

Mimi was already old when I was born. Seventy-five. In 1967, that was really old. My memories of Mimi are fuzzy, mostly, like a pleasant dream of a familiar place. Some memories are sharp, though, and I can reach out and touch them as if they were yesterday...

As a little girl, I had two grandmas. My mom’s mom was a “regular” grandmother who cooked green beans on the stove all day and made fried chicken and potato soup. My other grandma, my dad’s mother, was exotic. She was from France and had an accent and always wore her hair in a bun. This grandma made delicious lemon pound cake with powdered sugar sprinkled on the top (how I wish I had the recipe) and had Jordan almonds in a drawer. She could knit and sew and speak several languages. In my memories, she wears a pale cotton dress and a soft grey sweater and sensible shoes.

Mimi’s house didn’t have many toys. I remember a few marbles, some dominoes, and crayons in the secretary, but not much else. That was never a problem, though, because she had a piano with a wonderful bench carved like an elephant. She never seemed to mind if we “played” it while we were there. I imagine she had a great love of music and didn’t mind if her granddaughters tried their fingers at the keyboard.

Mimi’s kitchen was a wonder to me. It was so different from our kitchen at home. The sink was all porcelain, and there were two really big sinks and a really cool built in drain on the side. I thought the breakfast room was really neat, especially because the refrigerator was in there and not in the main kitchen. But the thing I remember most about Mimi’s kitchen was sitting in that breakfast room at the little table eating graham crackers and milk. They were a staple at her house. Mimi always had graham crackers.

Once, when I was about eight years old, she came to stay with us, but I don’t remember why. I sat next to her on the couch one afternoon and helped her organize my mom’s sewing box. My own mother didn’t sew anything except buttons and the occasional hem, and her box of threads and pins was a rat’s nest of colors tangled together. Mimi and I untangled those threads and carefully wound them around playing cards that had been cut into small strips. The pins we collected into a small, round candy tin. The needles we placed into a square of felt we found in the bottom of the box. When we were finished, all the spools of thread were neatly organized by color in rows and the pins and needles were safely secured in their place in one of the trays. I was so proud of that sewing box! I can remember reorganizing the box several times after Mimi left, but it was never as nice as when we did it together.

Mimi gave me a book, Je Lis, Tu Lis, when she was staying with us. She would sit with me and teach me the correct pronunciation of colors and numbers. I can hear her voice saying, “Bleu, gris, marron…” I would try to produce those same sounds, but with my Kentucky accent, I doubt if I even came close!


Mimi was the reason I decided to study French in high school. Unfortunately, by the time I was a teenager, she was no longer well enough to converse with me. The winter of my freshman year, I learned a French Christmas carol. We went as a family to visit Mimi in the nursing home one December Sunday, and I sang it to her. I swear she smiled and tried to sing along as I sang, “Il est nee, le divine enfant…”

I always felt like I was cheated when it came to Mimi because by the time I was old enough to ask her questions about her life in France and have her teach me what she knew, she was too sick. I wish now she could have taught me how to knit or crochet or how to make lemon pound cake. I would have asked her what it was like to leave her home and journey to America. I would have loved to have conversed with her in French and heard stories of her childhood in Reims.

In my mind, I see her, standing in the doorway of 1909 Dorothy Avenue in her soft grey sweater, her hair in a bun, waving and smiling as we drive away. How I wish I had more…

To move or not to move

Tell me I'm not being selfish. Tell me that it is the right thing for Dad to move. Tell me that I want him to leave his house of 42 years because it's better and safer for him and not just because it's easier and more convenient for me.

We've been begging Dad to move for months, years even. After Mom died, and he was out there in that house by himself, we wanted him closer to us. With Colleen and I living 5 minutes apart, and Jennifer closer to us than to Dad, we just thought we could see him more and do more with him if he lived nearby.

We had many false starts. We looked about 3 years ago at patio homes right down the street from me. They were nice. He knew my mom's cousin who lived there. But the cost was more than he wanted to pay, he said. He wasn't ready. So he didn't move.

Then the bottom fell out of the housing market, and the stock market took a dive, and GM went bankrupt. Dad lost tens of thousands of dollars in equity in his house along with all of his GM stock. He was not going to move with that hanging over his head.

But it was a buyer's market, we said. It's a great time to purchase. You can get a nice place for a song. So we looked. He seemed interested in some other patio homes, but again, they were too much or too big or too small. Back to square one.

So all this time, Dad was dealing with his Parkinson's. He was slow, but he was steady. He was able to do stairs fairly well. He could get up and down out of his chair with ease. He could take his medicine without help. He could drive and take his garbage out and change his sheets and trim his toenails. His moving, then, would have been for us, so that he could be around us more. We worried about him being lonely. Living 30 minutes away made it difficult for him to be with us or for us to be with him as frequently as we would have liked. So he stayed put.

Then a year and a half ago, the health problems kicked in with a vengeance. He had a heart cathetarization done. Eye surgery to lift his lids so they would close. He started taking blood thinner. He began falling every once in awhile. His gait became slower. He had an endoscopy done and they found ulcers in his stomach. He stopped taking blood thinner. He got a pacemaker. His blood pressure went too low, and he began to get light headed when he stood. When they tried to fix it, his pressure went too high. He began seeing things...a black cat in the family room, a dog in the hall, people in the yard who weren't there. He began to have trouble seeing. He couldn't keep track of which medicine to take when. He choked on food. He froze in the driveway and ended up in the hospital for 3 days while his vitals were stabilized.

We found a new doctor who had him go through physical therapy, take a driving test, change medication. Things leveled out for awhile, but we had begun to worry not just about him being lonely, but about him being alone at all. People questioned his driving. We signed him up for free public transportation but he wouldn't take it. The visiting nurse who came after his hospitalization suggested he move. We suggested assisted living. His doctor recommended it. So did his sister and his nephew. Still, he resisted.

He continued to fall. He continued to freeze. He continued to drive. We continued to worry. We got him to look at moving again. At one condo complex, the seller's realtor asked who was looking at the property. We told her Dad was. She raised her eyebrows into her hairline and said, "You need to be looking at assisted living, not condos." We stopped looking at condos.

The doctor saw him in the fall. He told him he should really consider a different living situation. We went to talk to the social worker there. Dad's brother came along. They all pushed assisted living. Dad agreed it might be a good idea. We made an appointment with an elder law attorney and got his papers in order. (His will, un-notarized, was signed in 1972 by two people who are now deceased.) The lawyers strongly suggested assisted living. They even looked at his assets and showed him how he could afford it. He finally agreed to look. So we made an appointment and went last Wednesday.

It was a nice place. There were many people engaged in all kinds of activities. The apartments were very nice. They were fairly roomy. They had full kitchens. They had nice balconies. Three squares a day were included in the fee along with transportation to the grocery to doctor appointments to outings. They had Wii bowling and sing alongs and an indoor pool and sit-ercize. Dad remains uncommitted.

So I push to see other places. I continue to row this boat, nearly by myself, trying to avoid the falls (literally and figuratively) looming in the future. And I ask myself, "If Dad's time is limited, and we know it is, for whose benefit would he be moving? Mine or his?"