It's 47 degrees outside right now,
but somehow it seems warmer.
The light hangs differently in the sky,
and the sun shines a little longer.
I can still see my breath,
but the daffodils
are a couple of inches high
out of the ground,
and the birds are singing
a bit more loudly
than they were last week.
The sky is bright,
and the air is crisp.
The earth is yawning awake.
Spring draws near
even though it's still
only 47 degrees.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
On Dirty Dishes, Clean Kitchens, and the Campfire Girls
My dishwasher is broken again. Third time in two months. As frustrating as that is, it got me to thinking about washing dishes as I stood there unloading dirty glasses from the top rack.
We did it...a lot...when I was a kid. My parents had a dishwasher most of the time, but there was a period of what seems like a couple of years, though I'm sure it wasn't that long, when the dishwasher was broken and for whatever reason, it wasn't fixed or replaced. Those seemed like years of misery and pickled fingers and long hours in front of the night-darkend kitchen window, up to our elbows in bubbles.
Even in the good years, when the dishwasher worked, we always had a boatload of dishes to finish by hand. My mom never fixed less than a meat, a starch, a couple of vegetables, and a salad. There were at least three or four pans on the stove each night to scrape and scrub. And God forbid we serve from those pans. Oh no. Mom rarely, if ever, served off the stove. Every night, the food was spooned out into Corning Ware bowls to place on the table to be passed around. So not only did we have the three or four pots, we had the three or four serving bowls that held the food that was once in those pots. Meanwhile, those nearly empty pots sat on the still-warm burners while the food clinging to their insides dried hard to bottoms. We must have had stock in the Brillo company.
So after supper, my sisters and I would begin the transfer of the leftovers to yet another dish to put in the refrigerator where it would sit for 4 or 5 days before we'd finally throw it in the garbage. (I don't think Mom had it in her to throw away perfectly good food, but that's another story!) We'd scrape the sides and tap the spoon and put the dirty porcelain on the counter next to the sink to be rinsed and loaded. What didn't fit in the dishwasher had to be washed by hand. That was my favorite job.
There was a science to washing dishes, and I had it down. First, I'd put a little soap in the sink, and then run some hot water about 1/4 of the way full. Then I'd put any silverware in the bottom of the sink to soak. Next I'd wash any glasses or mugs that didn't fit in the top rack. Wash the silverware. Drain the water. And start again with the serving bowls and pots. I was always in a secret race to keep up with whoever was drying, trying to keep a dish or two up on them so that they never had to wait for me to finish washing something.
Often as my sisters and I would help in the kitchen, we would break into song. Camp songs mostly. "Sipping Cider" and "Moonlight Bay" and "There Once Was a Farmer." We did it so frequently that one of my sister's boyfriends started calling us the Campfire Girls. It drove him a little bit crazy in a nice kind of way. We'd start, and he'd roll his eyes and say, "Here come the Campfire Girls!" and then go join my dad in the family room. Sometimes we'd sing even after the dishes were washed and put away, standing in the kitchen together while it rained outside or snowed, singing the songs of our childhood.
Mom never went to bed without the dishes washed, the floor swept, and the counters wiped down. She hated to wake up to a messy kitchen. It drove me crazy, and I often tried to skate around one of those chores. I usually got caught and had to do it anyway. I'll say that I'm not as adverse to a messy kitchen as she was, and I often go to bed hoping for the Dish Fairy to come at night (sometimes he does!), but I'll admit, a clean kitchen is much nicer to wake up to.
There is something unique to washing dishes and cleaning the proverbial heart of the home. I used to dread it on holidays when there would be so many dishes that you couldn't see the counter. I'd make myself scarce with my cousins while Mom and her sisters washed and cleaned and the men sat in front of the tv and dozed. As I got older, however, I HAD to help. It started with clearing the tables and then moved up to actual washing and drying. I often got stuck with the putting away, which I hated, but because it was my house, I knew where things went. We'd sweep the floor and shake the tablecloths and wipe down the counters. My aunts never left our kitchen a mess. Never. It just wasn't done no matter how much Mom would protest. Even the centerpiece would be back on the table at the end of the night. Job well done.
One day, I was surprised to find myself looking forward to this time in the kitchen with my mom and my aunts and my older girl cousins. It was kind of like moving to the grown-up table. I got to hear the gossip and stories and memories of my family. I heard recipes and kitchen tips and learned how to make gravy without lumps. I knew I had made it when I was allowed to wash the good china, and the crystal glasses, and Great-Grandma's cake stand.
The last time I washed dishes like this with my mom was the Easter before she died. She had been in decline for several months, and didn't feel like having a big dinner for everyone, but she did it anyway. After dinner, Mom started to help clean up, but I remember sending her to the family room while my sisters and aunts and cousins washed and dried and put away. It was odd without her in there directing us all, but she didn't feel well, and we all knew what to do.
Had I known it was going to be her last big dish washing, kitchen cleaning evening, I would have insisted she remain with us and just sit at the kitchen table if nothing else. But I didn't and she didn't and so it goes.
Today, I wouldn't trade my dishwasher for anything, but I wouldn't trade my memories of washing dishes either. As I stood there today, up to my elbows in bubbles, I sang "Moonlight Bay" to myself, all the while praying that Thursday's repairman would hurry up and get here.
We did it...a lot...when I was a kid. My parents had a dishwasher most of the time, but there was a period of what seems like a couple of years, though I'm sure it wasn't that long, when the dishwasher was broken and for whatever reason, it wasn't fixed or replaced. Those seemed like years of misery and pickled fingers and long hours in front of the night-darkend kitchen window, up to our elbows in bubbles.
Even in the good years, when the dishwasher worked, we always had a boatload of dishes to finish by hand. My mom never fixed less than a meat, a starch, a couple of vegetables, and a salad. There were at least three or four pans on the stove each night to scrape and scrub. And God forbid we serve from those pans. Oh no. Mom rarely, if ever, served off the stove. Every night, the food was spooned out into Corning Ware bowls to place on the table to be passed around. So not only did we have the three or four pots, we had the three or four serving bowls that held the food that was once in those pots. Meanwhile, those nearly empty pots sat on the still-warm burners while the food clinging to their insides dried hard to bottoms. We must have had stock in the Brillo company.
So after supper, my sisters and I would begin the transfer of the leftovers to yet another dish to put in the refrigerator where it would sit for 4 or 5 days before we'd finally throw it in the garbage. (I don't think Mom had it in her to throw away perfectly good food, but that's another story!) We'd scrape the sides and tap the spoon and put the dirty porcelain on the counter next to the sink to be rinsed and loaded. What didn't fit in the dishwasher had to be washed by hand. That was my favorite job.
There was a science to washing dishes, and I had it down. First, I'd put a little soap in the sink, and then run some hot water about 1/4 of the way full. Then I'd put any silverware in the bottom of the sink to soak. Next I'd wash any glasses or mugs that didn't fit in the top rack. Wash the silverware. Drain the water. And start again with the serving bowls and pots. I was always in a secret race to keep up with whoever was drying, trying to keep a dish or two up on them so that they never had to wait for me to finish washing something.
Often as my sisters and I would help in the kitchen, we would break into song. Camp songs mostly. "Sipping Cider" and "Moonlight Bay" and "There Once Was a Farmer." We did it so frequently that one of my sister's boyfriends started calling us the Campfire Girls. It drove him a little bit crazy in a nice kind of way. We'd start, and he'd roll his eyes and say, "Here come the Campfire Girls!" and then go join my dad in the family room. Sometimes we'd sing even after the dishes were washed and put away, standing in the kitchen together while it rained outside or snowed, singing the songs of our childhood.
Mom never went to bed without the dishes washed, the floor swept, and the counters wiped down. She hated to wake up to a messy kitchen. It drove me crazy, and I often tried to skate around one of those chores. I usually got caught and had to do it anyway. I'll say that I'm not as adverse to a messy kitchen as she was, and I often go to bed hoping for the Dish Fairy to come at night (sometimes he does!), but I'll admit, a clean kitchen is much nicer to wake up to.
There is something unique to washing dishes and cleaning the proverbial heart of the home. I used to dread it on holidays when there would be so many dishes that you couldn't see the counter. I'd make myself scarce with my cousins while Mom and her sisters washed and cleaned and the men sat in front of the tv and dozed. As I got older, however, I HAD to help. It started with clearing the tables and then moved up to actual washing and drying. I often got stuck with the putting away, which I hated, but because it was my house, I knew where things went. We'd sweep the floor and shake the tablecloths and wipe down the counters. My aunts never left our kitchen a mess. Never. It just wasn't done no matter how much Mom would protest. Even the centerpiece would be back on the table at the end of the night. Job well done.
One day, I was surprised to find myself looking forward to this time in the kitchen with my mom and my aunts and my older girl cousins. It was kind of like moving to the grown-up table. I got to hear the gossip and stories and memories of my family. I heard recipes and kitchen tips and learned how to make gravy without lumps. I knew I had made it when I was allowed to wash the good china, and the crystal glasses, and Great-Grandma's cake stand.
The last time I washed dishes like this with my mom was the Easter before she died. She had been in decline for several months, and didn't feel like having a big dinner for everyone, but she did it anyway. After dinner, Mom started to help clean up, but I remember sending her to the family room while my sisters and aunts and cousins washed and dried and put away. It was odd without her in there directing us all, but she didn't feel well, and we all knew what to do.
Had I known it was going to be her last big dish washing, kitchen cleaning evening, I would have insisted she remain with us and just sit at the kitchen table if nothing else. But I didn't and she didn't and so it goes.
Today, I wouldn't trade my dishwasher for anything, but I wouldn't trade my memories of washing dishes either. As I stood there today, up to my elbows in bubbles, I sang "Moonlight Bay" to myself, all the while praying that Thursday's repairman would hurry up and get here.
Monday, January 3, 2011
The Christmas Poodle and the Rocking Horse
I love my Christmas tree. I took it down today, a ritual that I usually do by myself with relish. I know. I know. That's a weird thing to enjoy doing, but I love it. See, when we put the tree up, it's all about the kids. They are so excited to find "their" ornaments and get them on the tree first, that I just kind of step back and let them do their thing. Taking it down, though, is another story. Nobody wants to help, but that's okay. I get to hold each and every ornament and savor the memory that it evokes.
First, I take off the glass ball ornaments. Red, green, gold, blue...They don't have any sentimental value, really, except for the memory of my mom saying every year that we needed more gold balls on the tree. I take them off and put them in the plastic tote and move on.
Next come the homemade ornaments. They are the ones the kids made each year in early elementary school...Kyle in a wreath covered with glitter glue. Claire as an angel under the words "Feliz Navidad." Claire's thumbprint turned into a reindeer. Emily in a mitten, high blonde ponytails on her head. The Norwegian paper candy holder Claire made in 4th grade for Christmas around the world. The Santa Kyle spray painted at a party when he was 9. The wooden ornaments Emily decorated for presents for Kyle and Claire when she was about 3...They are all there, and as I hold them, I think of the children that my children were, and I miss them.
Then I remove the non-Hallmark ornaments. There is the giant seashell we found on a day trip during our vacation on Sanibel Island in 2006. It had a hole in the top, and one of the kids thought it would be neat to hang on the tree. So it does. It also reminds me of Kris, for it was at Sanibel that we learned her cancer had metastasized...There's the poor starfish-turned-Santa that my mom got for Kyle when we went to Destin with my folks when Kyle was 3 and Claire was a baby. Nothing would do him but to have that Starfish Santa, and Mom, being Mom, got it for him. There's the metal crawfish from my trip to New Orleans the Mardi Gras before Katrina. The hula girl I made at a family support group meeting in Hawaii, and God love her, the hula frog one one of our neighbors gave me for Christmas that year. There's a kukui nut shell I got off our tree in Hawaii and an old time glitter car that I loved, loved, loved as a kid.
There's the ceramic cat I painted in 1979 in Jenny Snellen's garage. Her mom fired it for me. A reindeer Kyle made in about 3rd grade from an ornament, pipe cleaners, googlie eyes, and pompoms. A glass tear drop painted with bluebonnets that I got in La Vallita in San Antonio the first time Kirk and I went down there and an ostrich egg painted with a desert scene from an art fair in Ft. Huachuca, Arizona. There is a construction paper Santa I made when I was in kindergarten. Cotton balls still cling to each corner of the star as fur trim. There is also a picture of the Blessed Virgin cut out of a Christmas card and taped into two plastic Folgers can tops and hung with some really long thread. I remember making this in CCD one Sunday, although why I was at CCD, I don't know since I went to Catholic school.
Two of my favorite ornaments are the poodle head and the ceramic rocking horse. I love them for their story. The poodle head was my grandma's. It hung on her tree every year despite (or in spite of) the fact that it is hideous. Every year, my uncle would make fun of this ornament and tease her about it being on the tree, and she hung it every year anyway. It's a big, white satin ball with 3 inch pompom ears and a 3 inch pompom poof on the top if its head. It has little bows on each ear and googlie eyes. I always thought the whole thing was hilarious, and when she died, of course nobody wanted the poodle head but me, so I took it.
When Kirk and I got married, the poodle head went on our tree. He was like, "That is the ugliest ornament I've ever seen! You can't be serious about putting that up!" I was just as determined as my granny. Later that week, he came home proud as a peacock with a horrible green, white, and red ceramic rocking horse that he got free with a fill-up from the 7-11. I said, "That is the ugliest ornament I've ever seen! You can't be serious about putting that up!" But he was just as determined as my granny. He said, "If you're putting up the poodle head, I'm putting up the rocking horse." And they grace our tree every single year, and I smile each time I see them. It would not be our tree without them.
Then we have the regular old Hallmark ornaments. The Mickeys and Minnies and ballerinas and barbies and Buzz Light Year...As the years pass, you can see the interests of the kids change. There is a Batman and a fairy princess, a cleat kicking a football and a High School Musical locker, a cell phone "texting" and a fancy dress shoe...
We have an ornament that we got at the millennium. Inside was a small scroll of paper where we could write our accomplishments for the year past and our dreams down for the year to come. I read it every year, carefully unrolling it from its case. I get a smile out of some of my hopes. I resolved in 2000 to "maybe have a new baby" and move to a new house in a "kid-filled neighborhood with a big yard." I wanted peace in the world and health for my parents and good family relationships. Three out of five ain't bad.
Finally, the angel comes down. Kirk has to do that. It's a straw angel that we got at Walmart the first year we were married. He had been to the National Training Center in California until just right before Christmas, and by the time we realized we didn't have a topper for the tree, they were all sold out. We got this straw angel somewhere, maybe Walmart, and put glitter on her wings and poked a hole in the bottom and stuck it on the top of our tree. The glitter has mostly fallen off, and the bottom of it is covered in sap from years of trees, but she still graces the top every year.
I love my tree. It's not fancy, but neither am I. Our history hangs upon it for the world to see.
Until next year...
Friday, December 24, 2010
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!
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!
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, October 4, 2010
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!
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!
Sunday, September 12, 2010
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.
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.
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