Kick-Ass Warrior of Womanhood

 As it is May, and tomorrow is Mother's Day, I have been giving a lot of thought about mothers.  My own mother, myself as a mother, mothers in general. Tomorrow, many of us will gets cards that proclaim we are kind, nurturing, patient, loving, or supportive.  Nice words, nice cards.  Moms are generally all of those things.  But the words I think best describes moms is brave.

It is brave to grow another human inside your body.  Weird, weird things happen and you have to be brave to get up each day as your body changes and protests and grows.  There is bravery in being nauseous and functional, in stretch marks and varicose veins, swollen ankles, etc.  It is brave to eat the right foods and give up wine in order to grow this other human.  And it is really, really brave to take those disgusting prenatal vitamins.  

It is beyond brave to expel another human from your body in front of strangers who are all crouched down around your lower half and watching.  It is violent.  It is bloody. It is beautiful.  And it is so, so brave.  

It is brave to be handed a tiny newborn life to take care of while your own body is sore and beaten from the battle of birth.  It is humbling to hold this precious thing that you have grown and know you have never loved like this before.  It is then you realize that you will do absolutely anything and everything to make the world better for this tiny human.

It is absolute bravery to send this small person to school.  You pin your heart to your sleeve and pray the kids, the adults, the people at this school see how amazing your small person is.  You have to be brave to hear that someone made your child sad or doesn't like them.  You bravely tell them how amazing they are while your own heart aches and you don't cry until later.

As they get older, it is brave to say no, brave to say yes, brave to say "Let me think about it".  It takes battle-strength armor to face the anger of a sullen teen and it takes heroic levels of patience and fortitude to teach this same person to drive.  It takes all  you have to not lay down in the fetal position and sob when they walk the stage at graduation.  The day they leave for college or the world, your heart shatters into a million pieces while you smile and tell them they they have this, that they can do all things, that they are never mediocre.  You face life without them there every day and it is quiet and it is weird and it can be lonely and you face it, bravely.

It takes bravery to let your relationship with your child grow to where you learn things from them and are not the teacher.  It takes bravery to watch them date, and drive, and live apart.  It takes giant understanding and love to watch them live their lives without you at the center of it anymore.  All this while you work your job, love your partner, remain a good friend, maintain your home, take care of your own parents; exhausting and still so brave.

I think it takes supreme bravery to want children and not be able to have them and go out into the world full of children each day.  Brave to have had a child, and lost a child, and go out into that world of children.  Brave to be frustrated by babies and small children, or teens and adult children, but to still be there for them.  So while we are kind and loving and patient and nurturing and present, we are, I think, above all, brave.  And I hope just one of us gets a card that thanks us for being a kick-ass warrior of womanhood in someone's life.

No Time to be Sad

 When I was a child in the 80's, people didn't have sadness or depression.  Or at least not in the house I grew up in.  Sad?  What's there to be sad about?  So-and-so doesn't have an arm or a leg and they are still out there doing things.  It's funny now as I write this that I just do not recall a large number of amputees in my hometown, but apparently my parents knew tons of them.  I laugh-cried when I heard my mom, two days after losing her husband of 58 years, mutter to herself in the other room "C'mon, Mary, pull it together, it's not like you lost an arm or leg."

Pull it together. Move on. Look for the good. We don't live in a society that gives people adequate time to grieve.  Three days bereavement for most of us and then we are expected to go back to work, to life, to school, to our new normal.  I zombie-walked through that first week back to work.  I felt like a had a weighted blanket wrapped around me and every movement had to be thought out or took forever.  I was also very short-tempered.  Everything is annoying when you are sad and can't just wrap up in a real weighted blanket and just be sad.

We are all familiar with the many stages of grief, but I am not sure anyone really tells us how to move through the stages while also moving through life.  It is a lot.  I am relieved to say that the weighted-blanket heaviness has dissipated.  Now, it's more like I am a black and white TV with bunny ears in a world full of HDTV and color on full-volume.  Too loud!  Too colorful!  Too energetic!  My eyes! My eyes!

Me.

My siblings and I all agree that we have had very little time to just be sad about our dad because we are worried and concerned about our mom.  What is she going to do?  What are we going to do with her?  Can she live on her own?  All this while actually dealing with our mom who is convinced she has to move out in the next week (she does not), and is working through her own grief by "organizing things."  This is code-word in our family for throwing things out that are currently annoying us and this is not something someone with Alzheimer's needs to be doing on her own.  So there is all that too.  How do we give enough time to think about this while teaching, while running a kitchen, while running meetings and financials, while still just being sad about our dad?

My therapist (because I do believe in sadness, depression, and mostly serotonin-boosting meds) says that I am just supposed to be whatever it is I am feeling. I am trying, but I am feeling a lot of things. I am feeling grateful to my person who drove around two great lakes in the middle of winter to be with me and continues to be with me. I am feeling sad and scared and stressed for my mom. I am feeling guilty that my dad's last few months were probably so exhausting and hard.  I am feeling comforted by the outpouring of support for myself and my siblings and my mom.  I am feeling angry my parents didn't make better financial choices.  I am feeling busy having started grad school amidst all this.  I am feeling that I miss my sweet kids more than ever.  Boy, am I feeling.

We just feel all the things and keep moving through life, just like a million other grieving people do, but what a crap deal.  Remember the book The Red Tent? Where all the menstruating women and women with small children were put to the side, in the red tent, to do their woman things? Society needs a sad tent.  Where you sit and just be sad and talk about sad things without worrying you are talking too much about sad things.  Where you could alternately weep and laugh with others feeling the same way.  There would be time to sit and think and just be.  I picture this tent in mostly navy and greys and perhaps a section as a rage room for when the anger peaks.  And only when you have had time to sit and be sad and just be, only then do you leave the tent and carry a smaller, more manageable grief into the world with you.

Peter Arena

 Normally, when I write here, I write to share some thoughts or feelings or something that has happened.  I write in a way that is public and shared and in a way that is enjoy this, but also, look at my words.  Today, as I write, I am writing in a way to be public, but not for credit or accolades or likes.  I am writing because before I left Buffalo, my aunt and others asked me to please post my dad's eulogy here.  And I don't know if it is crass?  Or in bad taste?  

I am still not sure, but after a harrowing week, I do know that death is inconvenient.  My dad died the day before a major snow and ice storm hit the southern part of the US.  (the northern part just got subzero temps and more snow).  This made travel a nightmare for people who wanted to come but couldn't get out.  It made travel difficult for those who did find a way to come.  It was quick and air travel a fortune, so I post for those who wanted to be there but couldn't.

I have also come to realize that death is communal. You are never alone in your grief.  From the hospital room to the funeral home to the places stopped in between; grief is never just yours.  It is shared.  It is shown, and that helps. I have lived far from home a good portion of my life and I have missed many funerals and will miss more.  It is hard to be sad alone.  Perhaps this will make someone feel not as far away.

Writing my dad's eulogy was easy.  Giving it was terrible.  I, who always speak loudly, found myself unable to speak.  I briefly glanced up and look at my mother, smiling through her tears, my son and nephews who had delivered their Papa's casket through the church, and the people in the pews there to honor my dad, and I took a deep breath, and one more, and these are the words I had to say. And if you read them, I hope they give you a sense of community, of comfort, and one more smile about my dad.

I think that when you have a parent, you only see them as your mom or dad, and not always as the entire person that they are.  Over this past week, I’ve been reminded again and again that my dad, our dad, was so much more.  He was a husband of 58 years.  A brother. An uncle. A Papa. A friend. A coworker.  A proud veteran.  Peter Arena was so many things.

Our dad was a good man.  He was also selfish.  Opinionated.  Stubborn.  And like any true Sicilian, he could hold and nurture a grudge with true craftsmanship.  You knew if you got the quiet frown, you were in trouble.  If you got the quiet frown and the intricate hand twist?  Pack your bags; he wasn’t talking for weeks.

Our dad loved a good story.  He loved to tell them, to hear them, and to tell them again.  These stories were a solid 40% truth and 60% embellishment.  He also loved telling a joke.  He loved telling them so much he would be laughing too hard to do more than wheeze out the punchline.

When I look at our dad’s life, two words that come out to me again and again are service and love.

Dad served 4 years in the US Navy as a medic.  He spoke of that time as a great adventure. He was proud to serve and of his service.

He was part of the Lancaster Police Department for over 20 years.  Being a police officer and a detective defined him.  He loved it.  He loved the weird hours, the camaraderie, helping people in need, arresting bad guys, and endless cups of coffee in a world before Tim Horton’s.

He missed being a police man from the minute he retired and put that need into serving his town.  He ran for judge.  He became a very active member of the Lancaster Lions Club. He kept on serving.

The other word that defines our dad’s life is love.  Peter Arena loved and he loved hard.  He loved his wife, his kids, and his grandkids.  And if you’re associated with any of these people, he loved you too.  He loved his family, his friends, his community, and his country.

Peter presented a tough, grizzled exterior but everyone in this room and beyond knew that underneath that front was one of the most sensitive, faithful, loving men around.  He was no saint, but by God, he loved.

Our dad loved life. He loves the parties and holidays. He loved traditions.  He lived in the moment.  So much so that when we were younger, my mother referred to him as Peter Pan.  Sometimes, this was in a loving way as in “Peter, you charmer” and sometimes in a frustrated way of “Dammit, Peter”.

I hope that we remember the service and the love our dad gave to this world.  I hope we remember the good and the bad.  I hope that we remember the frail old man and the lithe, younger Pete who could find his sister across a crowded party and clear the dance floor with their polka.  And, I really hope that our dad remembers that it is the second star to the right and straight on til morning.

This Christmas

 This Christmas, we are traveling to Austin and I cannot wait! I cannot wait to see my kids and hug them so tight no one can breathe. I can’t wait to feel some warmer weather winding its way into my chilled bones.  I cannot wait to hear some Texas twang hit my ears and some stranger smile at me and say “Hello” simply because we are in Texas.  I cannot wait for some tacos to hit my tastebuds and belly and my queso-level hit an all-time high.  It is a short trip because Phoebe isn’t going and it’s crazy expensive and my person and I also need time over break to sit in our own house and simply be: be tired, be lazy, be content.

I do find that among this not being able to wait that I am also hit with some cold-hard facts I like to ignore from time to time.  Things like my kids are not kids.  They are grown adults.  They have jobs and their own people and while I know they are happy I am coming, they are also living their own busy lives.  Will recently got a new job and can’t ask for time off and I probably won’t even see him.  Sophie doesn’t know when she has off yet and has her own set of Christmas plans.  My person has a whole family of people excited to see him and we are also traveling with his small person who always has her own set of expectations.  It will be a real adventure!

Confronted with a reality that is not at all what I pictured, I find myself wishing to be haunted by a Ghost of Christmas Past.  We recently read “A Christmas Carol” with 7th grade Language Arts classes and if Scrooge got to see some good things, why can’t I?  I’m no miser!  (the fact that I don’t have enough money to see if I would be a miser does not count).  And as long as I am dreaming up this entire thing, I get to pick out my ghost and where they take me to haunt.  No embarrassing moments or remember when you were a jerk.  Please, I have anxiety. I do that all on my own, especially at about 3am.  

I would pick either the same Ghost as the one in “A Muppet’s Christmas Carol” or Wayne Brady.  The first because he’s just a giant, good-natured guy and I like his robe.  The second because he would sing intros to every scene we visit, just like he did in “Whose Line is it Anyway?”

Rebecca, here’s your first memory

We can see you there beneath the tree.

But much catchier and more about me.  You know I pick a song intro over a good robe any day, so Wayne Brady it is.

Our first visit will be to me at age 10 at my grandparent’s house for Christmas Eve.  I am ten, just a kid, not even a whiff of puberty, and all I care about is cookies and presents and me. We have eaten dinner and we have washed so many dishes that every ounce of counter space and table top are covered with mostly-clean dishes and every single kitchen towel is used and wet and retired.  The entire family is there; we are full, we are loud, we are anxiously awaiting the signal from Grampa that we can open gifts: the scratchy sound of “Snoopy and the Red Baron” playing on the record player.  To be able to see that scene.  To be gathered in a room with people who are no longer here and hear their voice and listen to the laughter and love flowing out of that room.  Yes, please.

Next up, Christmas when my kids were small and the season was magical.  Santa is real.  Joy is real.  Wonder and merriment and have I mentioned joy? They are small, they don’t have jobs, they have me and whispered wishes to Santa.  They look at the tree and I watch the lights reflect in their eyes and once again find myself believing in all that is good in this world: hope and love and democracy and rights for women and things like that. This will be so good, I will demand Wayne Brady take me back once more.  If you are at this stage of your Christmases, SOAK IT UP!  Love those clamshell toy packages that never open and twist ties that anchor your child’s joy to the box.  It will be over so, so quickly.

Then, I want a visit with my mom.  It doesn’t even have to be Christmas.  Just a table and some coffee and my mom.  My mom before Alzheimer’s.  My mom who knew everything that was going on and happening and regaled me with which acquaintance had which new prognosis and fun facts about people I forgot about ten years ago.  My mom who talked about everything and not just the three things she feels confident talking about now.  We have a long way to go in this journey and it’s nowhere near as bad as it could get, but I still want more of my mom. 

Finally, because Wayne Brady is my Ghost and he will need a song and dance montage to feel good about my haunting, we will end with just flashes of me looking and being my very best.  Pepper in some pictures of people long past, maybe forgotten, he will end on a high note, musically,  and I will move forward in this life with the warmth of Christmases past in my heart and the knowledge of many wonderful Christmases yet to come.  Scrooge’s haunting made him change his ways; I just want a chance to appreciate the things that went by so quickly.  

Writing that makes me realize I need to appreciate this Christmas present, even if it isn’t living up to what I pictured in my head.  I will appreciate this trip with my person and his small person.  There will be joy among the madness.  I appreciate his family that is so willing to include me, and my kids, in their plans.  I will appreciate that warm, warm sun and seeing some green on trees.  I will appreciate whatever time I do get with my kids. And the next time Wayne Brady comes to show me Christmases past, I will tell him to take me to the one where queso flowed, the sun beamed brightly, and my person and I laughed and laughed about nothing and everything all at once.

The first bowl.
And if you are not reading that to the tune of "The First Noel", I am very disappointed.

Birds of a Feather

I occasionally like to think about how great it would be if I could just write for a living.  Given that it has been about three months since the last time I wrote, it is good that I have teaching and a consistent paycheck going for me. It has been busy here since school started and I am just now getting a chance to write.  Well, that and I had a falcon land on my arm.

Early this summer, I came to the realization that I was noticing and appreciating and wondering about birds.  I downloaded the Merlin app so that I can be obnoxious on a hike; it enables me stop on a trail, tell people to shush, and try to record which bird in singing.  Maybe it was the new terrain and different birds that live here, but I was pretty captivated by them and even told my person that I am "in my bird era."  According to social media, as a middle-aged person, I am subject to fall for birds, plants, or counting grams of protein.  I have done the protein thing before and the squirrels ate all my plants, so birds it is!

My person, being the avid listener and companion that he is, made note of my interest in birds and when a random falcon flying event crossed his Facebook feed, he knew I needed to fly a falcon. I had never thought of letting a large bird of prey land on my arm, but once he brought it up, I was sure I needed it.  I did absolutely no research into it and had the idea of half petting zoo, half me training a falcon to fly.  It was absolutely neither of those things.

Picture if you will, 30-40 people shivering under a pavilion on an early November morning for the sole purpose of flying a falcon.  Picture also, a very captive audience and a very learned falconeer who used this time to practice all of his jokes.  He told bad Irish-Catholic jokes, he told bad bird jokes, he told bad dating jokes; he told bad jokes.  And we shivered and smiled and waited to get our hands on birds.  But first, he had us go around the group and introduce ourselves.  Again, 30-40 people there.  It took exactly 32 minutes to do this.  I know because my person timed it and told me the minute we left.

I will say that as we went around the group and I listened to people say who they were, where they were from, and why they were there, I knew without a doubt, I was not really in my bird era at all.  Not like this.  Not like the guy with the wildlife camera like he was going out on Mutual of Omaha Wild Kingdom to film.  Not like the one teen there who could name all raptors by age three.  And definitely, definitely not like the woman who shrieked and almost wept anytime anyone said the word "owl".  She was having some very strong reactions to anything owl that seemed pretty indecent for such a large group setting, if you ask me.

I will say that we did learn a lot about birds of prey while we were there.  Once he started bringing birds out for us to look at (not pet), facts were flowing.  Did you know that chickens eat mice? I know this because half the people there keep chickens and told us.  Did you know that the Peregrine Falcon is the fastest animal on earth and not the cheetah? Over 220 mph that one.  It also likes to punch its prey which cracks me up every time I think of it.  All those talons and beak, and its winding up for a throat punch. Once bird show and tell was over, we moved, stiffly, from under the pavilion to get sized for bird-landing gloves.  He did this by having each person, only 20 this time, hold their hand up to his and he would tell the size and add a comment.

At this time, I looked around at the 20 of us with gloves on and curled my very cold toes in my sneakers and knew one thing for sure: I was beating out 15 other people to get into that first group of flyers.  And I did!  All group one for me!  We separated from the slow bird people and moved to a clearing to fly and catch our bird.  All it really required from me when it was my turn, was to hold my arm out.  The falcon guy took the falcon, threw it in the air, put some raw meat on my glove, and then whistled for the falcon.  Who came at me all sharp claws and pointy beak and really, really fast.  We got to do this twice and I will say, it was definitely pretty cool.  The falcon is much lighter than you would expect and it really loved those frozen mice parts it was flying in for.  

Once I had flown my bird, my person and I watched the video he took and laughed and commented how cool it was.  We then also looked at the seventeen people still waiting to fly and I very carefully laid my leather bird glove down on the table and we left quietly and quickly.  It was very cold and we knew all the fun had been had and we were both dying to comment on everything and everyone.  This meant leaving before the horned owl was brought out, but we knew Owl Lady would be more than we could politely endure.  

It was, as so many things with my person are, an adventure.  It was not exactly what we had thought it would be like; it was time we spent shivering in the woods while patiently enduring bad jokes, weird company, and less actual bird time than anticipated.  But it was also a car ride home filled with laughter and things we couldn't wait to tell each other.  Also, a bird of prey landed on my arm as a woman cried about owls, and that makes me want to write, so not only an adventure, but a real win!  I can't wait to see what crosses my person's Facebook feed next!

Northern Exposure

 My person has lived in a lot of different places: Texas, Washington, Alaska, Hawaii, Minnesota, and now, Illinois.  (I may be missing a state or two; he really adventured for awhile.) He has always talked almost reverently about Minnesota and I thought that was nice but didn't really get it.  I pictured Minnesota to be like Illinois; flat, prairie grassland but with a lot more lakes involved.  I was so very wrong and am so happy to tell you that since returning from Minnesota, I am also speaking reverently!

We drove through Wisconsin (green, green, farmland, repeat) and headed to the northeastern part of Minnesota.  Crossing into Minnesota itself was dramatic as you take a bridge over Lake Superior and think "my God, that is a lot of water.", because, my God, that is a lot of water! From there you enter the city of Duluth which is small and manageable and has tall hills and lake views from everywhere.  Traveling with my person's small person, we had to throw some nine year old entertainment in and we stopped at the Duluth Aquarium.  It was small, but fascinating as a mostly fresh-water aquarium.  We beat the rush, the small person was mostly happy, and we left along the North Shore to drive towards Grand Marais.

Our next stop was to be Betty's Pies right past Two Harbors, MN.  The small person's mom had filled all of our heads with the knowledge of decadent pie from this small diner that was directly on our path.  I am not a huge pie person, but I couldn't wait for this pie.  At one point, the small person was having some sort of episode in the back seat which led my person to threaten not stopping for pie.  I took a deep breath and whispered "Please, don't take pie from me."  Because he loves me and because he didn't want to push his luck, we stopped for pie. The place was PACKED with all sorts of people who had to have pie.  We waited 20 minutes for pie.  Was it worth it?  OMG!  Yes!  It was the best piece of pie I have ever had and if I lived close by, I would eat pie there every single week until I died fat and happy.

French Silk Pie.  I ate all of it.

In addition to 10,000 lakes, Minnesota has about 10,000 waterfalls too and we stopped at Gooseberry Falls after the pie consumption.  It was nice, but very accessible so it was jampacked with people. I find areas that everyone can go to filled with people who don't know what to do with nature.  The sign there said "Swimming discouraged" and I was discouraged to see the water packed with people who cannot read signs.  They were slow on the small trail, didn't know to move over when they were slow, and were also found to try and climb the rock walls to jump into the water they shouldn't be swimming in.  I hated all of them and was positive it was the same people who were trying to climb Devil's Tower and scratching off pieces of rock from Mt. Rushmore when I was there.  I realize I am a terrible nature snob, but you don't have to destroy nature to enjoy it.

Moving on with my person and his small person who had had enough of nature as a self-avowed "inside kid", we made it to Grand Marais and walked along the boardwalk and saw Artist's Point. It was gorgeous!  Craggy, rocky, coastal, filled with seagulls and humans. With the forest behind us and the wide expanse of lake in front of us, I felt small and insignificant and awed.  I love that feeling.

Craggy, rocky, coastal.

The next day was the very best day of our trip.  We went fishing and canoeing with friends in the Boundary Waters.  We pretty much drove almost to Canada and made a left and took a gravel road for a long time and then stopped.  We saw two people at the boat launch and didn't see another human the rest of the day.  Just our two canoes and so much water and forest and more water.  I have canoed before, but I have never canoed over two lakes and back.  Bald eagles swooped overhead, fished jumped in the water, and while I know bears lurked in the forest, we didn't see any.  My person exclaimed "I AM SO HAPPY!" and my heart swooped and smiled.  We paddled and floated and fished.  I cast my line out 50 times and caught one tiny fish and a bunch of weeds.  I also got it stuck on a branch.  My person caught a fish, his small person caught a fish, and I caught weeds.  Until, on my 51st cast, I got a fish!  A giant fish!  I reeled it in and did a fair bit of exclaiming as I did so.  I was very excited!  I hadn't caught a fish since I was 8 years old and only remember it by the picture of me in a Miss Piggy T-shirt and sun visor holding a fish.  I CAUGHT A GIANT FISH!  I PADDLED ACROSS TWO LAKES TO CATCH A GIANT FISH!!  (note: please don't ask me how big it was, I didn't measure it, I just know it was giant) I was exhilarated and exhausted and so very alive.  It is usually hiking mountains that gives me this rush but now I know it is just being in nature, pushing myself to do hard things in nature, that gives me this rush.  I will admit to it turning more so to exhaustion by the time we paddled back, cleaned fish, and loaded canoes.  The small person was running amok and driving me insane and when it was suggested that I go check out the river, I believe my reply was "I've seen a lot of water today."

Pulled ashore for some lunch and a bushwhack of a hike.

We hiked, we saw some more waterfalls not congested with people, and we visited with friends.  The inside kid ran around like an outside kid chasing other outdoor kids.   We drank beer and ate the fish we caught.  It was the very best fish I have ever eaten in my life.  Ever.  

We didn't get to do everything we had planned on doing, no death-trap Alpine slide for example, but we did leave our hotel every day by 8am and not get back until 8pm or later.  We fell into bed tired, woke up kind of sore, and went back out to do it again.  It was, as far as vacations go, an amazing one.  I did wish my kids were there many times, but that is a wish I have almost every day anyway.  

I cannot wait to go back to Minnesota one day.  I want to paddle more, fish more, and I want to camp.  I want to do more hikes.  I want to feel exhilarated and exhausted and content. I want to see my person's eyes light up and his whole face smile as exclaims "I AM SO HAPPY".  And, I really need another piece of that pie.

Losing Pigmentation

I think it was in my early thirties that I noticed my first gray hair.  I couldn't miss it; it grew straight up in a weird, zig-zag pattern from the middle of my part.  Envisioning a hairdo like Einstein if I left it there, I immediately plucked it out and went on about my day.  It grew back, I plucked it.  It grew back and brought some friends and I plucked those too. Eventually, I did realize that I could not keep plucking these unwanted strangers from my hairline and I immediately started dying my entire head instead.  Thinking back on it now, it was probably five gray hairs no one but me noticed, but I still felt compelled to hide them away.

For the next twentyish years, I mostly dyed my hair. (I did have two years in there where I was super green and cleaned house using only vinegar, didn't dye my hair, and tried natural deodorant.  My house always smelled like we were coloring eggs and I just smelled.)   I used box dye, had a friend dye it, paid a lot of money to have professionals dye it, and paid a little bit of money and a lot of time to have student professionals dye it.  I kept it the same color as my natural hair because I liked my natural color, just not the gray popping up in it.  I committed to every eight to ten weeks to go and sit and let chemicals leach into my hair and probably my skin in order to keep my hair the way I remembered it: not black, very dark brown, occasionally sun-kissed with a tiny bit of red.  

This worked well for many years until the gray became more abundant and harder to cover and the dye didn't last as long.  I would leave the stylist chair with hair that looked dyed for two days, looked amazing for a week, and then looked faded too soon after.  Was it worth my time, the money, and all these chemicals? Probably not but I guess I am more vain than I thought and kept it up. Until last year.  There was a lot of change in this last year and keeping up the cost and effort of hiding gray hair just seemed silly. Of all the things happening within this aging, perimenopausal/menopausal body, spending so much effort on coloring grays seemed less important than finding some estrogen, being active, and acknowledging that I am indeed 51 years old and it's okay to let some of it go.

So, I let it go. I am no longer dying my hair. I haven't since October.  And it is growing out and looking a hot mess and I am mostly okay with that.  I don't want to gray blend it or low light it or any of the things my hairdresser tells me I can do.  Just let it grow and grow out.  And boy is it!  The gray is really coming in and the bottom portions are so much lighter and I feel like people are looking at me and wondering if I know how bad my hair looks.  Oh, I know.  In retrospect, I should have stopped dying it during COVID, but I was dating this younger, hot man (see my person) and couldn't reveal I was a cryptkeeper!  Now that he wakes up next to me every day, he can know the truth.

If I seem very calm about this, please know I am not.  I was extremely jealous when I was with my sisters earlier this summer and counted maybe ten gray hairs between them.  Rude. I have a vision of myself in my mind's eye where I must be in my mid-thirties and when I look in a mirror I am shocked to not find her there.  Some days, I take in the gray and think "You beautiful Earth goddess!".  Okay, that has happened just once or twice.  Most days, I look and think "You frightening sea witch."  So, this is me in my sea witch era and mostly embracing it. Okay, kind of embracing it.  Um, more like admitting that I am in my sea witch era.

Sea Witch

Earth goddess

One day, all the dyed parts will grow out or be cut off and I will have only my natural hair.  And my natural hair at this time in my life is dark brown, not black, and quite a bit of gray.  Maybe I will have some cool white streaks.  Maybe I will have gorgeous salt and pepper hair.  Maybe I will encourage someone else to give up the dye! Or maybe I will encourage someone else to never give up the dye!  Aging is a funny process and hits us all in the vanity pretty hard. Right now my concern is with how to keep my body active and strong and not how to keep my hair one color.  There is only so much time in a day and I can now be in and out of a hair cut in 30 minutes as opposed to two hours.  90 more minutes to read a book or take a walk or a nap.  90 more minutes to do things I care about instead of something I felt I should care about.  That seems like time better spent. So, if you need me, I will be in my sea cave, combing through this weird hair with a shell, and plotting the overthrow of society.  Who's in?

Home.

 A really nice perk of living here in IL is that I can drive to Buffalo in just about 8.5 hours.  To some, that might seem like a long drive, but after years and years of making the trek from Austin to Buffalo (24 hours), it seems like nothing.  It is about a boring a drive as you can think of; IL looks like IN looks like OH - prairie grasses, farm houses, speed traps.  PA is just Erie and there's nothing to see there.  When you hit to border of NY, things start to change.  Hills, vineyards, more trees, different trees, green and lush, verdant and bucolic.  It is a visual encouragement that I am almost there, almost home.

It is funny how you can be away from a place for decades and still call it home.  I lived in Texas longer than I lived in Buffalo, but Buffalo is still home.  I feel it when the roads I am driving feel familiar, when I drive past the house I grew up in, or when I bite into pizza that tastes the way pizza should taste.  It is seeing Bills flags flying from porches, knowing any restaurant I eat at will have great food, and hearing that Buffalo accent fill my ears. If Midwest Nice is a thing, Buffalo Brash is also a thing.  People say it, they mean it, it might hurt, but they'll clap you on the back and invite you over at the same time.  It is wild and wonderful and, after so many years away, can be startling before it is soothing.

always soothing

This last trip, all of my siblings and their children and one of mine were there at the same time.  What an absolute joy to see all of them mostly at once and laugh and talk and gather. We love each other and drive each other crazy.  We talk over one another and hurt each other's feelings.  We compete, as we have always competed, to be seen and heard and acknowledged. We remember stories and share new ones.  This gathering was loud and full of food and words.  So many words.  

Words always make me think of home because my mother has always loved words.  Crossword puzzles, Scrabble, reading, using big words because she could; that love of words passed on to each of us.  I think this is why it is so hard now to watch her search for words, common words and names, when she is talking.  To watch my mom who always had something to say, who would do a small dance at the table when she knew she was hitting hard with a triple word score, sigh and close her eyes and try to make the word appear in her head.  Sometimes it does, or sometimes we can find the word for her.  Often times, it doesn't and she sighs.  She is anxious a lot and she is frustrated a lot and I am so, so sad as I watch the way words seem to fail her in a way that they once defined her.  

Words are also failing my dad in that he just cannot hear them.  He used to love to tell a story, tell a joke, share words with others, and laugh.  The kids all laughed about how when Papa sends them a text, it is more like an email with paragraphs.  He still has words, he just can't hear others use them and it can be challenging to have a conversation with him.  It also means that if there is anyone else in the room, you are for sure having at least two separate conversations at once.  This can make even the most avid word-lover at a loss for her own words.

My brother and sisters and I struggle as we recognize the rapidity of our parents' aging.  I think we also struggle with and how we define home now.  Home used to always be my parent's house on Aurora Street. Home was us crowded around their kitchen table laughing and drinking coffee and tripping over words.   That sense of home, once defined by our parents, is now left to us to replicate and warm. We seem to be doing it though. I feel it in my sister's house where she gathers us and feeds us.  I hear it in my other sister's voice when she calls and we share stories.  I relax in it at my brother's house where we can sit and not talk.  I see it in my son and his cousins in how they treat one another after so many years apart.  It is there, it just looks different.

It is hard to see and recognize the shift in what we remember as home. Or the changes in the people who were once such solid forces in our lives. As someone who has lived in many different homes in different states, I know that the feeling of being home takes different forms.  Buffalo is home, Austin is home, being together with my kids is home. Home is being celebrated and called out, home is being our best and our absolute worst and still being welcome, home is an idea held in your heart and shared with others.  And I am ever so lucky because after driving 8.5 hours back, stepping into my person's arms and being held so tight felt just like home too.

Yee-Haw! Or, I Survived My First Year Teaching Middle School

 It’s currently 56 degrees and rain is pattering on the drain pipe as I am typing this from my patio wearing my flannel pajama bottoms and a sweatshirt.  When I envisioned this day, I pictured 75, sunny, tank tops and shorts, but the coffee is warm, the birds are chirping, and y’all, it is the very first day of my summer vacation! And I could sit here all morning drinking coffee and listening to the birds and that would be all I have to do today.  That makes me smile and breathe deep.

Me, smiling, and breathing deep

I like to take the end of a school year to reflect; I do a better job in late May than late December of seeing what the year brought.  This year brought an awful lot of change.  New state, new school, new grade being taught.  I was kind of caught up in a whirlwind of new and being the new person until about January.  I was in my own self-imposed vortex of laying kind of low, being charming and agreeable, and seeing how things were done.  Yuck!  Charming and agreeable are not how I normally run. I also ran out of all estrogen in my body at this time so there were some bleak weeks, I will admit.  

For a while, I really missed my old school.  My own confident self striding around answering to “Coach” and “Hey Miss” while joking with my teacher friends in the hallway between classes. I missed teaching my Women’s class and the room full of avid learners who pushed me to learn more and do better.  I missed the developed humor and sarcasm of a Junior or Senior in high school.  I missed the comfort and familiarity of teaching what I knew.  I have to say that even when I was wallowing in what I missed, I was very conscious of how great this new school was; I just had to get used to middle schoolers.

If it has been awhile since you were in middle school or had a middle schooler, let me remind you that these are indeed some of the worst years of your/their lives.  Friends are friends until they are not, your body is changing and you know that everyone around you knows, and because no one is confident, every one acts overconfident.  Boys this age truly believe cologne or body spray masks stink.  It does not; it makes a new level of stink.  And they touch each other all the time.  ALLLLLLLLL the time.  Half of the girls have hit puberty and maturity and look on with abject horror.  The other half compete with the boys, not by touching, but by being as loud as they can be at all times.  They also make up words and yell them at each other and use them in sentences.  Take my eyes if I have to read “skibbidy” as an answer one more time.

I think it was about November when I came out of my shell shock and started to see past the yelling and stink and carnage of my classroom management.  This may be around the same time a kid lost a tooth in class and I realized  that they were still just kind of babies.  I stopped expecting what I was used to and just tried to appreciate what was different.  I saw hands shoot into the air to answer a question.  I realized that this age is game to try all kinds of new things if you explain what is happening exactly 45 times in a row and with pictures.  They have a desire to learn new things if not necessarily a desire to read or write about what they read.  They question everything.  And, they can be really, really sweet.  They sign their notes “love” because they are still little and cute.  I remembered from myself and my own kids that they want you to see them, recognize who they are right now, and understand that somehow, they will never have a pencil for class.  They can be so patient and kind to others.  They speak in Polish to the student from Ukraine so that he can be part of the conversation.  They take the student from Mexico who only speaks Spanish under their wing and show him it is okay to laugh at your terrible attempts at Spanish.  They love a Kahoot and winning and a Jolly Rancher.  There is joy amidst the chaos when you start looking and I am so glad that I started looking.  

The school and district I work at are truly magical and I have recognized that from the start.  Amazing admin, teachers who have been there 20, 25, 30 years!  They have included me in all things from the first day and checked in with me and questioned why anyone would move from Texas to Illinois.  They gave me advice and comfort and as I stopped confining myself to my self-imposed vortex of being charming and agreeable, I realized they were also providing me with community.  And you definitely need a warm feeling like that when it is negative 100 degrees with the wind chill.

One of the first days of class this year, my terrible 7th period asked me to “yee-haw”.  I was from Texas and in their minds, everyone from Texas would say “yee-haw”.  I declined and they pestered and I said not until the last day of school.  I will be damned if these kids who can’t remember a book or a writing utensil or when things are due remembered allllllll year that I said I would yee-haw on the very last day.  On that very last day, someone shouted “Ms. McMahon, it’s the last day and you promised you would yee-haw” and the rest of the class screamed that I promised and even my Ukrainian student nodded in stoic agreement.  So, I quieted them down, told them all eyes on me, and proceeded to pretend to swing a rope over my head while letting loose the loudest, most Texan-sounding YEE-HAW while they hooted and tripped over themselves and banged the desks with excitement.  It was an insane sort of magical moment and it’s what keeps teachers teaching.  

I will be happy to start next year with this past year behind me. I also plan to have absolutely no contact with anyone between the ages of 10 and 13 for the next three months to rest my weary ears.  If you need me, I will be sipping coffee, listening to the birds, and smiling.

Not the best view, but the birds abound.

A Week Without Chocolate

My person recently commented that I hadn't written in awhile.  I nodded and said I knew and was quiet for a minute. (just a minute).  I said that I felt it was silly to write about small things in my life while the world was a dumpster fire.  He said he got that but isn't it when we stop doing the things we enjoy that the people torching the world as we know it win?  He is very wise, my person.  You have him to thank for this missive!

In the past week, I have done something I did not think I could ever, ever do.  Ready?  I am really so proud of this one.  No, I didn't set a record pace for anything.  And sadly, my Spanish is still terrible.  I didn't graduate anything or enroll in anything.  I didn't save anyone or do anything noble.  But you know what I was able to do?  I went an entire week without eating anything chocolate!!! If you know me, you know what a feat this is!  I love chocolate.  I love to smell it and eat it and bake with it.  And for an entire week, nary a cocoa-dusted or chocolate-studded anything has passed my lips.  I expect my "One Week Without Chocolate" badge to come in the mail any day now. Hmm, this reminds me that I am still waiting on my  "Survived My First Midwest Winter" badge. 

I have gotten through life believing that one handful of chocolate chips a day is more important than 60 ounces of water for maintaining a healthy lifestyle.  And if one handful is good, two is definitely better.  And that handful of chocolate chips doesn't count for a serving of sweets so go ahead and eat a Reese's cup or whatever other desk chocolate you might come across.  I have felt and treated chocolate like its own food group my entire life.  I prefer dark chocolate and dark chocolate chips, but I will eat milk chocolate and feel no sadness.  I also can't quite enjoy baking if there isn't chocolate involved.  Banana bread?  Needs chocolate chips.  Same with pumpkin or, really, any bread or muffin.  Brownies?  Have to bite into a chocolate chip to make it totally satisfying.  I have passed this love of chocolate onto my children and one of my favorite memories is a tiny Sophie declaring, "MAMA, I need chocolate."  I felt that in my bones and got this tiny child the chocolate she needed and some for me as well.

I swear I can smell this right now.

Why have I had a week of forgoing something I love so much?  Well, as stated, I did just survive my first Midwest winter.  There are a few different ways that I acclimated to survive a true winter in a very long time.  First, I curled under an electric blanket on the couch a lot.  SO much warmth and the cats liked it too.  Second, many days I didn't go outside again once I got home from work.  No reason to go back out there in that mess.  Third, my person and I regaled each other by making dishes from our youth that depended heavily on carbs on carbs with cheese.  Yum.  Family-size portions for two people.  Delicious, family-sized portions for two people.  When you are curled up under an electric blanket, eating carbs and carbs on cheese seems like a very good thing.  When the weather gets better and you put on a pair of shorts for the first time in six months and the horror of your prison-pallor thighs stares back at you, you realize maybe a little too much of a good thing.  This combined with the fact I am a middle-aged woman with a sluggish metabolism has left me making some new choices.

Knowing that chocolate has always been my Achilles' heel, I think I just needed to see if I could go a day and then two days and now a week without chocolate.  Could I control what has controlled me for so long?  And I could.  Last week alone, I turned down M&Ms and a chocolate chip cookie brownie combo! It was kind of empowering in a world where I can not control big things like the economy or the general lack of humanity to control one small thing instead. 

I am drinking more water and moving more and added weights back into my life and once or twice a week, standing in a hot room doing hot yoga and sweating like my life depends on it.  Because it does.  Because I want to be healthy and hanging off of a mountain when I am 80 and older.  And I really like to eat.  I love to eat, actually.  I love the taste of food and the memories it can evoke.  I love the smell of something in the oven and that same smell reheated at lunch the next day.  But I can love food and still be mindful of it.  I can eat carbs on carbs on cheese, but maybe not family portions of them.  I also know that I will definitely bring back chocolate into my world and mouth soon because I love it and enjoy it; just maybe not by the handful. 

Strong, Opinionated, and Loud

 In this month of Women's History, today is International Women's Day.  In our current political climate (oppressive with a touch of impending doom on the horizon), I doubt it will get enough coverage.  I have always been interested in women and their history and the things that they have done and overcome and continue to do.  I miss teaching my Women, Words, and Wisdom class and watching young girls learn and inspire me to learn more every single day.  As a teacher, of course I am indoctrinating all of my students, and brought a week of Women's History Month to my 7th graders.  I had them journal for three minutes writing down the names of every famous woman they could think of.  At the end of three minutes, they had to cross out any actresses, then musicians, then TikTok personalities.  They had very small lists left.  My favorite moment came when one girl asked "Why don't we learn more about women?".  Indeed and agreed.

I think it comes from being curious. I think it comes from being ten and being told girls can't play the drums in the Fife & Drum Corps; only boys.  I think it comes from being eleven and being the first girl to play the drums in that said Corps.  I think it comes from being an athlete and treated like what I was doing was tolerated but not encouraged.  I think it is from having a boss in my early twenties that spent more time looking down my shirt than listening to what I was saying.  I could go on and on about my own perceived injustices or the mistreatment of women but today is a celebration.  Today is a day to stop and encourage and applaud.

I am grateful to the women of history who suffered so I can vote.  And own property. (not on this teacher salary but had I made better career choices, sure).  Women who demanded their fair share.  Women who voted for laws, changed laws, made laws to reflect that women were an important part of this world.  

I am grateful for the first women to do anything.  For Sally Ride and Jeanette Rankin.  For Elizabeth Jennings and Elizabeth Warren.  For RBG, HRC, and AOC.  For Katherine Johnson and Alice Paul.  For Susan B. Anthony and Michelle Obama.  For all the women who climbed and climbed until they shattered glass ceilings for the women after them.  For the women in the #MeToo movement who stood up and spoke up and said this is not boys being boys, this is rape.  Who gave other women courage to do the same.  

I am grateful for my mother and my aunts who are some of the strongest, loudest, opinionated, and caring people I know. They showed me how to stand up for myself, how to use my words in ways that matter, and how to love people around me.  I learned the importance of family; the ties we strain against when we are young and long for as we get older.  

I am grateful for my sisters, my first friends and enemies.  For carving a path of success so wide that I could pick which way I wanted to go.  For telling on me and shielding me.  We shared a room and hated each other.  We all moved out and realized how much we loved one another.  They modeled working and having babies and doing all the things well.  They too are strong, loud, opinionated, and caring.  They taught me colorful words and are in the center of memories filled with love and laughter.

I am grateful to the friends who stay with me as we age.  For the transition from moms with littles to moms with empty nests.  Who held my hand and my heart as I transitioned to other stages alone.  Who love my kids because they knew them tiny and revel in them grown as I do theirs.  Who are strong, and loud, and opinionated, and beautiful.  Who are funny, and political, and knowledgeable, and inspiring.

I am grateful for my daughter. She gives me the passion to keep fighting the things I am so tired of fighting against.  She gives me hope and purpose and clarity.  For her strength, her sense of what is right and wrong, for her laughter.  My God, for her laughter.  I am grateful for the young women I have taught and coached.  Who compete in ways that leave me breathless.  Who wonder and question and listen and learn and constantly move to me to know more, to do better, to be better.  To hope.

I am grateful to the women I have taught with and now teach with.  Who model, who listen, who deeply care about children who are not their own.  Women who expect more, demand more, and even when disappointed, do more.  Women who teach not only their subject matter but more importantly, how to be a good person. Women I have laughed with and cried with, (oh! that sad year), commiserated with and celebrated with.  Women I drew strength from when I had none of my own.  Strong women.  Loud women. Opinionate Women.  The best women.

I do see the theme of strong and loud and opinionated women running through this thank you and it makes me smile.  I hope you can take some time today and be grateful for the women in your life and let them know. Pick up a book about women and read it and pass it on to the next woman in your life.  Annotate in the margins!  Share your thoughts and your passions and your voice.  Celebrate the women before you and the women with you now.  Change this current forecast to one that is cloudy, but a chance of sun on the horizon.

Winter Weight

 One year, when the kids were tiny, we went to Buffalo for Christmas.  There was a bunch of snow and cousins to play with and fun to be had and I believe the kids and I stayed a solid two weeks up there.  It was also bitterly, bitterly cold and every single time we went outside those two weeks, my sweet Texas-born baby William would burst into tears.  Like instantly.  Step outside, face crinkled up, real tears and sobbing within seconds.  I am reminded of this right now as the full weight of winter settles upon me and I, too, want to burst into tears every time I step outside.

Yesterday, it was -26 with the wind chill.  Oh, that's the wind chill, you say.  Okay, true, but until you have had a midwestern winter wind come barreling over the plains and punch you straight on, you may not talk to me of wind chill.  I find that even I am at a loss as to how to best describe that first assault of -26 wind on exposed and unexposed body parts.  Bitter, biting, bracing, polar, vortex, criminal.  Adequate descriptors, I guess. Cutting, slicing, and murderous might be better.  You can wear as many layers as you want; that wind finds a way in.  And settles right into your bones and gives you a weird, instant headache.  I have found it has made me religious once again as all of my curse words are preceded by "Holy".  This morning, snow was added to the wind and when those tiny pellets of murderous, menacing, maniacal moisture hit my face along with that wind, I did not burst into tears, but I did burst out with "What even is this?"

You may be wondering why I am even outside to begin with because surely school is closed when it is that cold.  Some schools did close yesterday, but not mine.  It is the Midwest and people soldier on here.  That put me in a mood beyond grouchy. Despondent, despairing, depressed.  I had forgotten how winter eats away at you and your best intentions to enjoy winter.  Grey skies, subhuman temperatures, salt everywhere.  Omg.  The salt from the roads tracked in every where you go.  Puddles of snow-ice-salt slush at your feet.  Good intentions to eat better blasted away by bone-chilling cold that demands hot things smothered in cheese and meat and carbs.  And not moving from the couch once you get there because you need that heated blanket as you eat your heated carbs.

I am really trying to not let winter beat me, but holy crap, winter is a really worthy contender!  We do try to bundle up and get out when the sun is shining.  We went sledding recently and that was as exhilarating and death-defying as I remembered!  WHOOSSSSSHHHH! You are careening down a frozen hill on a piece of plastic with no real way to stop or steer along with people who stop for no reason mid-hill.  And the long hike back up where your heart is pounding from nearly dying and the steep incline march and your nose is kind of runny and your cheeks hurt from smiling and freezing.  That was a good day.  My person and I also bundled up the other day to hike when it was 9 degrees.  We were like Arctic explorers!  The only people in the park trudging our way to the frozen lake.  I did stand on the frozen lake for a minute which was kind of neat. I was too worried about it cracking because of all the cheese meat carbs; I knew if any part of me went through the ice, I would have to just lie down and die right there.

as brave as I could get.

I do know that one day, it won't be freezing.  Or below freezing.  One day, the sun will come out and actually warm the earth and my bitter soul.  I will have survived a Chicagoland winter and add it like a major award to my accomplishments and achievements.  Until then, I will just try.  I will try to eat a vegetable with my meat carbs.  I will try to find beauty in the stillness of a frozen pond.  I will revel in placing a Buffalo Bills picture in my daily agenda and telling young boys that they are wrong when they claim allegiance to any team other than the Bills.  Other days, I will just give into that bitter biting world outside and be bitter and biting back.  (apologies in advance to those around me).  Yesterday broke me, but today I am trying and tomorrow is Thursday and Thursday is hot yoga and hot yoga is an hour of being warm from head to toe.  And if that doesn't sound amazing to you right now, you have not been punched in the face with a Midwestern winter wind enough.

Over-Done, Garish, Italianate Splendor and Joy

 A perk of this move to IL is that I can be in Lancaster, NY after just an eight hour(ish) drive.  That might seem long a long day of driving, but it used to take twenty-four hours of driving to get there from Austin, so this eight hours seems like a dream! Five states, eight hours, and approximately $500000000 in tolls.  On my list of things to do?  Get an EZ Pass.

My person and I made a late-minute decision to go to Buffalo for the holidays as our children would be celebrating with their other parents and it is just us here and that seemed sad and there were old people at home who needed to be seen.  Many reasons, all of them good, and off we went.  

Old people who needed to be seen.

My person has never been to Buffalo before so I did the very responsible thing and ordered pizza before we even exited the highway.  Everyone has their favorite local pizza and mine is Grasso's cheese and pepperoni with blue cheese to dip it into.  There is something about the crust, that thick cheese, the way the pepperoni curls up into cups and gives you a grease shooter - YUM!  You just cannot find pizza like this anywhere else.

Pizza in hand, we went to check into our hotel.  Of course family offered us a room, but it can be a lot to meet someone's family on a short trip during the holidays, and I did another responsible thing and got us a hotel.  Not any hotel, but a hotel full of Italianate splendor!  Giant chandeliers greeted us in the lobby and there was an entire hallway of fake facades made to look like a street in Italy.  I sent a video of it to my friend and she correctly remarked that it looked like the Titanic.  You could buy a single red rose for $5 and many of the rooms offered a giant tub right next to the bed.  My person and I loved how crappy and over-the-top this place was.  I would not rate it five stars because during our three nights there, housekeeping never came in.  We had no shampoo and when I asked at the desk, I was given three bottles of body wash.  This left my hair looking like a river otter who escaped an oil spill but by God, we had splendor!

my heart will go on......

We went out for a few drinks that night and my person met my sister, her husband, her sons, and two cousins in rapid succession. The next day he met my parents and an aunt and uncle and then even more people at my sister's house for Christmas Eve.  The next day he met my sister-in-law and my niece. BAM BAM BAM!  New people, my people, and he was what he always is: wonderful,  charming, engaging, and funny.  Swoon. 

This trip was fast and furious and we did the holidays and are already home and had a nap.  I am so happy that we took this trip.  That we had time to sit with my parents and talk.  That an aunt made a special trip to see me.  That my person saw where I grew up and who I grew up with and that he liked all of it.  I find that despite missing my kids this Christmas, I had joy.  What a joy to sit across the table from my nephews who have grown into men and listen to them talk about jobs and women and life in their twenties!  What a joy to spend Christmas Eve at my sister Melissa's and it be so lovely, so inclusive, so filled with people, that I felt I had stepped back in time to the Christmases of my youth! (she makes a killer sauce too. I believe my father commented it was so good it would make an old Italian woman weep.) What a joy to see the joy on my parent's face as I stepped into their house!  What a joy to still be able to step into their house.  And what a joy to do all this with my person!

I hope that you also had joy this holiday season. Joy on Christmas is not always a given, so if you didn't have joy, I hope that you find a picture you took with a stranger in the background that cracks you up and you nod and say "I love Buffalo." Or Austin. Or Raleigh. Or wherever you are currently sitting.  If you don't have a picture that makes you laugh, I hope you had some over-done, garish, Italianate splendor.  And if you didn't have over-done, garish, Italianate splendor, I know place; just bring your own shampoo.

this guy!!

The First O-E-L

 The first Christmas that I lived away from home, my mom sent me a bunch of things to help me celebrate away from them and in my new place.  There was an advent calendar full of tiny things to open each day, a VHS tape of her and my sisters baking cookies and showing me the tree, and some holiday decor of four trees that spelled out NOEL and ended in hearts.  I will admit now that I opened all of the advent calendar things the day I got it and watching them bake without me made me cry.  But, that decorative NOEL, I have put out every year at Christmastime for thirty years.  This year when I took it out, it no longer spelled NOEL.  Somewhere between this Christmas and last Christmas, between Texas and Illinois, I lost the N. I put it up anyway and my person and I laughed about celebrating our first O-E-L here in Illinois.  Then we laughed because if you say "O-E-L" fast, it sounds like "oh, well."  Forget Christmas!  We are celebrating OEL! Lost the N? Oh well.  Freezing cold but no snow?  Oh well.

The First O-E-L in Illinois

It has me thinking that this missing N is a common thing at holidays though.  Not necessarily the N but the feeling that we are missing something.  The feeling of holidays past we can't quite seem to replicate or the physical presence of someone who is no longer there to celebrate.  It can be a smell that we miss or a feeling or a place.  Sometimes, it can be missed enough that the rest of the holiday seems pale or passes by as just a day.  Sometimes, we try to plan in advance for what we will miss by doing something completely different than usual.  Sometimes, that works.

For the longest time, I missed holidays absolutely packed with people in a too warm house and not enough bathrooms.  I missed impatiently waiting with my cousins for Snoopy and the Red Baron to play and signify that we could finally open gifts. When I had my own kids, we made new holidays and I didn't miss the holidays of my childhood as much.  There is nothing, nothing, like the magic of a Christmas spent with small people who believe in Santa.  The sparkle! The joy!  The enchantment!  And yes, it's true that when my son found out there was no Santa, he smiled, patted my arm, and thanked me for "faking his childhood."  Still worth it when I remember him in footy pajamas shaking with excitement and my daughter waking us up at 3am to say "SANTA WAS HERE!"

After I got divorced, I spent quite a few holidays missing my kids because they were at their dad's or missing the way holidays used to be as a whole family unit.  It took awhile to get over the missing "N" and focus on what was left with my "OEL".  I will miss my kids this Christmas. I will miss them so much that I had Amazon deliver their presents to me so that I could wrap them and write "Love, Santa" with my left hand and mail them on.  A silly way to spend an extra $25 but oh, well.  My daughter texted and asked for the recipes for cookies and knowing she will be making them there, that she wants to carry on with the smells and tastes of her childhood memories, that really makes me happy.  

I think that with holidays and memories stored mainly in the heart and not the brain, it is so easy to get caught up on what seems to be missing.  You might be searching for a loud house, the smell of Crunchy Fudge Sandwiches, snow, kids waiting for Santa, a certain movie to watch, a person to hold.  You might want those things so very much that you can't picture this holiday with out it.  Like my NOEL, minus the N, it looks sort of the same but not as good as it once did.  I hope that even though your N is missing, that you get the chance to step back and see that the OEL is still there.  It might be way too soon for you to really appreciate your OEL with no N and that is okay too. 

I am happy that I have something from my first Christmas away that has survived at least one million moves.  It reminds me of how much I was and am loved by the family I moved away from.  Putting it up reminds me of how many Christmases it stood by as my kids were born and grew up.  Putting it up and laughing about no N with my person makes this new place feel more like home.  

I know we have more moves ahead of us and despite moving 170,000 times in the last five years, I also do not always pack the best.  So many of the ornaments that have ears lost their ears in this recent move.  There is a very good chance that more letters could fall off of the OEL.  I also know, it could lose all it's letters and be down to the string and I would still put it out.  I would just think "oh,well" as I stood in front of a beautiful tree of ear-less ornaments and smile about all the Christmases past.