The cats love it…

There’s nothing like Christmas for kittens.

First come out all the new decorations and toys around the house. Stockings hang from the fireplace, with bells! Teddy bears lounge on the couches, lights surround the windows, and candles flicker on the mantel. Even the dog has a new, red scarf and a jingle bell. It all requires inspection and paw-batting and delicate sniffing.

Next comes the tree: a giant evergreen in the living room? How fun, how unusual, how fragrant! They circle and sniff and lie down beneath it; they are confused, yet content.

Finally, the tree is dressed up with more toys that twinkle and sway, hanging just out of reach. The kittens jump and paw and pull the toys off, again and again.

They are exhausted from their efforts. Better sleep now, who knows what may happen tomorrow!

(Steve has secured the tree to the curtain rods with fishing line, just in case.)

It's the little things...

The other day I forwarded an article by Anna Quindlen to all my friends with children. It was her unequivocally joyful essay on having raised her children, not perfectly, not without incident—sometimes painful or embarrassing—but successfully nonetheless; raised them to adulthood and citizenship and life on their own. Without exception, my friends who replied said it made them cry. Some even admitted they blubbered. But why does the thought of a job well done make us cry? Is it the memory of good times? Is it because we worry that the best is now behind us, that the future can’t possibly hold the fierce joy we once experienced? Or is it that we remember only the one regret? One friend told me she appreciated the sentiment and was grateful to have grandchildren to give her a second chance.

I admit the article affected me the same as everyone else. I needed tissues to read to the end. The article resonated especially because I, too, have three children who repeatedly make me proud and amazed, angered and chagrined. Each day brings something new, and I learned long ago I should try to cherish the little things.

One April 1st, Steve and I got up to find our underwear drawers had been switched. All my panties and tanks were in Steve’s drawer, all his boxers and briefs were in mine. Maddy peeked deviously from around the corner of our door, “April Fools!” she shouted gleefully. Funny, this was three years ago and we still haven’t changed it back.

The other day my fifteen year old son let me give him a hug. Not the stiff kind you get with the “Oh, mom, c’mon” drawn out along with it. But the warm kind, firm and confident, the kind a mother holds onto just a little too long.

Sometimes it’s just dinner time that makes my day. It’s not what we’re eating, but that we’re all at the table—talking together, sharing, laughing, hollering at each other.

Other times it’s the things that seem little to everyone else, but to me they are huge. I am struck by my eldest’s inability to stay in touch from his college dorm clear across the country. At my latest book club retreat, I jokingly said, “Andrew should call home more often….than never!” and Lisa was hesitant to say she hears from her daughter nearly every day. They all agreed, “That’s boys. They won’t call home, they won’t send letters, but they’ll arrive home for Christmas with a suitcase full of dirty laundry!” But that’s not Andrew, I say to myself, though I’m sure he has no idea what I do with his unresponsive silence. Is he OK? Is he really too busy? Is he overwhelmed, overworked, or just frustrated?

My better half says it’s alright that he doesn’t call. He doesn’t need to. He is confident in himself and the place he came from and the solidity of his family. We are the wind beneath his wings—he doesn’t look back as he soars over new sights and new places, because he doesn’t need to.

Andrew called home last night. It was just a little thing, but it meant a lot to me.

Memories...

I’ve been looking for some blogworthy topic to add to my, as yet, insignificant collection of stories, but I didn’t want it to be schmaltzy; I’m tired of that and I’m sure you are too. On the other hand, I’m not ready for anything brutally honest either. So, I’ve been waiting.

Yesterday, my friend Lesa sent me a link to this YouTube video (and then of course my mother sent it to me again, since she is not want to read the to: line on any email message – I think her motto is, “anything worth seeing once is worth seeing twice” or even three times.)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4-94JhLEiN0&feature=player_embedded

I sat down on the couch with Andrew this evening, along with the more needy of our two new kittens, Maddy’s Twila (she’s also been christened MixTape by Sam, and Andrew calls her Debby, short for Debussy; he nicknamed the more jazzy, brutish kit-sister Star, Ellington, or Ellie for short; Sam’s name for Star/Ellie is M.Schneek – I’m absolutely certain I’ve spelled that wrong) and we watched the video. All I have to say, is: Anjelica and Steven Wiens, if I had only known you then... When the groomsmen in their tan tuxes and jouncy moves started jamming down the aisle, and the ladies in their salmon-pink dresses did their best to follow with a few rhythmic moves, we were hooting with laughter and joy. “Welcome to the YouTube generation!” I shouted to Andrew. Seriously, you have to watch this video, preferably with a glass of wine.

Me, I was moved immediately by nostalgia.

In five short months Steve and I will celebrate twenty years of wedded bliss. I well remember the day. I was at the church early with my whole family, setting up poinsettias around the alter and tying rich, green grosgrain bows onto the pews (I’d learned to make them with my godfather’s sister just the week before – Dear Daisy, she ended up making most of the bows, but I was proud of the few I turned out on my own). Steve was good enough to breeze in about 15 minutes before the ceremony, going on about something with plumbing and showers at our new (fixer-upper) house. My friend Heid will remember I was a little stressed and may have flipped him a bird or two…

The men wore classic black tuxedos (it was December and Seattle blessed us with a nice smattering of snowflakes during the ceremony on Capitol Hill) and the ladies wore merlot and evergreen ensembles. I wore my Grandma’s satin wedding dress, feeling the weight of time and memory and the future, heavy around me. To the powerful tones of Clarke’s Trumpet Voluntary, we waited for our cue. (Joe, please don’t remind me how the church speakers somehow simultaneously picked up a local radio station.) It was beautiful, I remember. As we stood waiting outside the sanctuary doors, we heard the solo trumpet soar above it all and my dad and I looked at each other, “Let’s get this over with,” he said and smiled. We held hands as we walked down the aisle, the church packed full of relatives and friends, all wishing Steve and me well as we started on this big adventure at our young age.



Steve was waiting for me at the end of the aisle, his eyes glistening with tears. “Hey Mister,” I said and squeezed his arm. “Let’s get on with it.” And so we have. For nearly twenty years.

Jill and Kevin, I don’t know you, but hey, Congratulations to you both – and kudos to your friends and family for inviting all 9 million (as of today) of us YouTube viewers to join in the fun of your wedding. We loved it and we’ll say a toast to you as we celebrate twenty years and then some.

Oh dear. That was schmaltzy after all, wasn’t it!? I’ll do better next time, I promise.

Sorting things out...

Have you ever noticed how everyone has a different way of sorting things out?

I wring my hands -- actively and figuratively. When something is bothering me, people around me know it. I talk about it, in circles; I yell about it; I belabor it. To death. Just when you thought I was over it, I bring it up again, just a few more times.

My mom makes lists. Before trips or big events, there are lists taped everywhere: on the bathroom mirror, on the front door, on the refrigerator, on the carefully stacked boxes or bags by the door (what goes to who and by when). Sometimes the list is just a single item ("shoes!"), sometimes it's several pages long.

Sam has an overwhelming need to be outside when he's troubled by something. On his busiest days -- full of homework, tests, or back-to-back events -- Sam always takes time to go outside first and shoot some hoops, throw a baseball, or just run down the street. Somehow he's able to come inside and knuckle down after that...usually.

I've noticed my Book Club Ladies can sort through an amazing array of things just by walking. We head off in a group, spaces naturally developing between us as we drift into groups of two or three. We continue a conversation, check on issues in our lives, share stories. Listening, nodding, offering suggestions, we get it done. By the time we're back, we feel good -- we're part of a tribe, we support one another.

Andrew's pattern of sorting is so predictable as to be comforting (to those of us not doing the worrying, anyway). “Mom?” it always starts... ”Here’s the thing...” and then usually, "Well...hm." Not two minutes later, the piano keys start banging, the feet start stomping and the real sorting-out process begins. The noise is loud and jarring, discordant and jangly. Soon, though, a rythym appears, notes flow together and form...music. Just as I start to relax and enjoy what he’s creating, he stops, stands up, and walks away. The process is complete, he's sorted it out.

A special day...

Today is my father’s birthday, he would have been 78 years old.

Some days I know that everyone was right when they said, “Time will heal the pain.” Other times I realize they didn’t know what they were talking about.

Having someone in your life who is such a strong force, so much a part of who you are and what you do, is wonderful. I was lucky to have him—we all were. But losing someone like that is beyond sorrow, it’s a loss that lays quietly in the back of your mind and the bottom of your heart, one that hits you hard again, years later, for reasons that surprise you.

Daddy died of complications from multiple myeloma on April 8, 1996, two days before little Sam turned two years old. Andrew was almost five and didn’t understand where Großvater had gone. He ran into his room the day after and hollered in his usual commanding voice, “Großvater, where are you? Are you hiding in the closet? Are you under the bed?”

What do you say to that? How do you tell this little boy that the man who held him so competently from the day he was born, who rolled up his sleeves in the delivery room in preparation for his birth (just in case the tardy physician didn’t show); who patiently walked him back and forth while he cried in colicky pain and his weary parents lay spent on the couch; who read to him, played with him, bounced him on his knees; who introduced him to milchreis, taught him how to whistle into a pen cap, and sternly lowered his eyebrow in occasional disapproval; who beamed in wicked, grandfatherly pride as he let him sip from a beer bottle; who helped bathe and put him to bed every Tuesday night and made sure his room was carefully set up to his liking when we moved into a new house: this man is gone, Andrew.

And yet, somehow he lives on. In our memories, in his sister’s smile, his son’s laugh, in his daughter’s eyes, and his granddaughter’s shiny, dark hair. He is in a Beethoven piano sonata and the warm aroma of pflaumenkuchen. He is there behind a discussion of epidemics or space telescopes and in the tipping of vanilla sugar into whipping cream. His voice is in the waves as they crash on a rocky Washington beach and his calm hand is in the touch of moss on a rainforest hike. His name comes up in conversation and we turn wistful and joyful at the same time. He was here with us for a while and we are lucky.

There are a few wonderful people in this world, in this life. You were certainly one of them, Dad.

Happy Birthday, I love you.


__________

The snowflakes came down...

I committed the last act of de-Christmasizing the house this morning. I know, it’s February, you’re probably rolling your eyes. My dad used to leave his tree up until his birthday, though (February 16th, but since he was German and they don’t put their trees up until Christmas eve, unlike we Americans who rush out the day after Thanksgiving looking for the perfect evergreen, it’s not as bad as it sounds). We absolutely had to take down the outdoor Christmas lights earlier because Maddy plugs them in every day when she comes home from school and soon we were the only house on the block crazily blazing. After January, it seems, well, unseemly.

But I didn’t have the heart until this morning to take down the paper snowflakes that we taped up all over the dining room windows this year. Somehow they signified more than Christmas for me – they were part of a good memory, part of a season of friends and good times and simple gifts.

It all started with our annual visit to a local nursing home for Christmas caroling, which turned out kind of special this year. The kids always invite several friends along and some diehard parents come, too (I love you, Kim!) and then everyone comes back to our house for hot drinks and cookies, and people come and go as the evening winds on. It’s the beginning of Christmas for us, the end of school for two weeks for the kids, and it’s quickly becoming my favorite tradition.

As I said, this year was special…

First, there was the snow. It started the night before and came down like I hadn’t seen in years (not since I was a kid and we used the Sand Point Country Club’s golf course for toboggan racing!). It stuck and then it snowed some more. At first I considered canceling the event. Schools were closed and Seattle was pulling its usual scared-of-the-snow routine. I assumed many people wouldn’t be able to get here. But then I realized that those folks in the nursing home weren’t going anywhere, not today or any day really, and since we are so close we would just walk. Sure, we’d be a smaller group, but we few would just sing louder. So, I called the activities coordinator at Park West Nursing Center and told her we were still coming. “Good!” she said. “The tap dancers before you have canceled, so the folks will be in need of some diversion.” Next I called all the friends we had invited, “Singing is ON, please come if you can.”

Now, Sam is 14 and he thought he’d outgrown singing at the nursing home. He told me he wasn’t inviting anyone this year, none of his friends would be interested anyway. I said fine, but he still had to be there and sing. Steve had left early that morning under the motto “The University never shuts and neither does its real estate office,” I guess. He said it wasn’t likely he’d be able to get back here by 3:00 for singing. Andrew said Diane was sick and couldn’t make it and two of Maddy’s friends said they wouldn’t be coming either. Humpf, small group indeed. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.

But suddenly, somehow, both the phone and the doorbell started ringing. “I’m coming!” Kim hollered, “Jan’s on his way, too!” Suzanne called to say that both Max and Gabe were walking the two miles in the snow, they’d be here shortly, and we should watch out for Tizo, who really wanted to sing. Linda said she and Kirsten would make it (four-wheel drive) and could she pick up anyone else on the way? My mom and Bear, recently moved from Whidbey Island to High Point’s new development in West Seattle (and finally able to be around for these kinds of events!), were bound and determined not to let a little snow stop them, “We’ll be there!” So I found myself throwing mittens and scarves at various people as we all headed out the door and into the snow around 2:30. I walked along with Kim and we marveled at how much all the kids had grown since we started this singing tradition nearly ten years ago. Andrew, Jan and Max are young men now, with low voices and plans for post-high school and Maddy is no longer riding on my hip. And Sam…

As we neared Admiral Way, I heard some kids yell from across the street, “Sam!” It was Toby and Nick and Alaine. Turns out Sam had invited friends after all.

We were more than twenty people packed into the elevator and pouring out to sing to the residents on each floor. And, just when I thought I would burst from the warm feelings I had for all these young kids and old people, my throat tight with emotion and unable to join in for our 5th rendition of “Let it Snow” (a particular favorite that day), the elevator door opened and out walked Steve. When he caught my eye and smiled, my day was complete.

We all arrived back at the house, red-cheeked and happy, and consumed glühwein and hot cider, cookies and crackers with cheese. Soon, Sam and Maddy and their buddies disappeared wherever they go, down the street for sledding, down to the basement for gaming. Andrew’s crowd and we adults were left sitting around the table, chatting and eating and drinking. “Hey!” I said, “Let’s make snowflakes!” Everyone grinned and, I swear, not one person said it was one of my harebrained ideas. I threw several pairs of scissors and a pile of white paper on the table.

I had no idea how creative these people were. Suzanne produced a line of dancing mermaids on one “flake” and next she made one with a circle of cats, tails almost waving in the air. Linda’s looked as if they’d been intricately etched out of lace and I had to check her scissors to be sure they weren’t somehow different from the ones I was using. Jan fashioned a twin set of grinning frogs when he mistakenly cut through two pieces of paper instead of one. Steve forgot you had to start with a square to get a circle, but his elaborate rectangles turned out to be crowd pleasers. The rest of us muddled through, creating something beautiful out of paper in spite of ourselves.

As fast as we could make them, Kim taped them up on the windows until we were surrounded by our artwork on the inside, while Mother Nature’s own handiwork continued to fall softly outside.

I was hooked. From that moment on, everybody who walked in our front door during the entire Christmas season had to make a snowflake. “Come on,” I cajoled Thomas, who eventually surprised himself with his unique design; Jeremy obliged me at Christmas dinner, producing two of my favorites, which we taped one over the other creating a double snowflake; and Papa sat down to cut his very first snowflake at age 69. Each one joined the others on the windows until there was no room for more.

It was fun. It was something different in our typical rush of Christmas hecticity. And I smile as I look at all the snowflakes, conjuring up each person in my mind. I didn’t want to take them down today, but I decided we could just do this again next year. In fact, I might think of something else that people can do when we gather together, maybe impromptu haiku or interpretive dance.

So, watch out if you’re planning a visit any time soon, I haven’t lost my touch…

On purpose and Hope and getting started…

Should a personal story blog provide perspective on events going on in the world around us or simply add levity to counteract the drama? Or both? You’ve probably already noticed I’m going with both.

I haven’t posted in a while, but it’s not because good (and funny!) things haven’t been happening, because they certainly have.

For instance, I planned to write about a walk I took the other night with Steve, Maddy and Danny, a story I think you’ll find almost as entertaining as I do.

I hope to share some impressions from my friend Steven’s wedding, a moving and memorable event.

I wanted to write about the simple act of kindness in friendship and my gratefulness for Suzanne (who turns our teenage-rearing problems into hilarious stories, and who buys me hard-to-find Tove Jansson books and fresh croissants from Bakery Nouveau) and Nona (who recently drove me all the way to Ocean Shores and back in one day, just to pick up my laptop, and even provided homemade snacks, an attentive and discerning ear, and her own car for the trip!) and Anjelica and Emily (who make it so easy for me to be with them that no matter how many months go by I can still settle in for an evening of Firehouse Red, good stories, and belly-aching laughs that make me feel young again) and Lisa (who calls just to ask if I’d like to see a movie and persists with the planning around our busy schedules until it happens). Good people, good friends.

It’s hard to write about the good times, though, amidst all the bad things that are happening. The latest flooding in western Washington was sobering. We drove through the devastation on Highway 12 from McLeary to Elma and beyond, and witnessed boats tied up to front porches, livestock standing forlornly in drowned pastures, houses surrounded by muddy havoc. I hear daily reports of home foreclosures, financial ruin, and layoffs that come increasingly closer to home. I watch as new and angry outbursts of violence and retaliation erupt around the world. In my coursework for school I read about failed social justice programs and misguided public policy. Things seem pretty bleak.

And yet, is there Hope?

Tomorrow people will look up for a moment and focus on the changing of the guard. All eyes will be on a man who has promised much and, it seems, may have the capacity to deliver. Our nation’s future and our confidence rest on the ideas and courage of this man.

Or do they? And should they? Many of the problems we’re currently facing are a result of our own indifference and lack of care in our own affairs and those of people around us. Can we each honestly say we’ve been diligent and thoughtful with our learning, our buying, our saving, our helping of a neighbor? I’m afraid I can’t.

It is time for difficult decisions and broadening horizons. An aggressive agenda for progress and unity has been set. We will watch how our new President handles the inevitable political maneuverings for compromise that will attempt to pull him to one side or another. But it is we who believed him, we who elected him, and we who will now have to help him.

Be strong, Mr. Obama, in your resolve to be a President for us all, for a United States of America.

It likely won’t be quick, it certainly won’t be easy, and it may not be exactly what we Hoped for, but we will help you get started.