Tag Archives: mylife

Going Steady

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Chicken broth and me: we’re going steady.

We’re mulling over a long-term relationship.

One of us has commitment-phobia.

Call it a honeymoon, but I can’t go a day without

chicken broth’s kisses.

(Butter is in cold storage. She will forever be my first love.
But I had to abandon butter.)

Garlic and paprika go on double-dates with us.

Basil brags about preempting paprika.

Lemon and dill sometimes feel left out.

Curry keeps begging for a place at the table.

Sage wisely stays silent.

I have no thyme to add to our romance.

A Complicated System for Processing Christmas Cards

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So you get a stack of cards, photos, letters from friends near and far.  Now it’s January.  What do you do with them?  Huck the whole stack into the trash?  (ouch! It hurts just to type that!)  Toss the letters and cards and put the pictures on the front of your fridge?  Start a photo album devoted to friend’s Christmas pictures?  Bundle them up to read next Christmas?  (But eventually you have to dispose them, one would think.)

This question has haunted me. 

You see, I inherited my father’s DNA, which means I like to capture information by cataloging or categorizing it.

So I developed a system.  An address book system. It isn’t simple, it takes time, but I find it hard to deviate from the plan.  Even, as I recently discovered, when I’m three years in arrears. 

I bought a plain lined journal with pages that are 8 x 5½.  I put the alphabet in the top right corner of several pages.  Sure enough I did not leave enough room for B’s, C’s and H’s.  I transferred my addresses in pencil including phone numbers and emails.  Two addresses to a page is about right.  Leave the left page blank. 

To the right of the addresses I put names of kids, pets (if the pet’s names are important) and birth dates, if I know them.  In the margin at the left I write in when I mail (or give) our Christmas letters: 05, 06, 08, 10. 

One day my brother called to tell me that my girlfriend’s mom had died.  How did you find out? I asked. My girlfriend’s husband had taken the deceased’s address book and called everyone in the book.  From that anecdote, I added another feature: I note the relationship in the column.  Online friend, former pastor, Carol’s friend from Lombard, Klamath Falls neighbor, college friend.   If we share last names I think that is obvious enough.  Some addresses are old and stale.  Rather than erase them, I note Archive in the column.  I hope my kids know not to call the Archives when I die.

Now we’re ready to process Christmas cards and letters.

We need: address book, eraser, scissors (I use plain and deckled) pencil, pen, scotch tape or glue stick, recycle bin, wastebasket. 

1.  Christmas card with printed signature: check address, recycle.
2.  Christmas card with photo enclosed or a Photocard.  Check address, trim photo and tape to address book on page across from address.  If there are many photos, I start stacking them (tape one above the other).
3.  Letter and photo.  Check address, read letter, make notes next to people’s names in address book.  John (ASU), Ariel (horses), Mandy (swim team).  Trim photo, attach to address book.
4.  Christmas letter with photo embedded.  Same as above; after notes are made, trim photo and attach to address book.

When all the Christmas cards are processed, I usually have a stack of photos for my cork board, a thicker address book, and notes in my prayer journal. 

In theory, I am ready for the next round of letter sending.

How do you do it?  Any tips to share?

Living in Mitford

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With apologies to my city-dweller friends–on Chicago’s northwest side, in Brooklyn, Los Angeles, San Francisco’s Mission District and Seattle’s U District–not to mention you suburbanites, I must write an ode to small-town life.

Often I walk to the bank, chat up the tellers while they process my merchant bag of tricks.  Onward to the post office where we know names, notice haircuts, chuckle. A quick trip to the grocery store never takes five minutes. Eating out inevitably means seeing friends across the room. Connections cross over and under the stream of daily life. Each foray out the front door involves another point of contact.

For everyone in this town of 10,000 I know by name, there are five I know by sight.  Nodding acquaintances, I believe they are called. 

This morning, with our car in the shop, my husband dropped me off at Joe & Sugars at 7:00 a.m.. Outside it was  cold, dark, wet and vacant. The downtown café was full of men gathering for breakfast. A lamp in the window glowed as groups of guys huddled around tables, pulling up chairs, crowding in two more. No laptops, no iPods, no TVs suspended from the ceiling, just a steady stream of masculine murmurs and laughs.  The male camaraderie was more pleasant to me than the smell of fresh-baked scones and the blast of warmth when the ovens opened.

There is something profound about a daily/weekly breakfast with friends.  The architecture of friendship begins with sharing meals, sharing stories and opinions, sharing time.  As I sipped my tea and wrote in my commonplace book, I tried to suppress a silly grin. I’m living in a Jan Karon novel! 

A Lifetime Learner’s Plan for 2011

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I love to learn. 

Heh heh.  That is I love to learn when I’m in control of the learning and it’s going according to my plan. In short, when it is my idea.  Many lessons have to be foisted upon me, more than once, before I get the point. The acquisition of knowledge, the advent of understanding, the getting of wisdom…it’s like gathering armfuls of flowers.  

2011 will open a new vista for me.  After fifteen years of educating my boys at home, I spent two years working full-time while we pressed toward the goal of being debt-free.  My retirement day is fast approaching; my heart is beginning to gurgle with joy at the possibilities.

There is so much to learn.  And here is my short list of learning goals for 2011:

 

•  Learn musical notation software.  Finale is the version friends declare I need.  Get it. Use it. Love it.  And perhaps do a bit of composing.

•  Learn how to track investments correctly in Quicken.  I have “Placeholder Entries” which need to be fixed. This goes under the broader heading of paying attention to finances, learning more about the stock market, bonds, etc.

•  Learn profound contentment with one serving of food.  Ahem. Practice, practice, practice!

•  Learn how to take pictures with my new camera, a Nikon D3100.  I’m drooling to make bokeh.  And to be able to toss around words like aperture, depth of vision, f-stops and those lens numbers with the smallest measure of intelligence.  As my brother says, “Get out of auto focus.” This also falls under the larger goal of spending more time outside.       

•  Learn ten new Bach pieces on the piano.  If I were ambitious I’d include Chopin, because Chopin always killed me as a girl.  Not that Bach is an easy walk on the tundra. The last few years I’ve only played piano for the joy and comfort of playing. I’m actually itching for some disciplined study.

•  Learn how to listen without thinking of what I’ll be saying next. 

  

•  Learn to make time for regular letter writing.  Ink on paper letters.  Goodness, I have the cards and stationery!

•  Learn the value of daily stretching.  It’s bizarre to get up in the morning creaky.

•  Learn to look through the microscope.  We have a worthy one.  I’m a bit science-phobic, but I think I could handle this.  I don’t need to keep a journal (or perhaps I do).  I just need to look.  Sort of on a daily basis.  Are there enough things available to put under the lens?  Surely there must be.

•  Learner’s option: learn how to knit.  Or.  Learn how to quilt.  I love the idea of knitting. But I love reading more.  

Dear Joan

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Dear Joan,

Thank you.  Even though I had never met you before, and I don’t expect to see you again, you made my day today.

I am the woman in Costco Optical who was standing in front of cases of frames, forlorn, perplexed, indecisive…inadequate.  Still coming to grips with the transition from contacts to glasses.

And there you were: an older woman wearing black tights, an herringbone skirt and black turtleneck, your elegantly coiffed hair framing a face as beautiful today as it was fifty years ago.  Everything about you reflected exquisite taste.  Your deep-set eyes told me that kindness was spiraled into your DNA. 

“Would you mind giving me your opinion?” I appealed, looking as helpless as I felt.  You smiled your assent and we got straight to work.  Which ones have you tried?…Let’s see that one again…No, that’s too harsh….Oh, I really like those!…Yes, those are very nice.  You voiced your responses freely but not forcefully.

Here’s the thing: you attached yourself to my need, converting it to our project, fully invested in finding the best frames out of all available.  Halfway through the process I gave a wry grin and said, “Hi, I’m Carol.”  You said, “Hi Carol, I’m Joan.”  And we were comrades.  We chatted and laughed.  You didn’t act rushed, impatient or put upon.

When we had reduced the decision to two frames, you took your leave.  It occurred to me later that you really had no business in the optical department.  You were just there! And then you left. 

I hope that my new glasses remind me of you often, that I remember to be thankful for our ten-minute friendship.  I would love to be like you when I grow up.  I can’t aspire to your beauty, but I can be friendly and available.  Today you reminded me of how refreshing it is to be connected.  To be humans together in this fragmented world.

Thank you.

Yours fondly,

Carol

P.S. I ended up choosing the plainer frame.  I know you preferred the ones with pizazz, the sparkles on the corners that matched my coloring.  Someday I will be brave enough for sparkles, but all my life I’ve chosen safe over brave.

Everyone Needs Help Sometime

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“It’s okay…I’ve been there before…Everyone needs help sometime…”

Deana was calling our store’s adopted “Christmas family” to get specific items they needed.  The person on the other line was overwhelmed.

Hearing Deana’s side of the phone conversation took me back to a time when one of my husband’s colleagues showed up on our doorstep with four or five bags of groceries.  It was 1983 or 1984.  My husband was teaching high school, I was home with a baby. We didn’t have two dimes to jingle in our pocket; it was a paycheck to paycheck life. 

Then the flu flattened us. The fridge had free space on every shelf. It was all we could do to make a fire, wrap a blanket around our shoulders, and stare at the wall. Dave Steen, a legendary high school baseball coach, called to check on our Thanksgiving plans. He listened to Curt’s explanation and heard the unspoken pathos between his words. 

And the next day there he was on our front porch.  Cheerful, matter of fact, generous.  Paper bags spilling over with groceries.

I felt embarrassed, relieved, exhausted, awkward, thankful, humbled, uneasy, shy. Reluctant to admit that we needed help and yet incapable of arguing otherwise.  
How grateful I am for that Thanksgiving. That pitiful, miserable, rotten Thanksgiving that turned a corner when our front door opened.  Admittedly, it’s easier to be thankful for hard times when they are in the rear view mirror.

Any of you been there?

Everyone needs help sometime.

Get Used to Neglect

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Goodbye, my most neglected garden.
I gave you precious little attention,
but you faithfully rewarded
our small times together.

Even as you age and decline
you graciously dish out goodwill.
The Swiss chard, Italian parsley,
lettuce, sunflowers remain.

I live in a state of perpetual hope…
the promise that next year I’ll do better.

Next summer there’ll be no weddings,
no babies, no trips, no books?
May it never be!

Get used to it, dear garden.
You are a minor delight of my life.
I need you, I do.
But I’m an undependable friend.

Next year we’ll get it together, won’t we?
I will magically morph into a Gardener
and you will mysteriously develop rich, loamy soil.

Sweet dreams!
Soon you will warm yourself with a quilt of leaves
and a comforter of snow.

Sleep well, my quiet companion.
Remember: next year!
Next year.

Reunited, Reconnected, Real

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Nancy, Barbara, Audrey, Eileen, Carol, Ruth


We hadn’t all been together since 1971. And, honestly, back then we weren’t all that together. Our friendships as young teen-aged girls were fluid.  Some appeared to have evaporated.  But a residue of goodwill and lingering love remained strong after almost 40 years. 


  


We hold a joint tenancy in our childhood.  A childhood of bobby socks, black patent leather shoes, of fancy hats, pretty dresses and bubbling enthusiasm.





And we love the Lord Jesus Christ.

We were raised by (some of) the pillars of Lombard Gospel Chapel.  Our dads and moms were quality men and women who invested themselves in serving people.  In a sense they mortgaged themselves to the Lord. Look at the photos and you see ordinary people. But they were beyond extraordinary.  Brilliant, creative, hospitable, warm, beautiful, sacrificial, they left a swath behind them of people whose lives were touched hugged forever changed. However, they could also be cranky, remote, hurting, conflicted, angry.  We know.  We are their daughters. 


 


In July, in the space of 24 hours, we found each other.  Emails flew back and forth. It became imperative that we be together under one roof.  We were flung across the country; Audrey lived in England but was moving to Albania.  It probably won’t work out to get together, but let’s try.  Ruth organized details, we bought tickets, Eileen whipped up spreadsheets, Nancy learned to click Reply All (♥ you, Nancy!), and finally we were in the Atlanta airport Atrium adding a link with each arrival. One cabin, six friends, 66 hours.


 


Eileen’s husband transported us from the airport to their home.  Frank made a killer Italian meal (lasagna, chicken escalopes with Marsala, sausages, a Caprese salad, bread, olives and pickles) served on the Desert Rose china Eileen inherited from her mom.  A traditional Italian meal is never the food on the table, but the people around it. It was the perfect prelude to our cabin time.  We talked and laughed through the meal, mingling memories, laughter and great food. 





We had 66 hours. We wanted to structure our time wisely.  Enter focus time.  Each girlfriend told her story, taking as long as needed.  With background sounds of rain falling and birds cawing, one quiet voice was heard. We cried, we laughed, we listened, we took notes. We asked questions, spoke encouraging words. Then the five of us prayed: blessings, thanksgivings and intercessions.  We sang old songs in that tight a capella harmony we grew up with.  She showed us her pictures.  It took at least three hours per person. 





We arrived at the reunion ready to be real. Like an onion, we peeled through all the protective layers until the core was visible. One thread that weaved its way through our childhood stories was the importance of appearances. If there were problems in the home, we put on happy faces and pretended there weren’t. At the cabin, there was no pretense. At the end of our weekend we knew each other.  Isn’t that one of our deepest longings, to be fully known and completely loved?

 



After one friend finished her story, the heavy silence of grief blanketed us.  We discovered that normal for us included pain.  In every case.  Cheerful and thankful hearts we have, but hearts that are acquainted with sorrow.  We called our time friend therapy.





We ate incredible meals. Each member of the Sisterhood of “In Jesus’ Name Amen, Let’s Dance!” provided  a scrumptious meal. Frittata, Chai, Enchiladas, Baked Blueberry French Toast, Cashew Chicken, fantastic salad. We are, after all, our mothers’ daughters and our mothers produced a lifetime of amazing meals.
 



Here was a gathering of six strong women.  Six smart women.  Whatever mistakes our parents made, they did something right.  A whole lot of somethings right. 


 


It was one of the best weekends of my life.  Our expectations were high, but our experience soared.  We don’t know why we were given such a gift, such a mercy.  It was a catharsis, a cleansing, a completion.  It sounds weird for 53-year-old women to say, but as of this weekend our childhood is officially closed.  What doesn’t make sense doesn’t make a difference.  We are changed.  And we belong to each other. It was an epic weekend, a monumentally joyful time, a threshold to heaven.
 

Truly great friends are hard to find,

difficult to leave

and impossible to forget.


 

Be Always Coming Home

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Audrey and Carol in the middle, circa 1965

Several years ago, while reading a biography of Laura Bush, I discovered she takes an annual vacation with her childhood friends from elementary school.  I remember the very spot I was sitting when I read that. I loved the loyalty, endurance and comfort of those friendships.  It made me wistful.  Ah…wouldn’t that be grand?

Grand is too tame a word.  Wouldn’t it be…magnificent?

There were six girls that grew up together.  We didn’t all go to the same school, but we were together up to three times a week at church.  Our parents were the pillars. We are all the same age. We all have older siblings.  It seems strange by today’s nomadic standards, but our entire childhood was at the same church. 

1967 Lombard Awana Olympics Team

By the time we graduated from high school three families had moved to different parts of the country; we all went our ways.  And we just lost contact.  You know, the Christmas letter connection that fades away as life’s busyness intervenes.  Too many moves.

This summer, thanks to Facebook and siblings, we found each other.  And emails began flying back and forth at a furious speed.  Audrey is overseas, but planned to be in the states in September.  Would we, could we get together?  It seemed impossible, too grand.  But it is true! We booked a cabin so the six of us could reconnect.  We’re coming together from Albania, Arizona, Georgia, Oregon, Texas and Illinois.

I often tell my adult sons: Be always coming home.  

I see this reunion as a home-coming.  We shared the roots of our lives.  We are familiar with the incipient underground growth before we started greening up and blossoming.  How many friends know the entire structure/dynamics of your family of origin?  We’re eager to hear all those chapters that happened after the 1970s.  We want to know and be known. Between us, almost every heartbreak common to mankind has happened (lost a young parent, lost a young child, lost a marriage, family members with disabilities).  We all have a story.  And, amazing grace!, we all still love God. 

We simply want to be under the same ceiling, with time to talk. I am certain that I will learn things about myself just being with these friends.  We’ll have about 66 hours together.  We want to talk, laugh, cry, sing, pray, eat, giggle and sleep only if we must.  I anticipate healing will take place. 

I consider this coming weekend one of God’s great gifts in my life.  It is profound love. It is extravagant grace. It is a magnificent mercy.  Color me thankful.

Wedding Journal, Katie and Jeff

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Photo by Abbey B.

It all started with Scott McDonald.  We were lingering after a meal in the home of our dear friends, Jack and Lisa.  This was before Facebook, but you could say we were giving extended status updates.  “So when you pray for a wife for me,” he paused, wrinkling his eyebrow, “and I hope you are praying….?”   Umm.  Well.  To be honest, no? — were my thoughts. 

“We’ll get right on it!” I replied.  Other than my own kids (I grew up in a tradition where you prayed for your kid’s spouses from the get go), I wasn’t in the habit of petitioning God regarding spouses for friends.  Scott got me started on a journey of prayer that has some incredible vistas. 

And there was no magic involved.  We prayed and we waited.  After some time Scott introduced this beauty to me and I blurted out, “You are the answer to my prayers!”  And I wept through his wedding, overwhelmed at God’s kindness to our friend.

Scott and his wife had a daughter.  By this time Katie had entered into our (Scott’s family’s and our family’s) lives.  And daughter #1 started praying every night, “and please, God, bring Katie a husband.”  Daughter # 2 joined the family and joined the petition.  Daughter # 3 climbed into the circle and chimed in.  Daughter # 4 made a chorus. Katie’s deal with daughter #1 (you pray me a husband, I make you a flower girl) was grandfathered in to all four daughters.  (They were joined by two nieces by blood, two nieces by love for what we called a Flower Girl Bouquet.)

Photo by Abbey B.

We prayed and we waited.  And we found ourselves, at last!, celebrating The Wedding.  All the waiting distilled our joy into a fragrant essence. 

The wedding day began with worship.  Our congregation doubled with visiting family and friends.  From the opening hymn, Holy, Holy, Holy, to the final Doxology the music soared. Our singing is normally solid and robust, but on Sunday it was a freight train! Singing the final verse of For All the Saints with folks from far lands was an amazing experience.

From earth’s wide bounds, from ocean’s farthest coast,
Through gates of pearl streams in the countless host,
Singing to Father, Son, and Holy Ghost:
Alleluia, Alleluia!

The main focus for Katie and Jeff is community.  The membership, as Wendell Berry puts it.  The day was chosen so as many people could make it to a hard-to-get-there location.  This was challenging, as their people span the globe.  Four generations of family were there to witness the vows.  The joy of a wedding is that, like a tablecloth gathered after a picnic, it brings together all the disparate but not disjoined parts of two lives and bundles them together.  All the guests felt the blessing it was to be bundled together in such a lovely group.

 
Photo by Dan H.

Music marinated every surface of the celebration.  There was the formal music of the ceremony: organ/piano duets; Children of the Heavenly Father; a small choir singing Non Nobis Domine with piano and organ.  Katie came down the aisle to Beethoven’s Pathethique sonata arranged with a Doxology.  First-class musicians saturated the reception with great performances.  No DJ necessary, thank you very much!


Photo by Brian B.

Because words are so important to both Jeff and Katie, it is no shock that a tide of good words–benedictions –flowed back and forth.   Blessings and thanksgivings, tears of joy and appreciation, great abounding love.

Laughter shellacked the festivities. The congregation laughed aloud when the kiss ended…and began again!  We laughed as the couple left to the strains of young Meredith singing, “Hit the road, Jeff…” 

Happy sigh.  It was a richly celebrated wedding.  To quote Eric Bibb, “Joy is my wine, love is my food, sweet gratitude the air I breathe.”