Tomorrow

Let's pick up where we left off:  Tomorrow is another day!  And today, I am in love with tomorrow.

At the risk of sounding like I am wishing away today, let me explain that November is just a rough month for me.  Both my parents died in the month of November, so that's one thing.  And although my husband died in the month of December, he began his descent into death in the month of November.  More simply, I perceive November as dull and gray.  And November is, to me, a harbinger of all things cold and confining.  So, you see why I might be eager to say goodbye to November.

Tomorrow will be the first of December and that lightens my heart.  December is full of distraction!  As mentioned before, I am not a big fan of holidays, but I can engage in the art of decorating a bit.  I am also not a big fan of shopping, but I will come up with a gift or two for my kids.  I am not a fan of holiday stress, but given my minimalist celebration preparation, I can avoid the stress.

Today was mild, and I was able to remove the slushy remains of last week's snowstorm from my car.  I also shoveled the ice and snow from the parts of my driveway that never see the sun on these short days.  I felt like I was getting rid of November.  An act of love?  Maybe not, but I could say that I loved doing it!

So my love today is directed toward tomorrow.  December's distractions include holly and berries and hemlock to cut and place in my windowboxes, gingerbread cookies to bake, and scented candles to alter my indoor mood.

So long, November.  See you next year. 

Limbo

This was one of those times when I had to struggle to fall in love.  Thanksgiving and Girlsgiving are over.  It's not December yet, though the weather is frozen.  And today is the anniversary of my father's death 42 years ago.  Not much to love there, right?

And then the word limbo popped into my head.  I wish I was talking about the dance, but you know I'm not.  I guess I just feel like I am in limbo today, caught between two things, and I don't even know what they are.  It's not as simple as saying that I'm caught between Thanksgiving and Christmas; there are no holidays between which I ever feel "caught."  (I prefer to tiptoe around the edges of the holidays.)

Edges.  A religious definition of limbo is the edge of hell.  Some of you may know that limbo is defined as the place where unbaptized souls dwell until Jesus Christ can absolve them from original sin and send them on to heaven.  Perhaps you believe that, despite the fact that the term limbo does not appear in the Bible.  As a child, I felt so sad for the children that were waiting in limbo; it was fairly obvious that they'd done nothing to deserve such a fate.  I cared for them as much as I cared for the pagan babies, those poor and sorry foreign children who needed our American dimes to pay for their baptisms.  I dutifully contributed.

But it would probably be wise for me to avoid the religious meaning of limbo.  Here's another definition:  any in-between place, state, or condition of neglect or oblivion which results in an unresolved status, delay, or deadlock.  And yes, that is how I am feeling today.

But can I be in love with that feeling?  Let's see.

Neglect is clearly a negative word.  Today, I've neglected to do anything positive, unless you count cryptograms and Sudoku puzzles.  But oblivion?  Now there's a word that could be perceived as not entirely negative, as in she was oblivious to the idea that anything was wrong.  Did this oblivion lead me to an unresolved status?  Absolutely.  I posted no status whatsoever on social media today.  Delay?  Yes.  I have delayed dealing with all the correspondence which has arrived in the mail of late, advising me that there are things I must do pending my enrollment into Medicare in two months. 

Deadlock?  A deadlock is a situation in which two or more competing actions are each waiting for the other to finish, and thus neither ever does.  I am waiting to fall in love, but love is waiting to catch me off guard.  Deadlock.

But here's the deal.  Limbo can be a relaxing place, a time-out in which no decisions or actions need to occur.  Time to chill.  Time to channel Scarlet O'Hara:  After all, tomorrow is another day!

Girlsgiving

I was calling it the Black Friday Feast, but it has been dubbed Girlsgiving by the young women involved.  So Girlsgiving it is.

Having not had a "real" Thanksgiving yesterday, Jenna invited some of her girlfriends to our home the day after to cook, feast and be merry.  The friends are from different times in Jenna's life:  high school, college, and one of her AmeriCorps stints.  Seven guests came, and Jenna and I made it nine for dinner.

There was some kind of punch to begin:  gingerbeer and cranberry juice with a hefty pour of gin.  My contribution was our traditional breaded and sauteed artichoke hearts, an appetizer that has been part of every holiday dinner I can remember.  And then the feast, prepared by Jenna:  salad, green beans, mashed potatoes, stuffing, butternut squash, apple salad.  Cyndi baked two pies for dessert: a buttery apple pie and a decadent chocolate creation that was made even sweeter with Lyndsay's rum-infused whipped cream.  There was music, conversation, and laughter . . . sounds like a holiday celebration to me.

I don't know if Girlsgiving will be repeated next year.  Who knows where these young women will be a year from now?  For today, I fell in love with the company of twentysomethings who remind me that I was once that young, that hopeful, that inspired.

Gratitude

Today is Thanksgiving, and I am on a plane.  I left one daughter in Florida and am flying home to see another daughter who has traveled from Vermont to see me.  My son is in California.  There is no Thanksgiving dinner.  No large family gathering with too much food and drink.  No grace before dinner, no stuffing, no mashed potatoes, no choosing between apple and pumpkin pie.  No cleaning up the kitchen and putting away the leftovers.  There are no leftovers.

Nonetheless, it is a day to feel and express one's gratitude, so in keeping with tradition, I will do my best here.

I am thankful that I am not the mother of the screaming child across the aisle, and I am thankful that I am not married to the man who is not doing a thing to help her with their two children.  I am thankful that my flight was delayed only an hour and not several, and I am thankful that, unlike yesterday, the skies are clear for air traffic.  I am thankful that I brought an avocado sandwich with me and I am thankful that I can buy a glass of wine to feel a little more festive.  I am thankful that I have a good book with me.

I am thankful that my daughter called to tell me she is always sad when I leave her.  I am thankful that my other daughter is making the long drive to the airport to get me and will have a warm coat for me to wear.  I am thankful that the roads are clear.  I am thankful that my son has a Zombie Thanksgiving Feast to attend with friends in California and that he texted me to call him when my plane lands.

I am thankful that I have things to be thankful for.  I have three kind, smart, talented, beautiful, adventurous, and responsible children.  I have a warm and beautiful log home (built by my husband) to return to.  I have a cat who will yell at me when I greet her because she gets upset when I leave her.  I have enough, and I have more than enough.

My Thanksgiving might not be happy, but it reminds me to be grateful.  I am in love with what I have.

Trees Outside the Window

This is my last full day in South Florida.  Tomorrow I return to New Jersey, where a foot of snow awaits.  My company from Germany has gone, and I am just chilling here, taking photos in my head of the palm trees outside my window.  Perhaps it's a good thing that the skies are overcast and there is a gusty wind; it doesn't seem as painful to leave Paradise when it isn't acting as I think Paradise should.

But while I am sitting by my window, I am also trolling social media.  A woman who grew up next door to me is visiting her mother, who still lives there.  She took a picture of the snow gathering outside and posted it.  I am still trying to process how it felt to be scrolling my newsfeed and come upon a picture of my childhood home.  Surreal comes to mind.

Yes, that's my house.  If you've been following this blog, you know that it's not my house anymore.  I believe I posted about visiting the "new" owners several months ago and how strange that was.

But there it is, an accidental capture of my childhood home in a picture meant to highlight the snow.  See the window on the left?  My bedroom.  I used to reverse myself in my bed at night so that my head was at the foot of the bed, by that window.  There was a maple tree outside the window (gone now), and I can still hear the leaves rustling in the summer night breezes.  They soothed and frightened me at the same time.  Somehow . . . and this is hard to articulate . . . they spoke to me of a world that was larger than the one in which I was living.  I wanted desperately to venture out into its mystery, at the same time wanting to remain safe inside.  And guess what?  I still feel the same way.

I am listening to what the trees want to teach me.  As far as I can tell, they are saying Come here!  We have a world to show you!   But they also whisper Stay where you are safe and protected.  I am still trying to decide which voice gets to steal my heart.

And I think it's both.

Cousins

This post is a likely segue from yesterday's.  Although in yesterday's post, I posited that I wasn't sure if Marcel and I are related, after last night's little pizza party, I am convinced that we are.

My cousin Mary and I are first cousins, as her mother and my father were siblings.  Although I am the one who wears that little-known last name, Mary is as much a Mattil as I am.  Mary knows a story about our great-great-great-grandfather being fostered by a wealthy couple (royalty, perhaps?) in Alsace-Lorraine who for some reason, was sent off to America at the age of fourteen.  This was during the French Revolution, something I know nothing about, but Mary is a history teacher, so I will trust her on this.  We, of course, like to think that our ancestor was of royal blood, perhaps born out of wedlock and so hidden from the world?  Who knows?  But it's fun to think about.

Mary and two of her daughters (my first cousins, once removed?) came over tonight to meet my friend Marcel Mattil from Germany.  This was the first time here that I added two leaves to my parents' old maple dining room table in order to accommodate seven of us.  Now if that doesn't sound like family, I don't know what does.

We devoured three large pizzas and chatted away a few hours.  Although Marcel and Juliane speak excellent English, there are times when they don't recognize a word and ask about it.  At one point, Mary was telling a story in which there were deer, and neither Marcel nor Juliane knew what deer were.  Mary didn't miss a beat:  "You know, like Bambi?"

"Ah, yes!" exclaimed Marcel and Juliane at the same time.  Sometimes, you just need a little Disney to make life easier.

As a prelude to Thanksgiving, a friend on social media posted a handy-dandy chart to help relatives figure out their relationship status.  The directions to the chart are thus:  Figure out the common ancestor between two relatives. Then select the relationship of the first relative to the common ancestor in the top row. Move down to the row that corresponds to the relationship of the second person to the common ancestor. The result is the relationship of the second person to the first.

I've decided I don't need that chart to know that I am related to the people around my old extended table.  All I needed was the laughter, the stories, the shared food, and the warm feeling to know that we were all from the same place.  And that I love my cousins.

Birkenstock

Nine months ago, in a post titled Chocolate, I told you about my friend Marcel from Frankfurt, Germany.  To spare you the time and effort of going back to that post, I will just say that Marcel and I share a last name, although we do not know if we are related.  We found each other on Facebook about six years ago, and have been online friends for all that time.  Marcel is now 25.

Finally, today, I got to meet Marcel and his girlfriend Juliane.  They arrived in Miami on Saturday and are spending a couple of days with me before they continue their Florida adventure.  I took them to the beach this afternoon and out to dinner tonight.  Tomorrow they will go off for an afternoon of shopping, and tomorrow night, my Florida cousins (also likely related to Marcel) will come over for pizza, a strange but fun pre-Thanksgiving gathering.

A few years ago, in exchange for some Tommy Hilfiger shirts that I purchased here and sent over to Germany, Marcel bought me a pair of Birkenstocks and sent them over here.  I have been wearing Birkenstocks (as all tree-hugging hippies do) since 1983, and one can never have too many pair.

So imagine my delight this morning when Marcel proudly presented me with a pair of navy blue Birkies from Germany!

The very fact that he was able to recall my size endears him to me even more.  You can believe that I am wearing these Birkies as I type this.  I can't wait for someone to comment on them so I can tell the story of how they came to be mine.

Yes, I love my Birkenstocks.  But I am in love with much more than that.  I am in love with an unlikely friendship that has spanned generations and continents, and I am in love with the thoughtfulness of a young man whom I am proud to call my cousin . . . whether or not he actually is.

Banana Bread

Overnight guests are coming, and I am in full hostess mode.  Yeah, that's a lie.  I cleaned the bathroom, changed the sheets, and stocked the fridge with beer and hummus.  We're good to go.

Except for one thing:  the banana bread.  Nothing says home like banana bread.

I have been making banana bread for decades.  It's a simple recipe, one my mother gave me.  I usually have all the ingredients on hand.  During my kids' childhood, whenever there were a couple of over-ripe bananas on the counter, you could be sure that there would be banana bread the next morning.  Although I got a D- in Care Packages during their college years, I know there were a few times that banana bread arrived at their dorm rooms thanks to Mom.

With my kids gone, I have not made banana bread in awhile.  In fact, I'm pretty sure there are about a dozen very ripe bananas in the freezer at home, some sort of promise that I will produce bakery goods at some point in the future.  Right.

But company is coming!  I made a quick trip to Publix this morning to get everything I need.  Seems I forgot that my best banana bread contains miniature chocolate chips and coconut flakes; I did not put them in my shopping cart.  Worst of all, I didn't realize that I do not have any bread pans at this place!  But if you think that would inspire me to drive back to Publix on a Sunday afternoon, you do not know me very well.

There's a rectangular Corningware dish in the cabinet.  That will do.  (I think.)  And so I get to work, mashing those bananas, beating those eggs, folding in those dry ingredients.  The kitchen takes on an aroma . . . it smells like home.

It is not hard to fall in love with banana bread.  I've been doing it for decades.

Camelot

Although yes, I did love the musical and the Warner Brothers film version with Vanessa Redgrave and Richard Harris, my love today is for the JFK Presidency, fondly referred to as Camelot.  It was 51 years ago today that the unthinkable happened and ended the dream.  I have seen some people complaining on social media that there isn't much coverage today of the assassination that gripped the nation all those years ago.  I guess the thinking is that last year, the 50th anniversary, was enough?

Well, I will pay tribute here.

My favorite person growing up was my grandmother.  She was a fanatic Democrat and a devout Catholic, so of course, she was in love with JFK.  And so was I.  I can still see myself, sitting at her kitchen table, composing a letter to the President, requesting an autographed picture.  And I received one . . . a picture of Jack and Jackie.  The "autograph" wasn't real, but I didn't care.  (I do have Robert Kennedy's real autograph, however.)  I didn't understand a whit about politics; I was in love with this young, handsome President and his beautiful wife.  Little Caroline and JonJon completed the love.  I still have a copy of the Vaughn Meader LP, The First Family, a satire on the Presidency.

Fifty-one years ago today, I was in 8th grade.  On that afternoon, the 7th and 8th grade girls were in the 7th grade classroom, watching a filmstrip called Growing Up and Liking It, a lie that was forced upon us.  The boys were in the 8th grade classroom, having a study hall.  The boys were informed when the President was shot, but the powers-that-be didn't want to interrupt the filmstrip, so the girls were not told.  By the time the filmstrip was over and we returned to our classroom, the President was dead.  I felt very strongly, for years, that if I had been told sooner, I could have prayed very, very  hard, and the President would have survived.

Nobody wanted Camelot to end.

I understand that we tend to romanticize certain times in history.  I also understand that JFK may not have been the Prince that we thought he was.  But a look at what followed . . . VietNam, Watergate, endless war in the Middle East, 9/11, etc. . . . and the Camelot years look pretty good.

So I choose to be in love with a time when everything seemed possible, when we felt relatively safe, and when a little girl could write a letter to the President and receive a large envelope in the mail . . . from Camelot.

Space

I wanted to title this one My Space, but that sounded like a retro social app, so no.  But what I am falling in love with today is my space.

(On a random side note, let it be known that this is my 301st post.  I'm in the home stretch.  Wow.)

So my friends-who-also-paint were here again today, and the painting of Shabby Chic is 90% complete.  Today's job was the guest bathroom, and it received an upgrade I wasn't anticipating.  It now has wainscoting.  Looks like a cottage.  I love it.

I have always believed that one must love his/her space.  Whether it's a dorm room or a first apartment or a starter home or a dream-come-true mansion, if you don't love the space you're living in, you are doomed.  You work hard.  When the work day is over, you need to love the place you call home.

I am fortunate in that I have two homes.  (Well, sort of.  My daughter pays rent to live in one of them.)  When I visit my second home, I try to make it a space to love.  I call it Shabby Chic.  There is nothing . . . nothing . . . in that space worth anything at all.  Except to me.  Old furniture, repurposed and refinished.  Good will finds.  Pieces of furniture that my father built.  And walls painted by dear friends who share my vision.

Take a look:

Yes.  I love my space.  Here, I am content.  What more can one ask of this life?

The Thing With Feathers

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

I've been watching ibis and egrets and seagulls all day.  Vultures and hawks, too.  The sky is busy with flight.  

I've also been pondering the concept of hope.  An old friend, after a long and difficult recovery from surgery, is beginning chemotherapy today.  On her birthday, no less.  

So Emily's poem has been drifting through my head, in and out in rhythms and rhymes, affording some small measure of comfort.  Small.  Because that thing with feathers, for me, is weak and damaged and unsure of the way out of the storm.  Nonetheless, it has survived.

I am hopeful for many things, large and small.  On the frivolous side, I am hopeful for some good beach weather, a phone call, a good night's sleep.  Nothing depends on these things happening, and nothing bad will happen if the little bird of hope flies away.  

(Okay, this is a bit weird.  As soon as I typed that, I received the phone call I'd been hoping for.  Whoa. Now I'm going to hope for the defeat of the Keystone Pipeline, a sale on Talenti Gelato, and a mild and short winter.)

But my heart is filled with hope for my friend during her treatment, for the safety of my loved ones always, and some degree of peace in this world.  Fly strong, little bird, and let love guide you.

Talenti Sea Salt Caramel Gelato

Yes, you read that right.  I've been getting way too serious about this blog lately.  Time to lighten up.  At 240 calories per serving, I am in love with gelato.  But, hey, who's counting?

Salted caramel is the most amazing thing to come along since the microwave oven.  Yes, that's my opinion.  But I bet there are a whole lot of people out there who share that opinion.  And I bet you know some of them.  Maybe you ARE one of them?  Fess up!

Talenti Sea Salt Caramel Gelato is an indulgence that I only give in to when I am visiting my daughter in Florida.  Why?  Because that limits the amount I can consume.  If I indulged in this delight every day . . . well, you don't want to know.  So I have it when I am "on vacation."

Admittedly, any frozen gelato that one can buy at the Publix is not the same as the real thing, no matter how expensive it might be.  I have eaten gelato in Italy, and nothing, nothing, can compare.  I have a vivid memory of a summer night eating hazelnut gelato in Lido.  I do not think I will ever be able to repeat that ecstasy in this lifetime.  (But I might try to.)

For now, it's all I can do to screw that top back on and save some gelato for tomorrow night.  This is love.

Prayer

This one requires explanation.  I have struggled with the concept of prayer most of my adult life, probably starting with Jim Morrison's admonition at the beginning of "The Soft Parade":  You cannot petition the lord with prayer!  Prayer was extremely important in the religion in which I was raised, but it consisted of memorizing the traditional exhortations, never really understanding what they even meant.  Don't even get me started on the practice of droning these litanies while holding a string of plastic beads.  Once again, I apologize if I have offended you; it is not my intention.

Which brings me to the thing that opened my mind to the concept of prayer.  Rumi, the Persian mystic, is credited with this simple truth:  There are a hundred ways to kneel and kiss the ground.  I found myself repeating this line often during the time that my late husband was dying of cancer.  So many people prayed for his survival and repeatedly told us they were doing so.  We had to learn to thank them for something that we knew was not going to change his fate.  Their intentions were good, and we knew that.  I still recall what may have been the wisest thing ever said to me.  When I asked him privately to dedicate a song to Pete at a concert, the folksinger Tom Rush said to me, "I hope things turn out the way they'e supposed to."  While I don't think I can understand why things turned out the way they did in this life, at least his wisdom helped to dispel the notion that all that prayer had failed when it did not produce a cure.

As for Pete, his preferred ways of kneeling to kiss the ground included solitary hikes in the woods, fiercely-played tennis matches, watching herons in flight, and top-down drives to secret waterfalls.

This morning, a friend posted a poem by one of my favorite poets, Mary Oliver.  Its theme, similar to the Rumi quote, reminded me that there is a place for prayer in my life.  Of course, I fell in love with the poem.  I hope that you do, too:

Praying

It doesn't have to be

the blue iris, it could be

weeds in a vacant lot, or a few

small stones; just

pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don't try

to make them elaborate, this isn't

a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which

another voice may speak

Who Really Cares

Full disclosure:  I have no idea what Google circles are.  Or Google chrome or Google plus or anything Google except the search engine and my gmail account.  I also don't know much at all about the Blogosphere, despite that fact that I am a blogger.  Or I am pretending to be a blogger.  All I know is that way back on January 26th, I challenged myself to fall in love with something every single day for a year and to write about it.  The pressure of having to post it via a blog was deliberate.  If someone was watching, I had to produce.  And I know that there are two or three of you out there who are watching.

I also know that some days, my blog posts kick ass.  And other days (most), they disappoint me (and probably you, too).  Yesterday's post, the one about Framing It, was not an ass-kicker.  But give me a break . . . I'm 296 posts in, and I'm running out of ideas.

Nonetheless, it upset me to see, via an email notification, that someone I don't know saw fit to comment on that post through a Google circle or something.  His comment was brief:  Who really cares.  (I put that period there; the commenter had no punctuation at the end of his comment.)

I am thin-skinned and the first to admit it.  I spent most of last evening reminding myself that I do not know this person and that he cannot hurt me.  I am still reminding myself about that.

But here's what's stuck in my craw.  What was his purpose?  It was a hurtful comment, and by that I mean that there could be no other intent but to hurt me, someone he does not know.  Is this what we do now?  Make cyber comments with the sole purpose of hurting someone?  I find it cowardly.

Aha!  But it is Day 297, and I have to fall in love!  So the gift from my unknown commenter is here, right now, in this post.  Who really cares?

The teacher who senses something amiss and pulls a student aside to ask what's wrong.  The check-out cashier who takes a minute to compliment a shopper on her clothes.  The commuter at the toll booth who pays the toll for the car behind her.  The guy from Lowes sent to measure for a new door, who offers to rehang the old one instead to save the consumer some money.  The state trooper who gives a warning instead of a ticket.  The family that works a soup kitchen on Thanksgiving.  The woman who raises money at street fairs to support an orphanage in Cambodia.  The kids who wash cars to donate money to the local animal shelter.

You get the idea.  There are people who post comments designed to hurt someone.  And then there are people who really care.  Which one are you?

Framing It

Last April was the last time I was here in Delray Beach.  I went to a street fair and purchased a lovely print titled Delray Affair 2014.  I hastily tacked it to the wall with a promise that next time I was here, I would go to a frame shop and do right by it.  So here I am, in Delray again.  But the economist in me says that, despite the fact that framers have to make a living, I cannot afford to support them.  Sad but true.

So today, I went off to my favorite haunts.  Places with names like Habitat Restore and Good Will.  Although I did not find the furniture piece that I was searching for, I did find a large framed print that would serve my purposes.  I paid my $15.90 and went home with my treasure.

The print that I bought was awful.  Washed out, nostalgic, pedestrian.  But it wasn't the print that I'd paid for.  I wanted the frame.  It was a bit scratched, so I got out my reliable Annie Sloan Chalk Paint (white) and got to work.  When it was dry, I polished the glass and inserted my Delray Affair 2014 print.  A molly and a screw into the wall, and my framed print was in place.  I love it.

Okay, so the colors are off and the flash kind of messes it up, but trust me, my $15.90 frame looks pretty darn good compared to the $200 or so I would have spent at a frame shop.  And I helped to support Habitat for Humanity.  It's all good.

Because it's all in how you frame it.  You can call me cheap, but I can counter that with the truth that where I shop says a lot about who I am.  I want to support businesses that make a difference.  It is the reason that I will not shop at WalMart, where the richest family in America cannot pay its workers a decent wage or provide them with health insurance.  They will, however, expect their underpaid workers to spend their food stamps at WalMart stores, where the food is cheap and unhealthy.

So today, I supported Habitat for Humanity instead.  They're happy, I'm happy, and my print is happy.  It's all in how you frame it.  I framed it with love.

Patience, Part II

I wrote about patience back in April.  Yes, it's a virtue.  Not one that I ever remember having.  But I've been noticing lately that it's becoming easier to be patient.  I very recently described myself as a patient person, then said, "Wait.  What?  You're patient?"

Yes!  I am!  I can wait for it, whatever "it" is.  A phone call, an email, a get-together, a trip, a date, a package from amazon.com, a new car, the return of one of my adventuring children.  I can wait.

And it's kind of bizarre, isn't it?  When I was younger and had it all, I was so impatient for more.  I couldn't wait for holidays, I couldn't wait for summer, I couldn't wait for all those "firsts" that my kids accomplished, I couldn't wait for the next episode of thirtysomething.  I was always looking ahead, waiting for the next thing.  Impatiently.

Now I'm older, running out of time, and I am patiently waiting, as if I have all the time in the world.

Why?

Why not?  I have arrived at the whatever stage of life.  I've had a lot of joy, and I've had a lot of sadness.  I've waited for things, and whether I was patient or not, they either happened or they didn't.  So what is the point of being impatient?

No point at all.  I love being released from impatience.

Driving South

If you read yesterday's post, you know I didn't drive all the way south.  I drove to Virginia, and then I let Amtrak do some of the driving.  I took the wheel again in Sanford, near Orlando.  But it turns out the rest of the drive was the best!  Overcast and in the 50s in Sanford, my drive south got warmer and sunnier by the mile.  I stopped at two different rest areas to shed more clothes.  It didn't take long for me to roll the windows down.  (Never mind that pushing a button is different than rolling down a window; I like the image and the expression.)  By the time I got to my destination, it felt like summer.

And that's South Florida.  In a state in which there are places where it's illegal to feed the homeless, the climate is more than humanitarian.  If this is Paradise, why is there still poverty and greed?  And stupid laws?

I know the answer to that.  Because poverty and greed are everywhere.  Even in Paradise.  As for stupid laws, I suppose they are everywhere, too.

But wait . . . this is about literally driving south, not figuratively.

It is amazing that in this country, you can drive in and out of divergent landscapes and climates.  And I am in love with them all.  Admittedly, I am not a fan of cities, especially those that are crowded and dirty and architecturally impoverished.  But the natural landscape, be it seashore, mountain, prairie, mesa, farmland, or desert, awakens a spiritual appreciation for the universe and all its wonderment.

And so it is here in the land of palm trees and warm breezes and Ron Jon billboards.  (I am trying to love them.)  I know I am fortunate to be able to point my old Jeep south and go for it.  And apparently, I got out of town just in time.  The day after I left my northeast home, a snowfall blanketed the landscape.  That, of course, is beautiful, too.

But today I am in love with something else.  Call it warmth.

The Autotrain

Yeah, I'm not really in love with the autotrain, but maybe if I write about it, I will find something to love.

When I visit my daughter in Florida, I am dependent on her for transportation.  That's not really a problem on short visits, but if this winter up north is anything like last winter, I plan to spend more time in the Sunshine State.  So I decided to move my trusty old Jeep south.

Of course, I could have driven it there myself, but my lower back got into an argument with me about that plan and won.  So the autotrain it was.

The autotrain departs from Lorton, Virginia (south of DC) at 4:00 in the afternoon and arrives in Sanford, Florida (near Orlando) at 9:30 a.m.  If you need some help with the math, that's seventeen and a half hours.  On a train.  Through the night.  Sitting (in my case) next to a stranger.

They start boarding cars at 11:30, so I decided to get there by noon.  There were already tons of people there!  (When all was said and done, there were 425 passengers on board and 240 cars.) You're given a number, but if you think that number has anything to do with the order in which cars are deboarded, you would be mistaken.  For that, you can pay $50 for Priority Deboarding.  Now in my world, that $50 can buy five bottles of wine, so I passed.

They start boarding people at 2:30 and the train pulls out at 4:00.  My seatmate was a woman close to my age with a hard luck story and a heart of gold.  Nita became my best friend for the duration of the trip, despite her sleep apnea and heavy snoring.  It was nice to have someone to go to the dining car with.  Yes, dinner is included, and it actually wasn't bad.  There's also a lounge car where one can purchase beverages.

Now, last year, I spent a total of 25 hours on three planes to get me to Australia.  The longest leg, LA to Melbourne, was a challenge, especially when you fly economy (which I call steerage).  In contrast, the seats on the autotrain were large and roomy, reclined fully, and had more legroom than I could use.  There are sleeper cars, which cost more, of course.  I would imagine they provide a more comfortable ride, but I did not see inside the sleeper cars to tell you anything about them.  But for what it is (which is over 17 hours on a train, for Pete's sake!), the autotrain makes it a tolerable journey, even if you're trying to sleep in a seat surrounded by a lot of people who snore.

So what did I fall in love with?  I fell in love with the fact that I was able to make a friend on this trip, one who helped pass the time with conversation and laughter and good will.  Nita and I did not exchange phone numbers or emails, as it was unlikely that our paths would cross again or that we would sustain our "friendship" after our vehicles emerged from the auto cars.  But for seventeen and a half hours, I was not alone on my journey, and that was a lovely thing.

WitCanCarry

With apologies to dear friends Jim and Lois, I don't recall exactly from whose lines they took the name of their pub.  Was it Sir Francis Bacon?  Isaac Disraeli?  WitCanCarry now stands apart from its origin.  It is my second favorite pub in the world (with my own home tavern being my favorite).  Today, visiting the pub's new location, I got to fall in love with it all over again.

Jim and Lois, whom I've known for more years than I care to count, lived a mere twenty minutes away.  Add four hours to that, and their home and pub is no longer the place to stop in for a glass of wine, some snacks, and a lot of witty conversation.  Although I have not seen them since they moved over a year ago, we did the old pick up where we left off trick.

At their old home, Jim and Lois created a pub out of an attached garage.  It was a labor of love if there ever was one, as all of the work, including the construction of the oak bar, was done by hand.  Aside from the bar, there was a seating area with a small propane stove and the beloved ruby couch, Chunky Begonia.  The pub's decor consisted of many handmade puppets, small curiosities, nostalgic memorabilia, and all kinds of whimsical distractions.

And they were all there today in their new home!  Except for the bar, which was too heavy to be moved.  In its place is a fabulous replacement, built by Jim, and every bit as beautiful as the one left behind.  (What luck for the new owners!)  In a reminder that not everything can be replaced, the coins embedded in the surface of the new bar are United States quarters.  The old bar held foreign coins collected by Jim and Lois in their travels.  No matter where they're from, I still like circling the coins with my fingertip as I enjoy wine and conversation at the bar.

Jim's inspiration for his pubs was rooted in his childhood, when many suburban families renovated their basements into bars.  Picture those relics of the 50s, dark and dank respites from the hard work of the day.  In all likelihood, they doubled as fallout shelters during the Cold War.

But there is nothing dark and dank or cold about WitCanCarry.  The comfort of a couch with a name, the nostalgia of a lifetime worth of good memories, and the warmth of old friendships can carry the day.  Add a good dose of wit, and you can fall in love.

Please and Thank You

Veterans Day was created as "a day dedicated to the cause of world peace."  Although it originally commemorated the temporary cessation of hostilities between the Allied Nations and Germany on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month of 1918, the Great War or the War to End All Wars was soon followed by a long list of wars and conflicts.  So much for world peace.

Today my Facebook newsfeed is full of people thanking our veterans for their service.  Yes, there are pictures of veterans in uniforms and stories of where loved ones served and lots and lots of flags.  But always the words Thank you for your service.

Most of us were taught to say thank you when someone did something for us or gave us something.  Saying thank you is simply good manners.  But I have struggled with this current exercise in lip service.  (If you find that comment offensive, just hang in there, okay?)  It reminds me of Have a nice day, a hollow and meaningless cliche that we cannot seem to retire.  I wonder how many times a veteran is verbally thanked in this way?  And is it meaningful to him or her?

As if to answer my question, my neighbor (whose two sons served in Afghanistan) posted this from a Facebook page titled Crusty Pissed Off Veteran:

We all dread this day. It's a day where we are all thanked for the things we have done. A day where everyone is obligated to say thank you. We don't know how to say, "You're welcome..." without sounding like absolute assholes. But then the majority of us don't want to be thanked. We want our friends back. We all, to a man, want to go back in time and do whatever it is we could do differently to send someone home that is not there today. So desperately is this our desire that we dread this day. The day we have to awkwardly say, "You're welcome..." to people who are oblivious as to exactly what they're thanking us for...

We recognize more memorial days than you. We sleep less than you. We drink more than you. We twist and turn, in the little sleep we get, more than you. We regret more than you. We wish things were different more than you do. We are grateful for things more than you are. We want to go back in time...more than you do. We want to trade places more than you do.  We are angrier than you are. We are more alone... than you are. 

You're welcome.

This is one reaction to the issue.  I'm sure there are other veterans who revel in the thanks that come their way, I hope on more days than just this one.  But Crusty Pissed Off Veteran makes a good point.  And it should be heard.  There is nothing hollow in his sentiment.

My own nephew, who served in Desert Storm, is one soldier whom I know would like to go back and try for a different outcome for a loss that he suffered.  I know he has struggled all these years.

BUT!  Today, on this Veterans Day, my nephew's second son was born!  And long before the contractions began, the little guy's parents had decorated his room in red, white, and blue!  Poetic justice?  I think so!

I can thank my nephew for his service.  But I would rather say to the Masters of War:  Please!  Do not send this child -- or any of our children -- to war.

 

Memory of My Mother

My mother was born 93 years ago today.  She died of Alzheimers four years ago.  It seems fitting to write about her today and allow myself to fall in love with my memory of her.

As baby boomers, my siblings and I grew up with many friends whose fathers had served in World War II.  That was not uncommon.  But for us, not only did we have our father’s Army service of which to be proud…we also had our mother’s Coast Guard service to brag about.  After graduating as salutatorian of her high school class of 1939 and then working as a secretary, Mom was inspired to serve her country and was the first woman to enlist in any branch of the service in this county at the start of World War II.  Initially trained as a WAVE in the US Navy, she transferred to the SPARS of the US Coast Guard in 1943.  She attained the rank of Chief Yeoman in March 1945, having her picture taken for a press release with eight other chiefs, including heart-throb Cesar Romaro.  

 The following month, she marched with a company of SPARS directly in front of the caisson bearing the flag-draped coffin of Franklin Delano Roosevelt.  One of Mom’s favorite memories of her time in Washington, D.C. was when she and a friend, while out walking, met and spoke with Admiral Chester Nimitz of Pearl Harbor fame.

My pride in my mother's service is obvious.  However, having a military mom might be the reason that I tend to be a perfectionist.  Making a bed, for instance . . . hospital corners are mandatory.  The dollar bills in my wallet better be facing the same direction, or I won't be able to sleep at night.  And my organizational skills are A1.

My mother had an amazing work ethic.  In a time when many women were stay-at-home moms, she was able to manage a home, raise three children, be an active member of several organizations, such as the Fire Department Ladies Auxiliary and the Rosary Society, and work outside the home.  A medical secretary, she donned her white uniform and shoes and walked to and from the doctor's office twice a day.  In elementary school, we would walk home to lunch on the table while Mom got ready for work, rebrushed our ponytails, and ran into the living room to catch what she could of Love of Life and Search for Tomorrow.  She’d send us out the door with a reminder, “Don’t run!” and then be off to work.  She’d return home long enough to cook dinner, clean up, and go back, many nights attending an auxiliary meeting after work.  She never complained about her full plate.

 

This was also a woman who could make end-of-the-year corsages for our teachers, fix anything that needed fixing, and wallpaper a room better than a professional.

A year after my first child was born, when my mother was the same age that I am now, she completed a hand-written booklet of her recollections of her childhood.  In honor of her birthday today, I reread it and could not help but imagine her reunited with her beloved parents and relatives.  At the end of the booklet, she reflected on how much things have changed, a habit that my generation has come to practice these days.

 And so I remember her, today and every day.  I fell in love with her the moment I saw her face.  It was the first face that I loved, and that love is the reason that I can continue to fall in love.  Today and every day.