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.