Do You Hear What I Hear?

Perhaps it’s a little early for Christmas stories — but, I’ll take my chances. Christmas has always been my favorite time of the year. I envy those among us with such lack of self-resolve that they are able to pull off those masterful house renovations. You know, the people who decorate every inch of their home with wreaths, chair covers – down to the toilet paper. Their roofs are perfectly strung with lights and their bushes are ever so bright.

I know with very little encouragement, I could be that obnoxious with my merriment. (Everyone can thank my husband for putting the kibosh on those tendencies.) The need to over-exaggerate the holiday festivities goes way back for me. Christmas has always been filled with too many gifts and too much food. I know I’m risking being very politically incorrect talking about excess at Christmas — but, as I said earlier, I’ll take my chances.

For as long as I can remember, Christmas morning has always followed the same routine:

Open stockings,

Wait for everyone to arrive,

Invade living room,

Trash living room,

Eat.

This is a routine that has been repeated every Christmas – for as long as I can remember. The anticipation of the great reveal was so intense, so enormous – my parents living room had a door on either end. The kids would gather at one door while the parents would sneak in through the other door with cameras at the ready. Then the kids door would open and in they would run — eyes wide, mouths gaped open, arms raised in sheer disbelief at the bounty before them — before us. The presents would make a huge circle in front of the tree, so big that we had to creep over the bounty to find a place to sit.

My parents bought their house in 1965. My mother sold it last summer after she was diagnosed with cancer and it had become apparent that she would not be able to live there, alone. This house was the only home I had ever lived in — a fairly strange phenomenon I think. There was rarely a Christmas that we all did not gather there to celebrate — even as we became adults with children of our own. The majority of our Christmases were spent at this house, and all of our Christmases have been spent together. Last Christmas was the first time that Mom and Dad’s house was not ours to celebrate in. But it was ok, we were still together — and Mom was feeling fairly well.

I distinctly remember one rare Christmas that we all had gathered at my grandparents house. My sister and I were probably around six and eight. We had pleaded with our grandparents to let us sleep under the Christmas tree — we had hope beyond imagination that we would catch Santa as he came down the chimney. They agreed and we began our night of trying to stay awake. It didn’t take long before we had both lost our battle and had succumbed to sleep. But, very emphatically, we both woke up at the same time. And then we heard it — a thumping sound on the roof above us. We were both so rattled and excited that we hid our heads under the covers, scared to peek out until eventually, sleep won again. The next morning we awoke to that huge circle of gifts, surrounding us, and a story we could not tell fast enough. We have retold that story of the thumping on the roof for years and I’m not sure if anyone believes us. But, I swear to this day, that is a true story.

My father was the master photographer and videographer. I remember the camera he used to record our Christmases when we were young. I don’t know anything about cameras but I know this one had no sound and we had to watch it with a film projector, on a screen. My father was very particular about who was allowed to run the projector because if it got stuck for too long in any spot, it would melt the film. He had a lighting set-up that most Hollywood studios would envy — he had attached a large string of lights to a post on a stand, and if you looked at them for too long, they could burn a hole right through your retina. One Christmas a few years ago, my father had gathered all the old films of us growing up… first steps, vacations, Christmases. He put all those special memories together for each one of us kids and transferred it to a DVD. It was an incredible gift. And there were the presents, surrounding the Christmas tree, as wide as the room.

But this Christmas, we’re on our own — for the first time in our lives. Just us kids, forced now to be the adults. Hoping to continue those excessive memories for our own children. Hoping to recreate those certain foods that when the smell of them permeate throughout the house, you know its Christmas. Hoping to have so many packages under the tree that no one can walk near it without tripping. Hoping that Santa doesn’t lose his way because we all need the joy.

In a few days, I’ll start pulling out Christmas decorations. Just a few at a time so as not to draw concern from my husband. But, before it’s all over, I hope to have bright lights on the house, Bing Crosby crooning from the CD, “It’s A Wonderful Life” playing on the TV, and a living room filled with more presents than any one tree should be allowed to display. I want to always have the excesses of Christmas.

I Covet The Keyboard

I was thinking back to my childhood recently as I was fighting my kids over computer time. We just purchased a new computer a couple of weeks ago so we’re all very excited over getting to know it. This is the first computer we’ve bought in about 11 years — I know, hard to believe myself. Our old Mac finally quit, for good — otherwise, I’m sure we’d still be fighting over that tired, old bubble. I’ve thought about getting my two oldest kids laptops. I say it’s to help with their school work but really, I need face time with the keyboard.

When I was in middle school, I remember my best friend getting a computer for her home. Some of you will remember what a true phenomenon this was back in the early 80’s. The Commodore 64. It was — at the time — the most incredible thing I had ever seen. It plugged directly into the television. I remember playing some rat race game on it and I remember being able to type things on it (of course, there was no printer so the typing was fairly pointless). When I started high school, everyone wanted to take the computer classes. We had those Radio Shack machines and learned to write programs where you could guide the tank around and blow things up.

In college, we had to send our papers to a typist — they were usually the only ones with access to a word processor much less any type of printing capabilities (unless you were lucky enough to have a parent with a secretary). But my sophomore year, a girl arrived in the dorms with a computer and a printer. We all flocked to her room and did whatever we could to become her best friend — she never let anyone but her roommate use that thing. Trips to the library, late at night, to finish papers were never-ending.

When my husband and I got married, his mother bought him a word processor. It could print the papers out — amazing. Of course, I had already completed my undergraduate degree… but, it did come in handy as I helped write his papers. Then finally, as I was beginning my graduate studies — we purchased our first real home computer — printer, internet access, the full package. I still remember sitting down to that bubble Mac and being amazed — it came with a CD encyclopedia. I watched the Hindenburg explode and Martin Luther King speak at the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and Billie Jean King win the Battle of the Sexes — all right there from that disk on my computer. Access to the internet was mind-blowing — even though it took nine minutes to begin and the only thing available was AOL — but still, it was incredible.

My father bought a computer a couple of years before he passed away. He researched computers for months before he found the right one. Since he was already retired, we weren’t really sure what he was looking for in his computer — but watching him study all the brands and types, creating grids and flowcharts, was quite humorous. He ended up getting one that — I believe — had enough capabilities to guide the next shuttle launch.

He used it for pictures.

Really good pictures.

Pictures of his kids and grandkids, vacations, holidays … everyday. There are hundreds of pictures stored on that computer. He developed albums and added goofy captions to them. He used it to create a pictorial legacy — much better than a shuttle launch. That computer crashed a few months ago — I have faith that some computer tech can fix it. I’ve got to get it fixed.

I have to admit, sometimes I make up reasons to ground my kids from the new computer so I can get some time on it (of course, I won’t be able to use this parenting technique anymore now that I’ve outed myself). So here I sit, hoping the Vampire Diaries stay on long enough for me to finish a thought, contemplating buying laptops in the name of improved grades. Once again, I’ve discovered something I’m doing that has the appearance of being a great parent, but, in actuality, is out of sheer selfishness.

But, I cherish this new computer. I completely covet it when my kids are using it — I’m constantly thinking about what I’m going to do once my turn comes around. My kids will one day recount stories of the computer they had when they were young and how all their mother did on it was write stories.

In the mean time, as I ever so patiently wait for my turn, I can jot down thoughts on the iPhone — another amazing piece of technology (one that my husband regrets ever surprising me with). Unfortunately, the kids have taken it to play games on at the moment .

Those additional laptops seem like a great idea.

…and Dog Gone It, People Like Me!

Don’t we all have those people in our lives that we want to let know how great we’re doing now, how great we turned out in spite of them? Or those people you just want to let know you aren’t that same weird kid because of them? I’ve had quite a few of those people along the way. The one’s I know think (yes, I’m just conceded enough that I believe they still think about me) I’m probably a community college drop-out, wandering from job to job, desperately searching for a good man.

I had a teacher in high school tell me I would never be able to pass a college level writing class — the first paper I turned in was an A, and  the professor raved about it. I wanted to make a copy and mail it to my old high school teacher — I did not. There was also that teacher in middle school (I can hold a grudge) that told me a question I asked was ignorant, like me. When I received my graduate degree from Vanderbilt, I wanted to make a copy of it and mail it to her with a note attached that said, “How’s middle school?” — I did not.

A few years ago I looked up my tennis coach from college. She had always been very supportive and soft-spoken with us all, so this wasn’t a revenge look up — more of a let you know I’m not nearly as screwed up as I appeared back then look up. I started exchanging emails and sporadic phone calls to let her know I had completed graduate school (at Vanderbilt, did I mention that already?), had been married for a while, had three kids, a career — all the important things. I remember one conversation, she asked me what led me to get back in contact with her. Hmm? Just to prove to myself (and her) that I wasn’t a mess — shear intrinsic need for self-gratification was the real answer.

You know those stories that you wait until you’re completely grown before you tell your parents? I’ve had a few of those stories. Like the time my mother was at the grocery store check out. I was around 21 at the time. The checker looked at her name on the check and asked her if she was my mother. When she told him yes, he proceeded to tell her, “That party she had when we were in high school was the greatest night of my life!” I’m not sure what the time frame is for waiting to tell your mother that you had 350 of your closest friends over that weekend she just happened to be out-of-town — but, I’m pretty sure the five years that had passed from the time of that party until the time she found out about that party was NOT enough.

But, those stories always bring a good laugh at the holidays — especially now that more than twenty years has passed (things become funnier and easier to stomach with time). There’s a few of those stories from college as well — I wonder if enough time has passed so my former coach won’t get mad if she hears about a few of the road trip stories? (The fact that at least one story led to a near deportation of a Swedish tennis player may be an indication that I should wait a few more years.) We all have those stories. The ones we love to share. The ones that show how imperfect we were at the time and how much we’ve grown since.

I think one of the main reasons we re-tell those stories is to prove to the people around us that we’re not that person anymore. Or, in some cases, that we’re much better than they ever gave us credit for. I’m certain that if my life had turned out the way that middle school teacher I’m sure to this day assumes it turned out, that I would be less than willing to share those stories of how I screwed up. I can’t imagine that people whose lives turned out exactly the way the nay-sayers had predicted would re-tell the stories that led them to their demise with a smile on their face. Can you hear Bernie Madoff yucking it up with his old grammar school teacher, “Remember when you use to think I was a sniveling, sneaky, little jerk?”

So, I’d say that remembering those reckless stories with the people we care about is a good way to remind ourselves that we’re not so bad after all. A good way to remember that we turned out ok in spite of some people and because of some others. I definitely think that Stuart Smalley was on to something — a little daily affirmation goes a long way. Especially if it involves a, now funny, story about the near deportation of an un-named Swedish tennis player.

It’s Friendship, Friendship!

The age of social media has given me new access to friends and I love it. My friend Mark got me started on Facebook about a year and a half ago. He told me about all the friends with whom he had reconnected. So, after a short tutorial, there I was — full into the obsession of Facebook. Within about two weeks, I had “friended” all the kids with whom I had gone to high school (our 20th reunion had been the year before so this was perfect timing — I graduated high school in ‘86, you can quit calculating it now). After that, I started working on the college friends. They were a little harder to find. But, pretty soon I became “friends” with the college kids too.

It’s so strange. Some of these people I hadn’t spoken with in over twenty years — and I would bet that I have more contact with some of my “friends” now, then I did back then. But, whatever the case, the new age of social media led me back to them. There was Emily — we were the best of friends in college but had lost touch with each other. And there was Louann — she and I were on the tennis team together in college and inseparable our freshman year. If it weren’t for Facebook, we would have continued to only remember each other and wonder what had become of our lives.

Now, there are downsides to Facebook. Sometimes the people you really had no intention of bringing back into your life are regurgitated up like a bad burrito. (I am probably this person to some of you — it’s ok, I can live with that.) But, we can wish each other a happy birthday, or grieve a loss together, or just say “hi” — at the push of a button. Now, I’m sure this isn’t as personable as it should be (what would Amy Vanderbilt say about this new age etiquette?). But, it is better than not knowing, isn’t it?

There’s also Twitter, a recently discovered obsession. It isn’t nearly as intimate as Facebook, but equally time-consuming to be sure. Twitter has given me new friends — 140 characters at a time. They are, most would say, complete strangers. But the reality is that I have laughed, shared recipes, and grieved with these “complete strangers”. Wouldn’t you agree that makes us friends? It’s hard to imagine that out of the millions of people on Twitter, I found the ones I did — I’ve always had a knack at spotting the cool girls I guess. I reconnected with my love of reading and writing and sharing because of those strangers I met, 140 characters at a time. These are my friends.

My parents had lifelong friends. There was the Cozean’s, with whom they had gone to high school and remained friends through all the years. And the Strite’s, neighborhood friends they had never lost touch with — even during a variety of moves. My mother had Ms. Bratten from work — they were great friends for years. And then there was Twerp, my mother’s friend from high school that she always talked about and had kept in touch. My father had Mr. Harrelson, his friend from down the road. My parents shared phone calls, letters, cards, and the occasional in person visit with these people they met along their life journey. These were their friends — it didn’t matter how often they saw each other in person — the in person contact was just a bonus.

The new age of social media gives me the chance to share with friends, old and new. (Not to mention, I’ve weaseled my way into some of my oldest daughters “friends” list — parents, use what you can!) My eighty year old uncle is on Facebook as is my tennis coach from college — how often would I take the time to share with these people if the only option was for me to send a letter? I can remember when I was a kid, my grandmother would always tell me to write her a letter. I wrote very few.

So, the new age of social media may not be the most ideal way of keeping in touch with friends — but, it’s better than not being in touch at all. Except, of course, for the occasional embarrassing photo tag — which reminds me, time to go through some photos.

The Music In Me

My husband and I took our two oldest kids to their first real concert a few days ago. It was Paramore — haven’t heard of them? Well, look them up — it was great. But, the best part was being involved in what is sure to be a great memory for the kids.

I remember my first real concert — Chic, 1978, I was ten (you remember, Aahh Freak Out!). I went with my best friend and her dad. We stood on the chairs and danced and thought that it couldn’t get any better than that moment in time. Music plays such an important role in all our memories — good , sad, scared. Music is always there. I love those songs that when I hear them, I immediately go back to that time — to those memories. I can hear the sounds of my friends voices, I can smell the scents that were floating around (which in many cases was Obsession perfume mixed with draft which is the reason I can no longer stomach either one).

I was driving around recently and heard “Brown Eyed Girl” — there I was, sitting at that pub in Memphis with all my girlfriends, singing as loud as we could on any given Wednesday night. Never underestimate the power of an 80’s movie soundtrack. Those sounds make me long for parachute pants and mullets. I can always find a good 80’s movie on cable and when I do, most likely, “Melt With You” will be somewhere in the soundtrack. When I hear it — my thoughts go straight to every high school dance I ever attended. Then there’s always the more obscure sounds — like every time I hear a Grateful Dead song, I have an unrelenting need to twirl around with my head down and my hands waving in that weird circular pattern.

My mom told me of a story from her college days. The Beatles were playing a show nearby and somehow a group of girls found out what hotel they were staying at. When the girls arrived at the hotel they were, of course, turned away. The girls came up with an alternate plan. Unfortunately, it involved scaling a wall and my mother had NO athletic ability — at all. So, she went back to her dorm and, so the story goes, her friends wound up in John Lennon’s hotel room. I tried to convince my mother that her friends were lying to her, that this never actually happened. But, she always stood by the story — and always recounted it when a Beatles song was playing (with much longing to have been the girl who sat on John Lennon’s bed).

Music was there at some very important times in my life. Bryan Adams, “Everything I Do” was playing when I fell in love with my husband (I have it on a cassette although I haven’t owned a cassette player in a few years). I can’t hear Anthony Skinner sing “Tall Angels” without remembering my father’s funeral; or Chris Tomlin’s “I Will Rise” without remembering my mother’s funeral. Whatever the memories, music is always there. Weaving its way around, filling all my thoughts and senses.

When I was in college, my brother was touring with a popular singer. We took my grandmother to the concert — she was probably 82 at the time. We had to buy her ear plugs and we brought a cushioned seat for her to sit on. But she was there. Watching and listening (albeit with her hands over her ear plugged ears) and laughing — with us. We share music with people we love and people we don’t know.

So, taking my kids to their first real concert was a memory for me that I very selfishly created. I will always be a part of that story when they retell it to their friends, and their children, and their grandchildren. The downside to it all is that their favorite Paramore song is called Ignorance. So, every time they hear that song, it will remind them of their dear old mom — great.

Free Will

When my husband and I decided to build a house four years ago, we picked a house plan that was two stories, four bedrooms — all upstairs. Now, at the time, we joked about how the kids would never be able to sneak out at night with all their bedrooms so high up. Of course, this wasn’t the only reason for picking this house plan — but it was a thought.

I am the youngest of four children. Our parents could boast that we never spent any time in a correctional facility, we never robbed anyone at gunpoint, we never ran away from home (I don’t think sneaking out the window and returning before sunrise counts), we all went to college. It wasn’t ideal I suppose — strictly because I’m not sure what ideal would look like. But, I’d say we had a pretty good growing up period (despite the fact that mom and dad were divorced for fifteen years, they re-married each other… but, that’s another story).

My father had a less than good growing up period. He was the oldest of six. His biological father was never around and his mother was unable to financially care for the kids. She placed them in a “children’s home” that was located near their town. My father very rarely spoke of his time there — as best I can recall, he went there when he was around nine. He did share fond memories of the other children he met there and of at least one woman who helped out on the farm where the boys from the “home” worked. He also had some profound nightmares that he never completely divulged to me.

There was a man though — who saw the potential in a scared little boy. A man who wanted to help my father escape from the nightmares of the “home”. His name was Fielding Chandler. He volunteered in the “children’s home” and was drawn to these siblings who had arrived there so young and so scared. Pop — as we called him — helped my dad achieve in academics (he went to college to become an engineer), athletics (he was a state track champ in high school), and mostly he showed him how to be a dad. He was our grandfather. That’s what we knew. I don’t think it ever really dawned on us that we weren’t really related — maybe later in life, as we were able to piece together my father’s childhood.

When my mother passed away a few months ago, I was going through some of her things and found some letters that were written to my grandfather from the headmaster of the “children’s home”. One letter was in regards to a request that Pop had made to spend Thanksgiving with my dad. The headmaster refused (although my grandmother had approved the request) siting that he believed Mr. Chandler would help my father more if he was an outsider. The rage that burned inside of me as I read this letter and subsequent letters from the headmaster was animal-like, raw, instinctual.

I wanted to immediately Google this man (yes, I live in an age where Google can answer all questions) — although I knew he had long since passed away. But, I had a need to tell his children and grandchildren what a complete ass he was. I wanted to defend this little boy who had no one. But, of course, I did not. My father didn’t need me to reach through time and save him from those horrible nightmares. Pop did that. This was my grandfather, no blood relation, no legal relation — yet this was my grandfather.

I think it would have been easy for my father’s life to turn out very different — he made choices. He didn’t always make the perfect choice, but he made the perfect amount of right choices. There must have been a weird cycle of dysfunction that was pretty mad at Mr. Chandler for not remaining an outsider.

So, the two-story house plan. Not necessarily chosen to completely keep my children at bay — but it will help. It’s so strange how life works isn’t it? Some people parent so much that their kids have no other choice but to rebel. And other people disregard their children and they turn out great. Free will — how completely strange it is.

My Memories Are Just a Costume

It was inevitable — really. I mean, every other generation has been reduced to a costume on a shelf in some party store — somewhere. I very often dressed up for Halloween or homecoming week in puddle skirts and saddle shoes or tie dyed and paisley or bell bottomed jeans and a Zepplin t-shirt. But, did it have to happen to my generation? To my memories? And by my own daughter?

My daughter has decided to dress up as an 80’s girl for Halloween — and has, thus far, refused my input. Last year she was a hippie. It was so fun getting the paisley pants, poet shirt, and peace sign jewelry. She looked great — and I helped. Now her and her friends have chosen the 80’s as their theme. I’ve seen pieces of the outfit — a Flashdance sweatshirt, some tight leggings, some really bright-colored jewelry. She has promised to let me do her hair — I’m thinking spiked bangs with loads of hairspray and a sideways ponytail. The thing is, I don’t remember wearing any clothes like this back in the day (with the exception of the hairspray laden bangs).

I really had some great costumes as a kid. Our next door neighbors were in to the theater so they had all kinds of face make-up. I can remember being a clown, a witch, a hobo — you know the good costumes. The costumes that came from the closets in your house as opposed to a chain store. And we would trick or treat for hours — everywhere (remember the Prescott’s would give out Sun-Drop). But, now it’s really hard to get in to the thrill of dressing the kids up for Halloween when my memories have been reduced to a silly costume!

When I’ve tried to tell my kids some stories about that time — yes, I pick the stories carefully — they usually look at me bored and walk away. We had awesome music, and movies, and clothes. We had words like totally, bitchin, for sure, and like. For example; “Have you like ever seen a more bitchin movie than The Breakfast Club?”, or “I’m totally in love with Spicoli.”, or “When Pony Boy tries to go to the gang fight, I’m like totally crying.” But, alas, she doesn’t want my help. She prefers the store bought version.

My parents were in high school during the 50’s. The age of biker gangs and drive-in movies, and the birth of rock and roll. I can’t for the life of me remember if I got this information from my parents or from watching James Dean movies. My oldest sister and brother were teenagers in the 70’s – the glory days of bell bottoms and Abba. The 80’s belonged to me and my other sister. This was our time — not a costume for Halloween.

So, here I am. A few days before Halloween — not allowed to give input on a costume that reeks of my memories. Not allowed to reminisce about the ‘good old days’. Why are teenagers that way? But, there is something for me to hold on to. The fact that when my daughter is forty something, she will be asking herself this same question. And wondering if she has turned in to that old woman that always seemed so totally out of touch with anything about her and her friends.

Is this what may mother meant when she would tell me that paybacks were … well, not good? Is this why she always had that strange smile on her face when she said it? I hope my daughter has a great time on Halloween, despite the costume. But, I’m pretty sure no one will give her an ice cold Sun-Drop — that memory is all mine.

The Rolling Bed

When I was a kid, my family owned a station wagon. You know, a real station wagon — it was as long as a city block and probably weighed as much as a train — that kind of station wagon. It was white with four doors. I’m sure it had air-conditioning, otherwise my memories would be clouded with sweat. I guess it had a radio, I wouldn’t really know because my dad never turned it on.

My guess is that this wagon of ours could have held fifteen people, comfortably. Although I was too young to test out that theory, I’m sure my oldest sister attempted to set some passenger records. What I remember it being used for the most was trips to visit relatives.

Both my mom and my dad grew up in a small town in Missouri, near St. Louis. The drive there from our house took about eight hours — you had to add an hour or so for food and fuel stops and the occasional, “I’m gonna pull this car over” threats. We would start out early in the morning, usually on the road by 7:00 am sharp. My father always woke up early — he was the get up around 4:30 am type. But my mother, well that was a different story. She enjoyed her morning coffee and her paper — so 7:00 am was usually pushing it for her.

I can distinctly remember those mornings of loading up the wagon and heading out. My dad would, of course, pack up very early. Carefully organizing the load — he was an engineer after all. Then he would tell the four of us kids to get in. Now the wagon, for this trip, would be transformed into a virtual rolling bed. All the seats in the back would lie down flat. My mother would lay blankets across the whole thing and we would each have a pillow. There was this weird nauseating exhaust smell that would seep through the back of the wagon when the car was turned on in the early morning cold. I was never sure whether I should vomit right then or be excited because that smell meant we were on our way.

That’s how we traveled, the four of us, lounging in the back. Of course, this free for all seating arrangement created a need for my father to pull the car over several times during the trip and either threaten to spank us or actually spank us (not me though, a priviledge of being the youngest). It never dawned on us or my parents that this seating configuration could have been slightly dangerous in the event of a wreck.

We never took the interstate, I swear I’m not really sure when I figured out there was an interstate system in our country. My father never used it — we always took the highway. This of course added some time to our trip. And there was that one restaurant that we always stopped at, Jerry’s. We never stopped anywhere else — we ate at Jerry’s and filled up the car across the street, then we continued.

Whenever I take trips with my kids, I always have an urge to just put all the seats down in the SUV, spread some blankets, and let the kids go. But, logic (and the fear of wrecking) always takes over. And there’s always those few seconds when the car is first turned on that I have to decide whether to vomit or get in the car and be excited for the trip. The good thing is, the need to threaten the kids with pulling the car over has been all but extinguished with the addition of the car DVD/satellite TV. I still have a hard time traveling on the interstates when we take trips though — what if we miss the Jerry’s?

Can I Get You Anything?

I had an amazing dream last night. Well, really it wasn’t all that amazing but I did think it was pretty cool. I was at my grandparent’s house. It’s often the location of many of the dreams I can remember. Probably because I spent so much time there as a kid. Anyway, I was at my grandparent’s house drying my hair in that pink tile bathroom my grandmother had. But, just as I was about to finish, the hairdryer sparked and started to catch fire. I dropped the hairdryer to the ground and hesitated for just a moment before I grabbed the glowing cord and yanked it from the wall. The hairdryer continued to glow bright orange and I knew this was not a good sign. The wall just behind the outlet I had it plugged in to was now glowing bright orange as well. It began to spark and then the flames took over.

I ran yelling for my Poppy and Nanny. They appeared so quickly, as if they had been watching the whole time. My grandfather began hitting the fire with a nearby towel as my grandmother told me to go call 911. Now, I don’t know about your dreams, but usually in my dreams I am never successful at dialing 911. Something always happens — they never pick up, I dial the wrong number, something. But this time, I was able to get right through. The firetrucks arrived instantaneously. The fire was immediately put out. But, the firemen didn’t leave. They made themselves right at home and explained to me that sometimes the fire comes back so it was best for them to stay. Seemed logical to me. I went from frightened mode to Martha Stewart mode in a matter of seconds. I began gathering pillows and blankets; making sandwiches and dips; pouring drinks. I was throwing a virtual fireman party.

This makes perfect sense to me. I love having people over to my house. I can plan an event for weeks just to make sure I have the right menu — I like to find out ahead of time who likes what, who has allergies, what everyone likes to drink. When the day arrives, I love it. But, I may not necessarily be enjoying it. I am constantly up refilling drinks or making sure there’s still enough food on the buffet. If I see I dirty plate or cup, I grab it immediately because I don’t want my guests to see the dirty dishes, and I sneak it into the dishwasher. When it’s all over, I’m usually very tired — but fulfilled.

Once I got into a conversation with someone regarding the story of Mary and Martha. I’ve got such a Martha complex. I totally would have been the one at the party doing the dishes and refilling everyone’s drinks while that snot Mary sat at Jesus’ feet listening to every word He said. Because without Martha, that whole party would have been a real bummer — no food, no drink, no soft cushions to sit on. And who do you think would have been the first person to point out what a loser party it was? That’s right, Mary.

I’m looking forward to the holiday’s and hosting events for family and friends. So, if I look like I’m not having a good time — I am. But, you can still help with the dishes afterward if you want.

School Pictures

My kids all came home with their school pictures yesterday. Up until about three years ago, I never let this opportunity slip away – I always bought the “best package”. It always seemed crazy to not buy the damn pictures. I mean, you can give these away to grandparents, aunts, uncles, everyone. But, as can always happen, life took an unexpected turn.

My father was diagnosed with lung cancer a little less than three years ago. When the picture proofs came home, I must have been busy, because I don’t seem to have any from that year. Things looked promising though, that next school year. I had been waiting for them to come home so I could buy them. But, as luck would have it, my dad became worse– the school pictures were overlooked yet again.

My father passed away right before Thanksgiving – almost two years now. I waited yet again for that time of the year when the school pictures would come home. Once again, life happened. It was a crazy time. My father had passed away, two weeks later my sister’s husband passed away from colon cancer, and two weeks after that, my mother was diagnosed with cancer. My mother moved in with me and my family so we could care for her. I don’t even remember dressing the kids up for school pictures during that time. My mother passed away in March of this year.

At some point, when my kids are older and looking through all the photos of all those terrible school pictures, I will have to remind them of why a couple of grades are missing. I wonder what that conversation will sound like – will I still be sad? Yesterday, school pictures came home. And, despite the fact that I’m not sure who to give them to, I have already sent in the money to buy the “best package”.