Ninety for 90

My Aunt Addie is turning 90 in April. To celebrate this milestone, her kids arranged for each of the 90 days preceding her birthday to be marked with a unique gesture of love from one of her kin. I am one of the privileged members of my extended family to be invited to do so - and I say privileged because 1) I adore her and 2) there are waaayyy more than 90 people in my family to choose from. We are a proper and prolific Irish clan.

Aunt Addie has always been on short my list of people who I want to be when I grow up. My earliest memories of her involve big family gatherings in Madison, Nebraska, and how she and my Aunt Helen were in the center of it all, coordinating the feeding, caring and oversight and sleeping arrangements of a ton of hungry cousins.

In addition to raising large families, they were both nurses. I remember how competently and efficiently they managed the day when their mother (my Grandma McGill) had a stroke. I was in my early teens and pretty honked about not being able to play the cool organ Aunt Addie had in her house because they were trying to keep things quiet for Grandma. (Sorry, Grandma.) Once, my younger brother Steve was with her in a restaurant and they ordered coffee. When the waitress poured and Aunt Addie took a sip, the war-horse nurse in her came out when she said, "Oh, I could VOID coffee warmer than this." I think Steve spit his out when she said that, but it was such typical stuff from her. Aunt Addie kicks ass. A few years ago she went to see my Dad in the hospital. He was whining about wanting to go home. Once approved, she put him in her car and took him back to his assisted living facility, got out her walker and made the long trip to his room with him, got him settled and adjusted his catheter, grabbed her walker and made the long trek back to her car. (She later told one of my siblings that she wished his room was closer to the entrance.)

Aunt Addie was widowed early, but she pushed right on and maintained. She was the first one in the car for a trip to the casino, and still is - she loves to gamble. She makes it to family events, keeps track of who was who and does it all with astonishing humor and good grace. One of the best parts of going home to see my family is a trip to Madison to see her. I could sit at her kitchen table and listen to her for hours. She radiates wisdom, humor and good times.

My most precious memory of her is when Mom was in the hospital /hospice with pancreatic cancer. They cousins brought her out to Lexington so she could see her sister one more time and I was sitting in Mom's room when Addie arrived. Mom was pretty narc'd up at that point, but when Addie came in she raised her arms and thickly murmured, "Oh AAahhhdiiiee." Addie sat on the bed and held her little sister and talked to her, touched her face and the love was so unabashed and naked I had to look away. I've never witnessed such strength in my life. I weep now as I am writing this, remembering her grace, how she didn't lose it, she didn't cry, she just poured out such love and kindness and goodness. I'm sure she cried a river of tears later, but those last moments they had together were spectacularly beautiful. We should all be so lucky.

Back to the matter at hand - what am I going to do for my "Ninety for 90"? I thought about doing several different things, but many have already been done. She's had cakes, pies, flowers, phone calls. Chicago White Sox memorabilia, gift cards, lunches and dinner out - all kinds of great stuff. Since the economy is sour, one person minted her a trillion-dollar bill . She took it to the Senior Citizens lunch and presented it to pay for her meal. (They didn't have enough change.) Oh, and did I mention she is hand writing proper thank you notes to each of us for her gifts? She is grace personified. Wish her a happy birthday!

 

The Lent Thing - Baltimore Style

I was reading back through an old post about Lent when it dawned on me I needed to pull the trigger on this year's Lenten resolutions.  As I explained here  there are 3 things that need to happen: I need to 1) stop doing something, 2) start doing something and 3) something that is kept private. (i.e. I can't give up potato chips and make that the "private" thing because it would become apparent very quickly as I'd be in the police notes pretty fast.)

So why after all these years do I still cling to making Lenten resolutions? For those not familiar with the  Baltimore Catechism, I invite you to look over the following:

[caption id="attachment_2424" align="alignleft" width="193" caption="My Youth Started Here"][/caption]

This is the "beginner" version of the Baltimore Catechism.  Anyone who went through similar formation can still do the rapid-fire answers to questions like, "WHO MADE YOU?" and "WHY DID GOD MAKE YOU?"

After that you graduated to an expanded version, the St. Joseph's Baltimore Catechism.  That contained  more of the same on an expanded basis.  More to memorize.  More to stand up and parrot back to Here-Comes-Sister-Celestine-Riding-On-A-Jellybean.  (Our idea of really giving the nuns a hard time.)

There is something to be said for using rote memorization to train the memory but when I look back at these images I don't feel so much proud of having a well-trained mind as horror at what kind of ideas we were trained with.

[caption id="attachment_2442" align="aligncenter" width="500" caption="FYI  Gay People Want to Marry The Person of Their Choice, Too"][/caption]

[caption id="attachment_2450" align="aligncenter" width="499" caption="GIRLS: REMEMBER YOUR PLACE!"][/caption]

I have a dear friend who is my sherpa guide to hedonistic consumption.  I like to tell him he is "an occasion of sin" because he tempts me towards all kinds of impurities like expensive linens and splurging on gourmet cheeses and wines. My knee-jerk reaction toward what I perceive as excess was based on the following:

[caption id="attachment_2432" align="aligncenter" width="584" caption="Priorities, Beeuches!"][/caption]

Yeah, television is definitely an occasion of sin. "Bonanza" was pretty scandalous. Ed Sullivan?  Don't get me started.  Pure filth.

John would be considered a "BAD COMPANION!"



He's actually a pretty good companion. (We rarely sneak a cigarette.) He's taught me a lot about myself, including that we all deserve to have and enjoy nice things without beating ourselves up about it.

I'm all for a spring housecleaning of the soul but this year feels different. I've been sorting receipts for taxes and am appalled at the number of office visits, doctor visits, etc. that have piled up over the past year, and continue into this year.  My health has really sucked for the past 18 months (BTW, I'd be happy to give up lumbar steroid spinals for Lent) and I never did buy in to that "all pain and suffering can be offered up...will strengthen your faith" BS. So what to do for Lent when I already feel quite full-up with the existing penances in my life? I think I'll flip things and make this Lent a time for feeding my soul instead purging all my "impurities" (like my lust for potato chips).  I'm going to find things that nourish my heart, help me cope with my aches and strengthen my beliefs and values. I'm going to replenish my tool chest of life and faith skills.  While that approach is not in sync with the Baltimore Catechism I believe if I can do that for 40 days I'll come out on the other end as a stronger, better, faith-filled person - and that is what I believe to be the purpose of Lent.

The Schoolgirls of My Japan

In 2004  my husband was president-elect of the local Rotary Club.  One of his "duties" as incoming president was to attend the Rotary International conference  to be held in Osaka, Japan.   (Sidebar - the man who held the office one year after Joe went to Chicago.)  The local club paid for Joe's airfare, conference registration and a hotel stipend.  We agreed it was a once-in-a-lifetime chance for both of us to go  so we swallowed hard and bought my plane ticket and added to the hotel stipend kitty so we could upgrade to a really nice hotel.

(Note:  Okay, I am not a total bitch, but I have rules and standards  about hotels. My feeling was we were arriving in a very foreign country with no guide or tour or assistance and I wanted a sanctuary hotel with a Western toilet, thank you very much. )

[caption id="attachment_1652" align="alignleft" width="300" caption="To the left of the hotel is a beautiful, multi-level green garden, nestled among the shops and offices. "][/caption]

The Swissotel Nankai at Namba was all of that and more. I could go on for days about the beautiful linens, the marvelous toilet with an instrument panel for swishy warm water (and air) features, or the delicate porcelain of my  morning  coffee creamer  that fit in the palm of my hand,  looking for all the world to be a fragile,  dainty blown egg. I could regale you with stories about how we ventured out unaccompanied and explored  Osaka and Nara and surrounding cities by train, bus and subway.  (We did get pretty horrifically lost once, but recovered quickly and found our way back to Osaka and the aforementioned sanctuary hotel, thank you very much.)

But this is about my schoolgirls.

While wandering through Nara Park we stopped at the  Toshodai-ji Temple where we found a busload of Japanese students all wandering about with little notebooks in their hands, obviously there on an assignment that would enable them to mingle with non-native tourists. Most of the girls  just looked at us, giggled, and shyly scattered.  Once we sat down on  a bench  we were approached by four beautiful girls who, in halting English,  asked us if we could help them with their English lesson.  We proceeded to answer their questions, sign our names in their notebooks, let them take our pictures with them while  all the time giggling madly like 6 year-olds.   (In fairness,  they were giggling too.)  It was all too hilarious - between their halting English and our feeble attempts at the Japanese phrases we learned for the trip, the whole thing was entirely too funny to be borne.  They were so charming and adorable and sweet and innocent.  Their "homework"  provided us with one of the best memories of the trip.

[caption id="attachment_1667" align="alignright" width="300" caption="Ikebana"][/caption]

I loved Japan.  Profoundly. Our trip there was like nothing else I have ever experienced.  We wandered up and down streets of towns where no one spoke a word of English, and yet we were greeted and kindly welcomed everywhere we went.  Even in restaurants we managed to point at menus and communicate we were open to tasting whatever they thought we would like. When we got lost or turned around we were quickly rescued by someone who would observe our confusion, hold our map and look at us as if to say, "Where do you want to go?" and we would point at the map and they would point us in the direction we needed to go.

Now it is seven years later and I watch the news reports with a knot in my stomach. When I see people looking for their lost family members  the emotion swells up in me and I feel my nose and eyes  ache and grow warm   with tears.   I feel helpless and sickened and overwhelmed.  I look at our pictures from the trip and the faces of  those schoolgirls  and  I wonder where they are today.  Have they started college by now?    Are they near the worst of the earthquake and tsunami damage?  Are they safe? I think about all the ema we left at every temple we visited, writing our prayer intentions and wishes on them and hanging them carefully among the others.  I brought home a few extras I made and holding them now I close my eyes and  make a spiritual  ema for the people of Japan.  I  pray for their safety,  for the continued  grace they have shown in the aftermath,  for the unthinkable sacrifices made by the Fukushima 50 and their families,  and especially for the well-being of my Nara schoolgirls.

[caption id="attachment_1673" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="Photo by Ilya Genkin www.genkin.org"][/caption]

 

Lenten Hex

Happy Fat Tuesday.   Or is it "Merry Fat Tuesday"?  I'm never really sure. I was thinking about that last night while paper piecing some hexagons.  I've seen them on blogs everywhere and they look so beautiful when finished.  They are also a remarkably portable project, and since we are off-and-on house sitting for a friend I can close up my basket and leave them there while we return back to our "real" house.

So Lent is on the horizon and while I have departed from many aspects and beliefs of my native Catholic faith  I still have serious residual beliefs that I both cherish and embrace.  One of those is the observance of  Lent.  Why not?  I have always seen Lent as a  great house cleaning for the soul.   Time to realign priorities, examine behaviors and take a good hard look at how you treat others.   We had a priest at the Newman Center who would always give a rippin' pre-Lent sermon.  When he talked about giving things up for Lent he would finish with,   "...and I don't mean giving up watermelon and one-armed women!"  Always got a laugh.  He also taught us to do three things for Lent:  1) give something up (okay, pretty traditional).  2)  Start doing something - and continue it after Lent has passed.  It could be walking, exercising,  spiritual reading - something that would be good for you both mentally and spiritually.  The third thing was always the one that got me - 3) something that was a secret between you and God.  Something no one else would notice.  That was always the hardest one because I felt most accountable for that one.   Even when the thought of taking a "cheater Sunday"   and having those potato chips  (mmmmmm  salty) was too much to resist, I could never cheat on #3.    It was personal.  It felt like more of a promise than just a Lenten resolution.  This year #3 has  come to me like a bullet and I'm not happy about having to do it for the next 40 days.   I just know that IT is what #3 needs to be this year.  (I'd tell you more but it's a secret between me and God, remember? )  Wish me luck.  I'll keep working on my hexagons  so maybe I'll have something lovely and photogenic to post soon. Meanwhile, the snow is melting but it is still pretty freakin' COLD.

Christmas Earworms

I am watching the store today; my husband had his Rotary Club meeting at noon and then has marching orders to get a haircut.  (I have strong feelings about long hair on men - eeeuuuchh.  His hair cannot be longer than mine.)

Needing a creative outlet I decided I'd play around with the look of my blog.  It's kind of like auditioning fabric for a quilt but without the patterns.  (If there were patterns available I'd never get anything done.  Seriously.  How much fun is this?) In between tweaks, I wait on customers, answer a lot of questions, and listen to Christmas music on either the radio or my Pandora.  I have strong feelings about music and a pretty broad spectrum of music I like. There are, however, a few changes to the cannon of Christmas music that I would like to change effective immediately.  They are as follows:

1. Dominic the Donkey should be banned from the entire planet.  It is the most obnoxious, stupid song ever written and screws itself into your brain like an earworm. I'm not an old fart - I love Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer and the barking dogs Jingle Bells, but this donkey song is just vile.


2. Anything sung by Mariah Carey.  Mariah the Pariah has destroyed more Christmas songs than anyone on the planet.  Seriously - it sounds like someone is holding lit matches to her feet while she sings.  She makes me want to pour hot wax into my ears so I don't have to listen.


3. Synthesizers can serve a purpose (limited at best) but you can't seriously build your life or career or album around 5000 of them.  It is just waaaaaaaayyyy too much.  (Are you listening, Trans Siberia Orchestra?)


4. Metal bands doing Christmas songs.  I was in the grocery store the other night and it sounded like  Iron Maiden was singing Silent Night. Aside from being really offensive, it almost made me run out of the store. It was L O U D and causing the groceries in my cart to rattle from the vibrations.  It was surreal, like being caught in a  Stephen King nightmare.


5. Songs where a parent is drunk (Please, Daddy Don't Get Drunk This Christmas) or dying (The Christmas Shoes). No further explanation needed.


6. The Little Drummer Boy. Nice concept, bad execution.  I've never heard a version of it where those "rump-a-pum-pums" didn't make my ears bleed.

One further admonition - just because you have successful recording contracts does not mean you can sing Oh Holy Night.  Very few people have the pipes and the talent to tackle that song and you should leave it to the people who do.  Chances are, Celine Dion, you are not one of them. Just sayin'.

For a consummate Christmas music experience  listen to a professional choir.  Choral singing is the most brilliant, beautiful and evocative way to listen to the songs you love best.  The Kings College Choir, the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, the Cambridge Choir - any of them will reverberate in your soul.  Combined with their orchestral support (those French horns do me in every time) you are virtually guaranteed to be infused with love and light.  Alternatively,   you can shake yourself up a pitcher of icy martinis and listen to Eartha Kitt sing Santa Baby.  That'll put some holiday color in your cheeks!

Enjoy.

Food for Thought

Whatever you say,  do, create, paint, weave,  whatever --   this is today's food for thought:

I've been a hard worker all my life, but 'most all my work has been the kind that 'perishes with the usin'," as the Bible says.  That's the discouragin' thing about a woman's work....if a woman was to see all the dishes that she had to wash before she dies, piled up before her in one pile, she'd like down right then and there. I've always had the name 'o bein' a good housekeeper, but when I'm dead and gone there ain't anybody goin' to think  o'  the floors I've swept, and the tables I've scrubbed, and the old clothes I've patched, and the stockin's I've darned...But when one of my grandchildren or great-grandchildren sees one o' these quilts, they'll think about Aunt Jane, and, wherever I am,

I'll know I ain't forgotten.

Aunt Jane of Kentucky,  ca. 1900 - from the book Anonymous Was a Woman, 1979, Mirra Bank, St. Martin's Press.