A Sense of Style

This post is in honor of our daughter's birthday. The remainder of the blog will be addressed to her. (If you, dear reader, are very quiet, you may listen in.)
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Dearest daughter:

When I think of you, I am filled with a flood of thoughts. I think back to when I first learned you were going to be a girl. As a mother of "advanced maternal age" (snort), I had genetic testing done. Among the things that testing could tell us was what SEX you would be. When the hospital called, I asked--and what is "it"? The health worker on the other end paused and said--are you sure you want to know? ABSOLUTELY. Well, she said--you are having a girl.


A girl? Since we had a boy, I thought--well, another boy would be easy (HA!), but a girl? Of course, by the time you were born, I had adjusted to the idea. Soon after you were born, I reveled in it. And I still do.

There are many stories I could explore in remembering your growing up. Many, if not all of them, you have heard. They are still among my favorite stories to tell. I will be sparing, and select only one. You know this one.

I remember the day when you were maybe in junior high. You asked me--Mom, when did you get your sense of style? I confess--I was secretly pleased. My daughter. She's growing up. She wants to know when she will begin to be more like her mother.

I am not sure exactly how I answered, but then I remember I said--why do you ask? Well, you said, when I get my own sense of style, I hope it's not like yours.

Crushed! But not really--in the long run, I am so very glad you are your own young woman. I love that you are so strong, so determined, so intelligent, so lovely, so much our daughter.

I know, I know--you're no doubt saying--don't get all weepy on me, mom!

So, on this day--here's to you, to your wonderful sense of style, to you being your own person.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY. Love you to the moon and back. . .

Mom

The Bells are Ringing...

Full disclosure: as I began writing this blog the other night, I went looking for the small camera I took along--my husband's camera, actually. GONE. I looked high and low--I cannot find it. Bereft!

But, our son took marvelous photos--all those you see here are from him.

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Well, wedding day has come and gone.

Despite all our fervent hopes for good weather, Saturday dawned cloudy and drizzly. All day--off and on rain, gusts of wind, and in general a warm muggy tropical feeling. Most strange for late October in central PA.

Daughter and I began the day somewhat early--off to get hair done, and then make up done. Out of the ordinary special treatment--but for a most special day.

We headed to the church early--not much else to do with the rain. Along with my daughter-in-law, I had the immense pleasure of helping my daughter. Her dress had some 20 or 30 small buttons down the back, with little crochet loops. She patiently stood and waited, while daughter-in-law and I struggled to close them all.

Then, the big moment arrived. Music for the trip down the aisle--The Prince of Denmark March. Father of the bride, and mother of the bride accompanied her.

I have never liked the idea of "giving away" the woman--only the woman. The couple together are giving themselves to each other, and we the family members--both of the bride and the groom--are sharing this time and supporting them. So, that is how our daughter and her partner had structured the service.

The intervening moments between dressing and worship service had been filled with lots of photo taking. LOTS of photos.

After the service, we rode several blocks to the Civic Club--a lovely old building along the Susquehanna River. The father of the bride had, many months ago, arranged for a small bus to transport people from the church to the reception. At the time, it seemed most appropriate for more senior members who might need help traveling. But, with the uncooperative weather, the mini-bus turned out to be just the thing.

We had a grand time at the reception--the wedding couple entered the grand ballroom to Johnny Cash's "I Walk the Line"--such a great choice of a song. Their dance song was Nina Simone's "My Baby Just Cares for Me." For my husband and me, our daughter had picked Paul Simon's "Still Crazy After All These Years."

Ah, music--sometimes it says all that needs to be said.

We had multiple toasts, a scrumptious meal, the traditional cake cutting.

Just before the reception began, the rain stopped--and the low hanging clouds draped a gauzy fog over the river. A breathtaking sight. So, even though a clear fall day would have been gorgeous, a beautiful evening along the river was an acceptable substitute.

So, now they are well and truly married. The wedding couple returned the next day, after a wedding brunch they hosted, to London.

Sigh...

That is a sigh of relief--all the planning worked out. Our daughter looked lovely, the groom was handsome. The music was perfection. The flowers fantastic.

Also a sigh of bittersweet awareness--our daughter is our younger child, no one else at home to make a major life step.

Planning, planning, planning. . .

For the next several days, I will be quiet.

I will be planning. Actually, HELPING to plan.

We will have a brief visit with our daughter--and we will. . .

taste some wedding cake. . .

look at wedding flowers. . .

shop for wedding shoes. . .

All so that we will be ready for a FALL wedding.

That was then. . .

(This post is in lieu of a Saturday soup)

. . .this is now.

Since I spent Thanksgiving last year in Africa with my daughter, and this year with our son in Pittsburgh, I can’t help but compare a little these two Thanksgiving experiences.

Thanksgiving is that quintessential American holiday. Admittedly, Canada celebrates Thanksgiving, but in October. So, when I went to Africa last year, I was taking advantage of the long weekend; I was not really going for Thanksgiving in Ghana.

My daughter Kristen and I did have a Thanksgiving dinner, sharing it with a friend, Alex, from the Netherlands. So there we were, two Americans, with one Dutch friend, eating kabobs for ourThanksgiving meal in an Argentinean restaurant run by a Lebanese manager, in Accra, the capital of Ghana in Africa! A most international experience.

For this year’s Thanksgiving, my husband and I drove to Pittsburgh, for a very traditional Thanksgiving with our son and his wife.

Last year, in Ghana which is just north of the equator, the outside temperature was usually in the 90s (F). Here’s the morning scene in Pittsburgh.

I went swimming in the hotel’s outdoor pool in Ghana; in Pittsburgh we drove through a display of Christmas lights on Thanksgiving night.

Both Thanksgivings are special because the main ingredient in each was the opportunity to be with family members.

Most Thanksgiving meals feature some recipe that is a traditional family dish. When she was living, my mother in law made a fabulous butterscotch pie, and I have her recipe. It has become one of our family traditions to have butterscotch pie for special occasions. So rather than post a Saturday soup, here’s the recipe:

Butterscotch Pie
Makes 2 pies

Make two pie crusts; bake and set aside. (I use the Joy of Cooking pie crust recipe and always get excellent results.)

Ingredients
2 cups brown sugar
½ cup flour
½ cup melted browned butter
Yolks of 4 large eggs (set aside the egg whites in a separate bowl)
4 cups milk (preferably whole)
1 tsp. vanilla

1. Brown butter in a saucepan, allowing it just to begin browning. Then mix flour into the browned butter, then the brown sugar. Make sure all the flour and sugar are mixed into the butter.

2. Stir the egg yolks into the milk, then add vanilla. Stir the liquid into the butter/sugar/flour mixture in the saucepan. Cook over medium heat until the whole mixture thickens—it should just come to a boil. STIR CONSTANTLY (this is the real trick to making this rich butterscotch.)

3. Pour the butterscotch mixture into the baked pie crusts.

4. Beat the set aside egg whites with 2 T regular sugar until the whites are stiff and peak nicely. Spread on top of pies—brown under broiler briefly.

5. Allow pies to cool several hours. Refrigerate.

Hope you enjoy Mother Mary’s wonderful butterscotch pies. We have found that the stirring spoon is a popular item. Extra butterscotch, if there is any, can be poured into small pudding dishes and eaten as a pudding.

The mystery of the blood trail

With our daughter now in England, we look forward to weekly phone calls. While she and her fiancé were here in the U.S. they used Vonage as their phone carrier. When they moved to London, they continued that service and kept a U.S. based number. Consequently, she can call for the same cost as a regular land-based call here. What a difference in the advances in technology.

Anyway, during the last phone call, she remarked that she prefers my stories about school—but, I thought, I have sooooo many fun little stories from her and our son’s childhood. (Insert here a slightly nasty little chuckle.)

This story features three characters—a mother, a father and a tiny baby girl. After our daughter was born, and was about six weeks old, I decided I just HAD to get a haircut. Our son was in grade school, so taking care of him was not an issue. However, as a tiny baby, our daughter could not be left alone, so my husband arranged his work schedule so he could come home early one day. I gleefully made a hair appointment.

It was great to leave the house without having to bundle up a new baby, and just drive off to be pampered a little bit. After an hour, I returned home. Thinking I was coming in to greet my husband and daughter—I called out “hello.” Nothing. Hello, again—NOTHING. Nothing but silence. Complete total silence.

So I started walking around. Still nothing—no sign of my husband, no sign of our daughter. I went upstairs to the bedrooms—the baby’s room first. Nothing. Our bedroom, our son’s bedroom—nothing, nothing.

Then I went to the kitchen—and saw a small spot on the floor—hmmm—looks dark red. Here’s another spot, and another. I followed a tiny trail of spots, all the way down to the basement. There was a whole bunch of spots, and they were clearly blood.

By now, I am verging on panic. It might help you to understand that I have a mind that jumps INSTANTLY to conclusions. Never mind gathering evidence, my mind races to the furthest point in the possible journey. So, I conjectured that our daughter had been kidnapped, my husband had been injured in protecting her, and that he too had been dragged away. I mean, what else could explain this mysterious trail of blood and no husband or baby in the house.

I went outside to pursue these attackers, whoever they might be, or even wherever they might be. Just as I began walking around the house, my next-door-neighbor Janie came out. Oh, hi, she said, your daughter is over here. Whew! HUGE sigh of relief. But, where was my husband, Oh, he’s at the local hospital emergency room. Overactive imagination leaping into action again. . . .no, no, she said, he accidentally hurt himself while doing something with tools in the basement. He grabbed the baby, took her next door and drove himself to the hospital. Whew, again.

Since it was obvious that our daughter was safe, I asked my neighbor if she minded watching the baby a few minutes more, and I drove to the hospital. There sat my husband in the emergency room, hand in a bowl of Betadine. He had been drilling into a metal electrical box, and the WOOD drill bit he was using spun off and bit into the fleshy space between his thumb and index finger. Luckily, if one can think of drilling one’s hand as lucky, he missed all vital tendons. Of course, it hurt and needed tending, but it resulted in no long term damage. The Betadine bath was intended to remove any contamination that may have been driven into the flesh.

So the blood trail? Since our daughter had sweetly gone to sleep, my husband decided to do a few house chores, and he was in the basement working when he had his drill accident. Of course, he started bleeding. First he went upstairs, dripping blood, then from somewhere quickly grabbed paper towels which he wrapped around his hand and secured with an ACE bandage. (Since he had worked as a trainer with athletic teams during college, he did a particularly good job, so that the bowl of Betadine was about all the hospital needed to do.)

He scooped up the sleeping baby, took her next door where he knew our neighbor would be, as she too had recently had a baby. He then drove directly to the hospital, figuring he would get the care he needed, and return home to clean up. Our neighbor was supposed to have intercepted me before I got inside.

Instead, I came home to the empty house and the blood trail. Mystery solved. Now you see why my daughter (and no doubt my husband) prefer me to stick to the school stories!

The Gift of Days

I have not been as active writing of late, since our daughter has been visiting with us. As she has now returned to England, I am mulling over this brief respite of time with her. And a phrase comes to me to describe our time together: we have had the gift of days.

There is a bittersweet quality to this time together. As her parents, we have many times let go of our daughter’s hand so she can seek her own place in the world.

When she went to college, we left her at her dorm with mixed emotions—leaving her, hoping it was a good choice of a college. Then in six weeks when we visited for a weekend, it was very clear that she was NOT happy—that the college and she were NOT a good fit.

So after that semester was completed, we let her go again—this time to go to London to work for 6 months. And, of course, she came back to attend a new college—this time, a perfect fit for her emerging interests.

There was another time of leaving her go, when she did a semester abroad in Glasgow. The bonus was that we had the occasion to visit with her in Scotland.

When she was finished with college, we let go once more so she could begin her career in New York City.

And now she has gone, back to London, this time to be with her fiancé and to attend graduate school. Of course, we will visit her (and her fiancé). Very soon!

These days together have been sweet. And it is wonderful to see how much she is her own person. But, then, she was that from practically the moment she was born. And, not surprisingly, I see two versions of her in my mind’s eye—the wonderful grown woman, and the very self-willed little girl.

Thank you, dear daughter, for the gift of days.

Here’s a lovely little poem about moments such as these:

To a Daughter Leaving Home

By Linda Pastan

When I taught you
at eight to ride
a bicycle, loping along
beside you
as you wobbled away
on two round wheels,
my own mouth rounding
in surprise when you pulled
ahead down the curved
path of the park,
I kept waiting
for the thud
of your crash as I
sprinted to catch up,
while you grew
smaller, more breakable
with distance,
pumping, pumping
for your life, screaming
with laughter,
the hair flapping
behind you like a
handkerchief waving
goodbye.

Sit a spell. . .

Remember in the olden days when all houses had porches, and none had air conditioning? Folks of necessity would go out of doors and sit in the cool of the evening. Maybe even fanning themselves, sipping a glass of lemonade. Even with the horrendous heat we have had of late, I think such an evening would be lovely.

But then things began to change--air conditioning was invented, and people began to stay inside. Then porches disappeared. At least we still have lemondade. And at least we can still sit a spell.

For the next several evenings, I will not be reading blogs. I will not be writing blogs. I will be sitting a spell and enjoying a visit from our daughter. She is here briefly and then she goes back to London.

So, sit a spell. I will be back shortly. . .

Kicking Art

My daughter recently sent me an email wherein she asked if I wanted another opportunity to kick art. Like any good question, there is a back story.

This back story is doubly good, as my daughter thinks I tend to over-do the back story bit. But for me, life has always been about context. It is almost impossible for me to tell a story straight-forwardly. There are always nuances, circumstances, associations that need to be explained. And for every event, there was something leading up to that event. The human brain constantly tries to create order out of seeming chaos—hence, my predilection for coming up with the back story.

But, I digress! Anyway, while our daughter was studying in Glasgow, during a semester abroad, we visited her in the spring of 2002. Glasgow, both the city and the university where she was, has a fine reputation for art. Since our daughter’s major was art history, she took us around to see various art of import in the area. We went to the two Willow tea rooms designed by Charles Rennie Mackintosh, who was very active in the art nouveau movement in the early 20th century. We also visited the Mackintosh House that he had designed—not only the house but all the furniture in it. And we visited the Glasgow School of Art.

While we were there, we saw an exhibition of contemporary art. As we walked around, I kept hearing this random clicking sound. I really thought nothing of it. But the next thing I knew, I stumbled over and in fact kicked this small hockey puck sized object on the floor. After a bit, someone came in and picked it up and replaced it in its original location. It was the source of ONE of the clicking sounds. There were in fact THREE hockey pucks in the room—all clicking, but at different intervals. One was clicking regularly and quickly, another regularly and slowly, and the last was clicking irregularly and quite at random. Unbeknown to me, these hockey pucks were part of the contemporary art exhibit. They were the work of Martin Creed who won the Turner Prize in 2001.

Well, how was I to know?

So what did my daughter send me in an email inquiring if I wanted to kick art again? She sent a link for the NY Times article featuring Martin Creed who has an exhibit presently at the Center for Curatorial Studies at Bard College, in Annandale-on-Hudson, N.Y. So, if I wanted to kick art, I could drive there!

A brief quote from the article suffices to describe his approach to art:

. . .the art of Martin Creed veers between shock therapy and something quite a bit more tender. Either way it is direct, irreverent and also clownish, with, when it succeeds, an undercurrent of seriousness. Mr. Creed’s purpose is generally to take liberties, with the body, the museum, the idea of art and most of all with the viewer’s imagination. He uses whatever medium seems suitable.

So, the way I look at it, had Martin Creed been in Glasgow when I kicked his art, he probably would have approved, and would have ordered the clicking hockey pucks to remain in their new arrangement, courtesy of a clumsy American tourist!

A note about the photographs: the first two Mackintosh ones are from the official Charles Rennie Mackintosh site. The last photograph, of Glasgow Cathedral, is one I took.

Vaya con Dios

One of my most vivid visual memories of growing up as a missionary child is leave-taking. When one of the missionaries was due to return to the United States (home) we would stand in a circle, and sing that lovely hymn “God Be With You.”

It strikes me that the English language is somewhat bereft of lovely ways to bid farewell for a time. We say “goodbye” or “farewell”. Or maybe even, if we like Winnie the Pooh and Tigger, we say “tata for now” or TTFN.

I like the Spanish expression for bidding farewell. Vaya con Dios. Go with God. (I also like hasta luego--so long. True, we do say “so long” in English.)

As you might expect, I have had quite a few occasions to say "farewell for a time" in my life. I went off to boarding school at age 5 turning 6, and I suspect I didn’t really understand that, at the end of the day my parents took me to school, they would go home. I was dreadfully homesick, and used up all my stationery in short order writing letters home.

When my parents and we children returned to the U.S., I said goodbye to friends in Africa. Then when my parents along with my brother and sister returned to Africa, while I stayed here, I said goodbye to them once more. My mother decided it would be better if I stayed in Pennsylvania while they traveled to New York City to sail on their return journey. We would not see each for five years, and I think my mother thought tearful goodbyes would be too difficult.

When my children headed off to college, the goodbyes weren’t quite so traumatic. Our son headed off, and that event was actually quite easy. However, when he headed off to graduate school, moving out of our house and into his own apartment, that goodbye was much harder. I held back tears, and felt my throat tighten up. Then I put all that emotion to good work while I cleaned out his bedroom and got it ready for our daughter.

When our daughter headed off to college the proverbial nest was empty. After 6 weeks at the college she first attended, she knew it wasn’t the right place for her. So, when we went to visit her, she proposed that she finish the semester then head to London for 6 months. GULP. But we agreed—you have to let your children grow and go!

After the six months, she returned, transferred to a university that suited her wonderfully, and stayed put for a bit. She did spend a semester abroad, heading to Glasgow, Scotland this time. And, of course, she spent several months in Ghana last year.

Now she and her fiancé have left for London. She will be attending graduate school there while he continues with the bank he has been working for, albeit transferring to the bank’s London headquarters.

Another goodbye. We didn’t go to the airport, but we chatted by phone before they left. I reflect on how keeping in touch has changed. When my parents were in Africa, we sent airmail letters back and forth. A very slow asynchronous means of communicating. I had all of one phone call with my parents in those five years—for three minutes at the cost of $20. Now with email and IM chat messages, communication is real time. Satellites bounce cell phone calls between continents. Keeping in touch has shrunk the globe. But even with instantaneous communication, goodbyes are still hard!

So, vaya con Dios, mi hija.

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Just received email confirmation that they have arrived safely in London!

That’s Entertainment

For no apparent reason, the other day I began humming to myself “Skeeters am a-humming on the honeysuckle vine. . .” Yes, those are actually words to a song. The song, Kentucky Babe, is one I grew up hearing my father sing to me. Now, I don’t know what stimulus prompted me to recall that old (and I mean old—the song was written in 1896!) song, but it got me to thinking how much what we consider entertainment has changed.

Along with that song, my father sang me quite a few others with equally quaint lyrics: Mairzy Doats, Lonely Little Petunia, and other 1890s gems. Our family was a singing family—as we drove around to various churches while my parents were home from their mission work, we could tune up and sing a favorite hymn. We had four part harmony pretty well covered: my mother sang soprano, I sang alto, my brother tenor, and my father bass (sorry, Denise, you weren’t born yet).

Home entertainment a century before these family hymn sings might have consisted of family and friends getting together to play concerts. Not everyone was concert worthy, but many people played instruments and gathered for an evening of music. When my husband and I honeymooned in Williamsburg, Virginia, one of the events we delighted in attending was a musical concert in the Governor’s mansion. There in the formal ballroom was a group of musicians playing period instruments of the 18th century. The sound was not pristine, but the candlelight and intimate setting made it a wonderful evening of entertainment.

Back to the lonely little petunia song. When my daughter was in fifth grade, she enjoyed a visit from her best friend from third grade. Her friend had moved away from central Pennsylvania at the end of third grade, going literally across country to the west coast. Two summers later, she returned to central Pennsylvania to visit with some family friends, and spend some time with us.

Our daughter decided she wanted to do something really special while her friend was visiting, and asked if the two girls could spend a night in a local bed and breakfast. Rather than just spring this idea on the proprietress of the place, we stopped by in advance to make sure that would be acceptable. The woman showed us all over the large Victorian house, stopping last in a formal parlor. There sat an old Victrola. Our daughter looked at it quizzically and said—what’s that. Well, the woman said, that is what we used for entertainment, and proceeded to wind it up. Then she set the needle down on an old record, and out came the music to “Lonely Little Petunia in an Onion Patch.” Our daughter listened for about a half minute, wrinkled up her nose and said: “You call THAT entertainment?”

Yes, that was entertainment!

Ahh--aging!

When my daughter was a little girl, I took her with me to the nursing home where my grandmother lived. While we usually visited my grandmother in her room, on this particular day she wasn't there, so we went looking for her. As we walked around the halls of the nursing home, we encountered one old woman who, while seated in a wheelchair, pulled herself along with her foot. You read correctly--foot. She had apparently had one leg amputated at some point, so her remaining leg and foot was all she had to propel herself.

As she pulled herself along, she kept repeating in a most plaintive voice: "Help! I've lost myself." Repeating this plea over and over again. We hurried on by her, still looking for my grandmother. Just as we got out of her earshot, my 4 year old daughter whispered loudly to me--"Do you think she lost her leg, too?"

At the time, it was wonderfully funny. But some twenty years later, I think about those folks that I encountered when I went to visit my grandmother. And, I also do much thinking about my own aging.

I am of two minds: in one mind, I am quite proud of being in relatively good health and physical shape (for, as they say, a woman of my age); in the other mind, I resent every creak I feel. I also find myself noting the ages of people I know who have died (or even the ages of those listed in the local obituaries). Then, I instantly do the math--that person was 72; well, that's 11 more years than I; or that one was 50, ha! I've got that beat.

There is a story that Ingrid Bergman was asked, on the occasion of her birthday, how she felt now that she had reached the advanced age of 60. She reportedly responded: "I like it just fine, considering the alternative." Perhaps the story is apocryphal, but I like it. It captures exactly my feelings. While I can wish that aging weren't accompanied by aches and pains, or by some of the alarming physical changes one experiences, I still like it just fine considering the alternative.