Just A Glimpse

It’s funny. Well, “funny” is not the right word at all, but that’s the problem that I’m dealing with right now.  I can’t find the right words.  Not even close. I have sat down to write “this” blog so many times and it’s been so hard.  There truly are no words. So, here is attempt #273.  (Some of you will get the reference of that particular number.  Clever, huh?)

Dear Gram,

To say that your legacy lives on in me, my cousins and our children is an understatement. We are all more like you in ways we don’t even realize sometimes.  (Sorry, G, but it’s true…good luck. At least you know what you’re in for.)

We joke that you called me “a miracle” to everyone who’d listen (or pretend to listen).  Your pride in me and the rest of your grandchildren and great-grandchildren went unmatched.  I beg anyone to challenge me on that statement.

You never missed a single First Day of School.  Even when I was in college, you’d head up to our house to say goodbye before we headed down to PC.  At the time, it was sort of “expected” because I knew you’d be there.  Now, looking back, I am in awe of it.  What a simple, quick visit can do for a kid.

I can’t think of a single “thing” of mine that you weren't there for, for 35 of my years– recitals, shows, presentations, parties, meetings, you name it.  In fact, when H and M were little and we enrolled them in their first “class”, I was afraid to take them by myself.  I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to handle both of them.  Who came with me each week?  You did.

While I would sing in church, you would tell every single person who walked by you, that I was your granddaughter.  Yes, Gram, they thought I was beautiful.  And yes, Gram, they had never heard a more beautiful voice.  (At least they knew that was what they were supposed to say.)  Oh, and by the way, it was very clear to them that I was your granddaughter.  You had already told them for that past 2,619 Sundays.

Your ability to not take things too seriously (including yourself) is a quality that I am proud to say I see in myself.  Like you, I let most things roll off my back.  And like you, if I do get upset about something – look out.  I mean business.

Every time I need something to be hemmed or mended in some way, (honestly) my first thought is to give it to Gram.  That’s one thing that, unfortunately, you didn’t teach me.  I truly can’t thread a needle successfully.  Oh well, I love you anyway.  You taught me lots of other things… J

Most of the phrases that I have coined as “mine” are really not mine– they are “yours”.  I share them with you. And I melt a little when I hear M and H saying them now as well.

But Gram, I am angry about one thing.  And it’s a pretty big thing.  It’s not your fault.  It’s not your fault at all.  It’s no one’s fault.  And yet, I can’t get it out of my mind.  It creeps in to my head when I least expect it and I get angry.  So angry.  (See “I mean business” angry above.)

Gram, you were taken from us too early.  For a few years, you were “here” with us, but “you” weren’t.  It started innocently enough and, because we didn’t know enough about what was happening, when you said or did things that didn’t make sense, we all just thought “Oh, that’s just Gram…she’s being, well, Gram.”  Soon enough though, that didn’t cut it anymore.  We knew that you were leaving us.  It happened slowly at first and then, as if in a blink, “you” were gone.   Suddenly we didn’t know you anymore.  You looked like you.  You sounded like you, sort of.  But you weren’t you.  We lost you.  And we didn't have a map.

I would say on my way down the hallway to visit, “maybe I’ll catch a glimpse of Gram today.  Maybe she’ll say something that will be 'just like Gram' today.  Maybe she’ll remember exactly who we are and why we are there and she’ll understand what I’m trying to say to her.”  Some days, at the beginning, my prayers would be answered.  I’d catch a "glimpse of Gram".  And I'd be so happy, like a little kid.  I had my Gram back.  And then you'd be gone.  As time went on though, these glimpses were fewer and fewer. 

It just didn’t make sense.  In my head, I would shout, “what do you mean, you don’t know this, that or the other thing?  You’re Gram! How can you not know what I’m talking about?”  I’d get in my car and cry. You know, the big, from the toes cry.  I’d sob.  And I’m sure I’m not the only one in our family who did that.

And then, I'd hope for a glimpse again, the next time I saw you.  Up until the very last day. 

I miss you.  I would say, "I miss you more than you know." But the amazing thing is, I believe that you do know.  You know every breath I have taken and will take.  Now, you understand everything - everything that has happened and will happen. 

You have more than a glimpse of me.  You have an eterntiy.

C-5

There’s a lot of talk about The Blizzard of ’78 right now. Each year around this time, people reminisce but this is especially the case this week because of the storm we are expecting in a few days. 

My parents were managers of Ledgewood Apartments at the time. They had been for years.  In fact, we lived there until the summer before when we moved to our house.  Before, during and after the storm, they, understandably, had to spend days on end dealing with “landlord-type” stuff at the apartments – plowing, shoveling, loss of power, etc.  Only being six at the time, I needed someplace to stay while they were busy working. 

Where did I stay?  Ledgewood Apartment C-5.  

That's it below.  Middle porch on the left.



Auntie Ellie’s. 

My Auntie Ellie passed away last year.  She was 94.  I had the incredible honor of delivering the eulogy at her funeral.  I am beyond words thankful to have been given the opportunity to share with our family and friends my thoughts on this amazing lady. Among the thoughts I shared, were my memories of Apartment C-5.

I spent a lot of time in that apartment with her over the years.  I think about it a lot.  It was really the “hub” of Ledgewood. There were 48 units and yet, everyone knew where the action was.  Apartment C-5.  It was where all the repair folks, delivery folks, perspective renters, and current renters (not to mention family and friends) knew they could go – for a laugh, a drink, some food, a hug, or big juicy kiss – whatever they needed.  There was always something cooking on the stove.  There was also always something in the oven.  And something on deck…in case more company showed up…It was truly amazing.

My most treasured memories of Apartment C-5 took place in a red recliner chair.  I often wonder what happened to that chair.  I would give anything to have it in our house now.  Auntie Ellie and I would spend hours sitting side by side in the chair.  She, in her snap up the front apron.  Me, with  my pageboy haircut and cords.  She’d say, “Push over.  I’m sooo fat!  My big behind can’t fit.”  She'd laugh, I’d giggle and push over as far as I could. To me, though, the more squooshed we were, the better.  We’d grab our songbook from her drawer and sing: “Five Foot Two”, “After the Ball”, “Take Me Out To The Ballgame”, "Side by Side", "Ain't She Sweet", "If You Knew Suzie".  We’d sing at the top of our lungs.  We didn’t care what we sounded like.  We thought we sounded amazing.  It was pure joy for both of us.  Pure. Simple. Joy.

Auntie Ellie gave me our songbook for Christmas in 1990.  On the note with it, she wrote, “Dear Kim, This was our special book.  It has such beautiful memories.  Love you.  Merry Christmas.  Love, Auntie Ellie.”  As I look at her handwriting, I can hear her voice and smell her perfume.

Our songbook and its note sit in my jewelry box.  I see them every day.  And I am reminded me of the love that I felt in Apartment C-5.  I am reminded of what I want to be like when I "grow up". 

Picky Eaters

So, I try to "really" cook at least three nights a week.  Some nights, it's not possible because of our work/FSPA schedules.  But on the "nice meal" nights, I make a new recipe and we weigh in on if it's a keeper or not.   I have a big binder where I keep all my recipes and after we try a new one, it either goes back in (if we like it enough to try it again) or in the trash (if it's not to be tried...ever again).  We've worked really hard this year to make this happen and it's been great.  We've all loved not eating the same thing over and over again and it's been fun eating (and cooking) new stuff.  

The only way I can make this happen is by planning out what we'll eat over the weekend and go shopping before the week gets going.  I promise you, I'm not as organized as this sounds in all areas of my life.  I've just made a commitment to these "nice" meals (for at least as long as our schedules allow) and we do what we need to to make it happen.  Sometimes it's a new crock recipe or something that I make ahead of time and throw in to the oven as soon as I get home.  Sometimes (at least once a week) I make the whole thing when we get home and the kids'll pitch in and help as much as they can.

 It all sounds great on paper.  But I've created monsters.  Food monsters.

Earlier this week, I realized that I was short a meal and I didn't have time to run to the store (which is why I always plan ahead) to grab anything.  In our freezer in the basement, I found some fried chicken and tater tots. 
Most children - would have been thrilled.  Fried goodness, to be covered with ranch dressing or ketchup.  Yum. I was hating every minute of it, but had a cucumber so I was able to at least put something remotely healthy on the plate...

Not these two.

When getting ready for bed that night - "Um, Mumma.  What happened?  You didn't even bread this chicken yourself, did you?" And "the taters tots aren't seasoned either, are they?"  "Are we going to have to have another meal like this - ever?"

Really?  Really?

Don't get me wrong - we love that M and H are more than willing to try new things.  We love that they like to name the herbs and spices they taste.  They are as comfortable eating with chopsticks as they are with a fork and knife.  They'd much rather eat at a fancy restaurant than a fast food joint.  This is all good.

But really?  Really?

Monsters.

It's No Use Crying

So, I’ve gotten in trouble three times in my life.  For reals.  That’s it. 

I mean, I did more than three trouble-worthy things in my life growing up but I either

A) never got caught (I need to be careful as we are in mixed company here),
B) it wasn’t bad enough to “really” get in trouble,
C) my dad was secretly happy that I actually was a “normal” kid,
D) all of the above.

Surely, I did (and continue to do) plenty of things that have displeased folks and such.  But nothing that I’d say was really “wrong”.  I’ve always left that for other peeps.

1978: First grade – Mrs. Wood’s class, Davis Thayer.  (Same classroom where M had first grade, but I digress.)  I was wearing my favorite outfit.  In my mind, I was drop dead gorg.  Navy blue cordoroys (probably size 4T slim), a red and white checkered button down shirt with metal snaps that were really cold against my body and an elastic belt with magnet clasp that was blue with red letters that said “JEANS” across it.  Oh and don’t forget the Dorothy Hammill haircut. I was rockin' the outfit and felt like a million bucks. 

Anywho…it was snack time. I don’t remember who the friend was but apparently I had a lot to say to him or her.  (I’m sure it was a “her”. The only boy I ever had talked to up to that point was Tommy Walker in kindergarten.  Oh my God – was he so cute – and he had a Dorothy Hamill haircut too!)   As much as I didn’t enjoy small talk (yes, even back then) if you got me in a scenario where I felt comfortable,  you couldn’t shut me up.  (Some things never change.)  Mrs. Wood told me numerous times to stop talking and quietly eat my saltines and milk.  (Were we in prison or in elementary school?)  I did not stop talking.  In fact, I kept talking and getting up to talk to my friend at her desk when I thought Mrs. Wood wasn’t looking.  She was looking and I saw her coming over to me again!  I knew that she was going to tell me that I was going to have to stay in for recess!! That was a fate worse than death!!!  Miss out on playing 7Up or Chinese jumprope?  Not I!!!!

In an attempt to get back to my seat in the front of the room (have I mentioned I was the teacher’s pet) without getting caught, I spun around very quickly and knocked my friend’s milk all over my snazzy outfit . The milk totally soaked my pants.  (I was approximately two feet tall.  It didn’t take much).  I went down to the nurse and she pulled out some of the clothes from the lost and found bin for me to put on.  Really?  (If only my parents had worked right around the corner…they could have brought me some new clothes.)  Anyway, I returned to class wearing the same favorite red and white checkered shirt ... with the lost and found (too wide and WAY too long) orange, purple and green plaid bell bottoms.  Suddenly, I was no longer Vogue-worthy.  I looked like (as H and M horrifyingly say) a hobo.

In a New York Minute, I was no longer quite so gorg.  I was mortified… and apparently, a bit snippy with Mrs. Wood.  I blamed her for my sudden fall from fashion stardom.   I was going to show her who was boss.  In my attempt to show her that I didn’t appreciate what had just transpired, I had a bit of a ‘tude.  (A five year old 'tude, but a 'tude nonetheless.)

I guess I failed to realize that when you are five and in first grade, you are not the boss.  Under any circumstances.

She kept me (and my 'tude) in for recess anyway…

Seasons of Love

As much as I'd surely love to live in the "perfect" climate 365 days a year, as I was running this morning, I was thinking of all the things that I love about living in New England. Sure, all of these things happen elsewhere.  But I honestly don't think I'd appreciate them as much if I lived them all the time, year 'round.  As much as I enjoy each season, I'm happy to see the next one 'round the bend.

WINTER
The first snowfall of the season.
The way my kids' cheeks look after playing outside in the snow.
Those really big snowflakes that you are sure must be fake as they fall from the sky.
When you learn that you turned on your defrost early enough and you don't have to scrape your car windows at all.
The sound of the heat coming out from the radiators.
An unexpected snow day.
Those last few minutes of warm cuddle time before starting the day.
Listening to H and M count the snowflakes that land on their tongues.  (May they never be too old to stop doing this.)
No longer having to worry about ticks. 
When you've run far enough that you can take off your gloves because you're "so hot".
Finding new animal tracks in the snow in the morning.
Listening to G, H and M re-tell their sledding stories to me.

SPRING
Running in a warm rain.
Opening up our windows for the first time.
Jeans and flipflops.
Realizing that there's no more salt and icemelt marks on my floor.
Waking up to birds singing after a quiet winter.
The sound of snow melting off of the house.
Seeing all the local runners on the street the day after the Boston Marathon.
The smell of new mulch.

SUMMER
The perfect beach day.
Heads of hair filled with sand and sunblock.
Watching the Red Sox on tv, knowing that so many other people are doing exactly the same thing.
Sleeping with the windows open.
Walking in to a nice cool centrally aired house after a day of too much heat.
The sound of the rain fall on the roof of our house down the cape.
Daytime thunderstorms.
Fireflies and butterflies.
Watching and listening to the girls play softball in our backyard with G.

FALL
When the girls come in and they smell like "fall".
Shorts and sweatshirts.
Pumpkins, apple crisp and hayrides.
Chili, cornbread and red sauce.  (Well, that's a year-round love, but I mostly associate it with the fall.)
Sitting by the fire in our backyard with friends.
Listening to H and M laugh when they can see their breath outside for the time in a long time.
Needing a blanket to watch tv.
Not having to worry about sunburns.
Realizing that you have no more itchy mosquito bites.
How nice our yard looks after raking (...until it has to be raked again...three days later).
The crunch, crunch, crunch of leaves.

I'm "done" with winter.  But in reality, we still have quite a ways to go. We'll make it through.  We always do. And next year at this time, we'll do it all over again.  (As my gram would say, "God willing.")



I Heart Stacy

Dear Maker of Stacy's Chips,

I think that it is unkind of you to include the highly addictive crack cocaine in your ingredient list without telling the consumer.  How else can you explain my absolute NEED to eat the entire bag?

Sincerely,

A Concerned Customer (With Very Little Will Power)



My Name Is Zoom and I Live On The Moon...

H and M have asked me for years "when you were little, what was it like, not having a sister?"  (They can't even imagine.)

My answer has always been the same.  "Well, I sorta did."

I had a cousin.  And it's her birthday today.

Happy Birthday, Dee.  I love you more than you know.

I can't even begin to recount the stories. It would take a lifetime.

It's probably a good thing that we don't live near each other.  I'd not want to work or sleep.  I'd just want to hang out with you...and that wouldn't make for very productive people...

I love everything about you.  Always have.  Always will.  Even when "life" or miles have gotten in the way.

So often, in the middle of the day, I think of you and start to laugh.  I mean, gaffaw laugh-out-loud.  I don't even try to explain.  It's my own little secret.   That only you would understand.





I hope you have a kick-arse day.

I love you!!!