I'm too old for this

Dominique Browning wrote a piece for the New York Times titled, "I'm too old for this." It resonated. Not just the first part of the article about the deterioration of our looks at 60, but mostly the latter part of the article on the freedom to ditch old baggage and suffocating expectations. She was finally going to be herself. The idea of living light and right always perks me up. Then my family intervened.

And the rains came.

I'm not "chatty." When I do talk, I talk too loud. I think too deep. I care too much. In writing, particularly on Facebook, where developing thoughts should never be written lest a misunderstanding occur, I write them, hoping for a connection, or someone on the receiving end to help me grab my thinking and move forward. I always intend to be meaningful, and most of the time caring (except for incidents where hate speech is involved- but that is a different topic for another time).

Apparently, I should just shut up. Basically, that's what I think I'll do.

How does this jibe with the, "I'm too old for this" freedom we are supposed to have at a certain age? It doesn't, at least not if you care at all about what others think, which is basically the point of the article.

You shouldn't care. And I do. I do a lot.

 

Looking for a clear view

I worry about this because it means my development is stunted, and I'll never be free. I believe in my heart I've done the right thing. But, I'm shamed. I retreat and apologize. Then feel awful, because I've reconstructed the incident to be what I'm told it was. But, it wasn't. At least for me.

Not that many months ago, I sat with one of my mentors in Sri Lanka sharing lunch. He spoke about his attempts to not speak negatively. But, he said that whenever he opened his mouth, judgments came out. His answer was to meditate and be mute.

I'm with him. And I wish others would come along.

Sweet and Salty Christmas Reflections: The Origin of our Traditions

Most people have some sort of holiday tradition this time of year, whether Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, or name that holiday. My family's traditions are Christian, but are probably as much unlike other Christian traditions are they are like them. Our celebration has changed throughout the years to incorporate new family members, like my husband, and our children, the family of the mother of our son's children, and our baby grandchildren. Sometimes tradition changes manifest themselves as a "work around" other people's celebrations. Sometimes we create them to accommodate an individual's beloved personality traits (Daniel) or ineptitude or exhaustion (me). But, their core pretty much remains the same or has for the last 25 years.

Here are some of my favorite Christmas traditions and the people who inspired them:

1. We always open presents on Christmas Eve, after dinner, in the glow of candles and a lit and decorated tree. The origin of this tradition is my mother's Swedish family, originally from Sunne in Varmland, Sweden, later from the farming town of Gray's River, WA where they ultimately settled. They would decorate the tree on Christmas Eve, eat a late dinner and receive Santa, replete with presents, after midnight. The children might have slept all afternoon, but the women were up for days preparing the Christmas fest. Those poor women. They were sturdier than I.

We've adapted this a bit-- no Santa, no late tree trimming, no staying up past midnight to open presents, but the evening tradition lives on. My husband came from a morning-present-opening-family, so adapting to the Christmas eve celebrations leaves him a bit wanting. However, having Daniel, who was physically unable to "wait" for anything, helped chauffer this day-early tradition along, and now that we have grandchildren who celebrate on Christmas morning with their mother, the celebration timing is settled. We did add opening presents in stockings on Christmas morning, to bring a little of my husband's traditions to share. I confess that this hasn't amounted to much these past years, as the stockings are generally filled with an abundance of Chap Stick (long story, having to do with husband's families' very dry lips and him having initiated our small children into same habit years ago) and not much else, which isn't very inspiring. I vow to do better next year.

and

2. We always eat the same sugary and salty foods every Christmas. I'm not sure why. I just remember that we have always had cranberry salad, pumpkin pie, stuffing with giblets, green beans, carrots, and mustard sauce.

For the fresh cranberry salad-- my mother grinds the cranberries and for days adds and readds sugar to the mix, and then, finally, tops the confection off with nuts and whipping cream. I picture blond women performing this same ritual all over Sweden, maybe outside in the snow using their ice-skate blades as knives, almost like I see Italian women of old stomping grapes for wine, but the Italians labor in nicer weather. Fortunately, we generally have use of a Cuisinart (that has apparently imploded this year) so the chopping is manageable. This year it died and my mother struggled with various mutilating utensils, like our blender and that little handheld chopper you see on informericals, neither of which seemed to serve very well. There is a fine line between chopping and mashing. You can tell what we will get her for an early Christmas present next year.

We also have mom's pumpkin pie, a unique version that incorporates fresh spices, like cinnamon and ginger. My dad always said it was the best pumpkin pie ever, which clinched that tradition. My poor mother used to despair in the making of it until she found the pre-made and pre-rolled Pillsbury piecrust in her grocer's dairy case. That stuff is magic and it tastes good. It also makes my mother happy and calmer for the holidays. I used to consider writing Mr. Pillsbury a letter of thanks for saving our family holidays and may still do so.

I have taken over Win and Oz's sweet potato roll, which has to have a bit of orange juice, butter, milk, brown sugar and nuts (in Oregon it was Walnuts, here in LA it's Pecans) in it. It used to be carefully placed in a wreath shaped tin and baked. However, Win and my mother were the only two individuals on the planet who could get the contents out, in the right presentation, without gouges and ill placed nuts and onto the Lenox china plate for the Christmas dinner table (the secret is in buttering and flouring the tin beforehand, and then placing it in the refrigerator to chill before baking, or so they say). I admit I am a miserable failure at this, but mine still tastes good, and sometimes I vary the recipe; this year I added baked apples. That sort of makes up for the lack of presentation. Or that's what I say anyway. The truth is my kids just want me to quit putting fruit in their food.

Daniel usually does my Aunt Eileen's fresh green beans with onions, bacon, celery and a bit of tart barbeque sauce because Aunt Eileen is gone and he has been dubbed, "the bacon fryer." Richard was supposed to take over dad's stuffing because dad's gone, and Rich loves internal organy things and he doesn't have a cooking job (he wraps presents). And James was supposed to be the orange carrot man, just because; although I wouldn't care what vegetable he cooked as long as it was a vegetable. This year I did it all myself -- but I somehow missed fixing the stuffing. I think I'll make a run to the store tonight and pick up the fixings to have with whatever leftovers are "left" "over" (aren't there supposed to be leftovers? All we have now is a bit of sweet potato and ham).

Finally, we have Honey Baked Ham because my mother adores it. Either mom or I make Aunt Lucy's mustard sauce (the tartest sauce you can have without it being 100% vinegar) so that I can eat it (the ham). We've all but given up on cooking for Thanksgiving -- we order out, and that's when I get my turkey, otherwise I suppose I'd cook one of those for Christmas too.

Just so you know-- children-- the recipes for all our traditional dishes are stuck inside various pages of the Fanny Farmer Cookbook in the pantry, next to all of the other cookbooks on the bottom shelf. I think the outside back cover is coming off but you will be able to identify it by the white and yellow crosshatched design that remains still adhered to some of it. Some recipes may also be in the cookbook that my Cousin Shari made for me when dad and I first got married. It's the spiral notebook, whiteish cover, with the little celophane holders for the recipes. Some recipes are jammed behind others. The mustard sauce may not be written down: just remember equal parts of everything, except for the sugar, which is doubled.

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3.  Someone always takes mom to Episcopal Mass, "the midnight one," which isn't even at Midnight anymore as it's at 4:00 in the afternoon and 10:00 o'clock at night. James and I took mom to latter one this year. Mom never stays to the conclusion of the service after the Mass -- she skips out early -- which to be honest, is the wiley card up her sleeve she uses to entice the children to go with her ("we won't stay long...").

This is not a lament really, but the service didn't even seem like one of the traditional Episcopalian ones I used to know, as we only knealt once. We stood most of the time singing ourselves through the hymnal. One thing's a constant: I continue to pitch my voice up into the rafters, which probably embarasses James, but oh well, feel God's presence, and thank him for my family and friends and another year to spend with those that are still here.

What else?

We always say we're not buying presents except for the little kids, because we've spent way too much money on so and so throughout the year; but we always buy for everyone and we always overspend. We are weak and sentimental. We always fight a little bit at some point during the day or night and someone always says, "Can you give me a break!? It's Christmas!"  Rich and my mother are the cleaneruppers (Rich mostly the paper, mom mostly the china). Sometimes things get lost (like a gift card this year). But, it is the one time a year when I can be sure that we will rise above it all.


Merry Christmas!

How Long Does it take to Mend a Broken Heart?

I thought that we were in the clear, in terms of my son's heart mending. However, it seems as though this will take longer than I thought to resolve itself. Is a year enough? How about two?

I have  been depressed before (some people haven't). Age has tempered my moods. These days I am content to be in whatever situation I am in, not questioning how I got there or whether it's fair that I got there or not.

But, being with a sad child is a terrible experience. You want to take on the hurt and make it okay. However, all of us old folks know that's not possible. Anyway, a child with pain is just heart rending, and there's nothing that I can do but listen.

Today, I told him to wait until January. It will be a year then. I hope things are better.

The Best Way to Lighten our Mood?: A Visit from Our Grandson

This weekend we received the first visit from our grandson -- unaccompanied by throngs of people -- that we have had in awhile. Before he got here, "we" (that is, Rich, Grammy and I) were totally agitated, complaining, tired, bitchy, itchy and scratchy. What I'm trying to convey is that we were uncomfortable for a myriad of reasons, some real and some imagined. Maybe we were suffering from some sort of spring fever.

I tried to tell this to Daniel, but I think I insulted him and Brandi by saying that we felt left-out of Kellan's world in the crowd that is Brandi's family. Rich and I are a family of few people. Rich and I only saw one grandparent at a time, and consequently, we believe, we became very close to them. Brandi is from a large family and is used to a crowd of loving people. It's a difference in family backgrounds. I didn't mean to upset anyone.

We just missed Kellan.

So, Daniel placated us by visiting here on Saturday with Kellan. While they were here and afterward, "we" were just so happy. "We" seem to operate as an ecosystem, like the spiders' many eyes, or as the jellyfish's many tentacles, or like the many leaves on a tree... if one branch is out of whack, the whole organism falls ill.

We certainly operate this way. When one person is happy, we spread happiness around. When one person gets pissy, we spread misery around.

Anyway...

So, after Kellan visited we were in a little bit of heaven (poor Daniel, I hope he and James don't feel left out).

I hate to brag, but Kellan is the most personable child for a 2 year old that I've ever met. He appears to be able to relate to people of any age, as well as to animals. Plus, he's so easy. My kids were running around in circles, and climbing on tables and roofs when they were his age. He eats almost everything. He likes books. He loves to go outside. He likes to take care of plants. Plus, he can now say my name, "Nena." AND he ran up and hugged me, arms wide open, the first thing he came in the door.

He is officially my favorite person.

Oh, and he taught Grammy how to use the Wii.

I say he's a social phenom.

Here are some pictures from the visit.

At this point, Michael is not entertained....

But, he is a patient cat and melts when Kellan kisses him...

Kellan is mesmerized and I think Michael is asleep...

Then Kellan works his magic on Grammy

Instructing her on how to play the Wii

A Big Dose of Mardi Gras: When your Attitude Needs Adjusting

Let's get this party started: from 8:30 am until the parade starts at 4:30 pm and beyond

We leave our ever-growing work machinations related to the LSU budget cuts and our recent issues with our youngest son behind and venture out onto I-10, where we are graciously allowed into Mardi Gras traffic. We are tired, but happy because we are leaving home and traveling just 80 minutes to the east to a magical land--the Land of Mardi Gras, joie de vive, don't have the follow the rules, and not a care in the world.

Float art: Clown mask

Before we leave we lay down the law with the 18 year old son -- no having parties, no going to parties, no parties without booze, no parties with just a 'few friends,' no parties, period, no leaving the house, no going to N.O. and no heading off to Red River, NM skiing; and by the way "have fun." We kiss Grammy goodbye and head out the door. I thank God that Grammy is in good health so that we can leave home for a couple of days.

We are broke, but hurray, we double check: We have our credit cards.

Endymion Parade Theme: Tales of Sleep and Dreams

Just before we get out the door, one of Daniel's future family members calls and wants to have dinner with us when we get into Metairie. I'm caught off guard. I manage not to answer -- as the last thing we want to do is talk to anyone tonight. I tell him we'll call him when we are on the road. I try to think of a reasonable reason to beg off, but really haven't come up with something "polite" to say before I nod off to sleep.

Then my phone rings just minutes after we get on the Interstate, and he wants to make plans. Now I'm starting to feel a little edgy. I tell him we are going to spend the evening and the next morning ALONE. I am tired. I do not tell him about the big fat drama week at work and at home, or that we need a break. I heave a bigger sigh than intended. I'm sure he hears it. He hangs up. I think I've probably been rude but am just too tired to reverse course.

I mention to Rich how glad I am that Deb didn't spend the money to come to our crazy house in the midst of so much craziness to watch such an obviously crazy parade in a crazy city, in a crazy state.

Float art: Clown

We arrive at the 1896 O'Malley House -- and let out another sigh, this time of relief. Rich parks his truck and we look out at a crowd of people already cordoning off their spaces on the island in the middle of Canal Street, where the Endymion parade will pass, which is exactly 1 1/2 blocks from where we are staying. It is 5:00 p.m. and the parade starts tomorrow at 4:15 p.m. We comment that it looks like a giant tailgate party, with food, drinks and a weird conglomeration of ladders and scaffolding being erected so as to view the parade better. I wonder, 'better than what?' as these folks will be on the front line of the parade route.

The ladder & scaffolding industry

We meet Larry, the owner of the B&B, who shows us to our very nice cedar walled room with antique-ish furniture on the 3rd floor. He gives us our keys and reminds us to lock the front door every time we come in so that the folks outside "don't come in and pee pee on the floor." We go back down to our car, take out our suitcases, lock the door, and schlep our stuff up to the room.

Baby doll on a stick

Rich thinks he pulled his back out. He takes some pain meds, and admits to me that he is not sleeping well lately because our 18 year old son is leaving home for college soon. I wonder why he wouldn't be thrilled in anticipation of this send-off, but murmur something that sounds like I'm in agreement.

Captain on horse back

Eldest son, Daniel calls twice on the road, where he is in a traffic jam due to a multiple car wreck with fatalities, trying to make it to his future in-law's house in Metairie, near N.O. He tells us that future father-in-law is already staking out their spot on the parade route with various other family members "spelling" him out so that he can go home and sleep. We wonder why anyone would go to so much trouble just to watch a parade.

We hope we don't have to "spell out" anyone. We are dead-tired and may not wake up for the parade, let alone in the middle of the night for a walk to the beginning of the parade route to "spell out" people who feel that a parade is worth losing sleep over.

Besides, we are afraid of N.O. in the middle of the night.

Spectators participate: Swashbuckler

We need to eat, so we walk four blocks and the first restaurant we see is Mandinas -- a little hole in the wall Italian restaurant on every restaurant guide in in the city, with a police patrol outside. There is a sign on the door that says,

"No checks, No credit cards. Cash only. ATM on the premises."

I do not think I have seen this before, except maybe in a lesser developed country. I make a comment to Rich about how rife with fraud N.O. must be for them to enforce a rule like this at a place of business where they actually want customers. I start feeling uncomfortable about walking the streets at night. We open the door, and I see a tacky sign at the back of the restaurant that says, "ATM," so I walk back and up a few steps near where people are eating, and try not to bump into them while retrieving several hundred dollars from our checking account. I hand it to Rich.

It occurs to me why the police patrol is outside -- to keep the bad guys away from the front of the restaurant.

To hell with you patrons as you head down the block or around the corner. We want your cash.

The last time I saw a police presence like this was in another country. Wait a minute: I have seen this in Baton Rouge, outside the Honey Baked Ham store at Christmas. At least there, we can park our car directly in front of the store and near the police.

Kid Rock on his float

REO Speedwagon

We walk back to the waiting area, where a young Italian man with an earring shows us to our table, which is near the door and unfortunately behind a post, even though there are much better-placed tables that are free. I look at my clothes, and think to myself, "you're not dressed like a bum." I ask Rich if he thinks the young Italian man is a "Mandina" and he says, "No, he's not family." What criterion he's using to make that determination, I don't know. I'm feeling very unimportant but the waiter smiles at us, and I pretend he's a Mandina, just so that I don't feel like a second class citizen.

Float art: The Joker or a Jester

The restaurant is a classic. It has a huge cedar, glass backed bar, cedar wainscoting and sturdy Italianate furniture that looks like something grandma would have, where a view of the clientele and the owners are enough for the price of the meal.

We order their Friday special:

Eggplant, ham, shrimp and brown gravy with spaghetti meal

Almost immediately after receiving it I feel terrible eating all of these calories, so I selectively eat bites out of the gravy plate and most of the spaghetti, which seemed like the lesser of the two evils.

It is all delicious.

Float art: Man/Goat/Winged Creature

Parade paraphenalia hawker
Boobs of all colors are hot items

I look around. I'm pretty sure that most of the waitstaff and customers have been there since 1932, the year of their opening: two towering gentlemen in white waiter's gear and ties, probably at least 300 lbs, and in their 70s, distinguishable because one has a goiter and the other does not; a woman in the corner that looks like an obese 80 year old Marilyn Monroe; some handsome couples in jogging gear with their beautiful children in front of the bar; some young Italian men; quite a few established New Yorkish looking families; and a burn victim and his wife. For some reason the restaurant looks like it is filled with characters from a movie. I keep telling Rich to "look" at various people behind him; he is facing the door as usual. Each time he says, "no," I point loudly to one of the cheap paintings on the rear wall so he'll have a reason to turn around and stare.

I order Cabernet. They say they have Merlot. I say, OK. It tastes like Sherry, and although I hate Sherry it fits the mood of the place.

NOPD on horseback: Keeping the peace

I text James twice telling him that although he's 'in trouble' I love him. I'm beginning to miss him and feel sad that he is leaving the house for college in 6 months. I look at my watch: That change of heart took approximately 3 hours.

Spectator: This one's a Pirate

The next morning I roust Rich and we head on down to breakfast. I am craving coffee and drink maybe 5 cups, and of course eat breakfast, which I never do, because "it's there" and I'm "on vacation" and "it's Mardi Gras." The breakfast consists of fruit (good for me), yogurt (good) coffee (okay) with cream (not good) and an Italian Quiche made with filo dough (not good) and sausage (definitely not good).

It is all delicious.

I refuse the homemade biscuits, which makes me feel somewhat disciplined.

Larry tells us that Mandinas was a purported mafia hangout for years, and it dawns on me that the cash-only policy has more to do with money laundering than it does with fraud, which makes me feel a lot more comfortable about walking the streets with money and a credit card jammed in my front pockets.

No bare faces on floats: It is against the law to take off your mask and the mesh face-cover underneath

The future grandfather-in-law calls and wants to know where we are because the future-grandmother is going to drop off a Mardi Gras bag she made, complete with beads to get me started. He wants us to check out tomorrow morning at 8:30 to follow him to a parking lot close to the bleachers were they've paid for our tickets to watch 4 parades from 12:00 p.m. tomorrow to 12:00 a.m. tomorrow night.

I panic. I cannot sit still for 12 hours and watch 4 parades. I beg Rich to ask them where the bleachers are -- we'll try to catch a cab or the trolley across town and just leave from our B&B at a more civilized hour. They say it's "miles and miles" away and "the street cars don't operate when there are parades."

This guy scared the hell out of Rich

They then suggest that we not watch the parade today with Daniel's future in-laws (their son and daughter-in-law). They say, "just go outside your door and watch from your Bed and Breakfast;" "You'll never find Tommy and the family, there are thousands of people out there;" the location is "miles" from you; and finally, "Tommy is cranky." All the while, we hear Larry, the B&B proprietor yelling in the background, "You're maybe a mile at the most from them. I walk the dog there every day." Daniel calls twice, he gives Rich the parade location. We GPS it, and it's 8 blocks from here. I calm down. We can do that.


He calls again and tells Rich that Tommy and Alfie haven't rented a port-a-potty this year, but they have rigged up a "bathroom like structure" on the back of his truck (now I remember Brandi telling me that they have used it in the past for #1 but not #2). Okay. The port-a-potty concept was probably the only reason I agreed to be on the parade route and not watch these parades on television (are they on television?).


I take a shower and get ready for the big extravaganza. When I get back to our room, I notice that the future grandmother has dropped off my Mardi Gras bag. She has indeed decorated it with sparkly paint, it has big beads in it, and several moon pies. It is adorable. I vow to myself that I will not eat the moon pies.

Enough is enough. I struggle to put on my pants. Didn't they fit just yesterday?


Daniel calls twice more. He wants us there now. Rich is asleep. I wake him up and tell him that we really need to get started walking to our spot on the parade route, it's after noon and our tribe has been there since yesterday morning at 5:30 a.m. He wakes up, gets dressed and off we go, but not before he tells me he's disappointed in me for spending time on the computer this morning instead of spending time with him. "Oh Shoot," I think. "He's right. I'm an idiot. I was just trying to recharge my batteries, which didn't include recharging him." Bad wife. I run along after him apologizing. He says it's okay, but it's not.

Spectators participate: "Nurse" dispensing liquor shots

We finally arrive at the spot Daniel's future family members have staked out, which is just a block from the bandstand where Kid Rock, the Grand Marshall and REO Speedwagon will perform. I am genuinely happy to see the whole family. Familiar faces amongst thousands. Hugs and kisses all around. We're let into the gated area. I'm offered food from the feast they have prepared, and a beer, but I trade it in for an "Ice Pick." We are offered a place on the ladder, front-row seats and places to stand. More hospitality than we deserve, after all we haven't done anything to contribute.

Flambeaux carrier

Minutes turn into hours and I find that I'm smiling again. Rich says, "This has significantly exceeded my expectations."

We relax and celebrate for the next 8 hours. Thirty floats, probably 15 bands, maybe 8 sets of gas flambeaux carriers (traditionally African American men that originally carried paper-lit-lanterns in the early 17th century when there were no lights to illuminate the evening parades), a king, a queen and various princesses, all on custom designed floats, and probably 30 pounds of beads, all make the parade memorable.

What makes it exceptional is that thousands of people, young and old, large and small can be jammed into a fixed space, in an alcohol-fueled environment and get along so well. We feel like there is a possibility of a brother and sisterhood of men and women. We are happy, content and smiling. Maybe it's the Ice Picks, maybe the exhaustion, or maybe it's simply that we were welcomed and given a place to rest. For the moment, we love Louisiana. We have 'family here.'

Now, I wish Deb had spent her money to come to New Orleans to experience it with us.

Queen of Endymion

For the record, the make-shift port-a-potty is genius. It's inside a Ford Van with plastic hefty bags taped to the windows. It's clean and was made by Daniel's future in-laws' grandfather when the girls (future mother-in-law and her sister) were little. Someone has to stand guard outside the van while someone is doing their business. Even the place where we put our little tushies has a historical familial connection. I like that.

Float art

After the parade ends, we pick our way through screaming crowds of people to make it back to our Bed and Breakfast, which happens to be along the parade route. This means that we are backtracking along Carrollton, and catch-up to the parade that we had just finished seeing as it careens to the Convention Center. We walk with the floats all the way back to Canal Street. I feel like we are "in" the parade. Rich and I take hundreds of pictures of the absolute insanity. By that time the barricades have been torn down, people are pressed up against the floats in a frenzy of bead throwing and catching. We are trying to walk the very narrow space in between the floats and the clamoring crowds.

A very tall black woman raises up her baby to kiss a masked man in a purple, fuzzy hat. The baby kicks me in the head. She is aghast and very apologetic. I keep telling her it is okay; that it did not hurt. He's just a baby, with baby feet. But, she puts her large arms around me and gives me a big hug, then kisses the top of my little pin head. I grin. This will be forever the metaphor for me that is Mardi Gras.

The art of face painting

The next day before we leave, we have breakfast with a number of other Mardi Gras visitors, and Larry who owns the B&B. Most of the visitors have a strong connection to Louisiana, either having lived here or visited here for years. We learn that each of the floats are made up of people that pay to be on them (from $400 to $2000). These fees apparently take care of the money for the police escorts, the marching bands, and the floats. They also pay for all of their own beads, their costumes, and the food they eat at their respective Balls. Now I am even more thankful for the beads that these men, mostly, have thrown to me, because they have paid for them out of their own pockets. Larry calls it the least expensive, best entertainment in the world, and I think he is right.

The last mental picture I have is of Larry dressed in his big black afro, riding his vespa from party to party through Mardi Gras crowds on parade nights, with Cody, his Golden Retriever chasing after him.


We come back home to Baton Rouge to our real lives. We "lost" James last night (we couldn't locate him) which is why we came home early and did not go to an additional day of parades. My mother has two new physical symptoms that need a doctor's attention. Our house is a mess. And, just as we were pulling into the driveway, Grammy was trying to back out and ran into my car, which now needs body-work.

I pick-up our ailing cat "Gray" from the vets. I make dinner. I wash clothes, and hang up my jeans to dry (no dryer) so that I can fit in them for the next few weeks, or until I lose weight.

I'm feeling tired but remarkably rejuvenated.

We decide to do this all again next year. We will go 24 hours earlier so that we can help claim a great spot on the parade route, and "spell" out those family members that need it. We will help cook and mix drinks. We will buy a ladder or two for our grandchildren. We will go to 4 parades the next day with the grandparents-in-law. It will be a wonderful time. We can't wait!

My grandson is worn out!

25 Random Things About Me

This originated from a facebook invitation, which copied an Open Salon invitation, to write 25 random things about yourself. These aren't exactly, 'random,' like "I love peanut butter and ice cream" (which I do) 'random.' They are 'random' as in, today, these things rise to the top of my head as important things in my life, 'random.' This feels more narcissistic than most posts. But, what's a a little narcissism among friends?

What are your 25?

Anyway, for what it's worth, here's my shot at it:


25 Random things about me:

1. Family is everything to me. I delight in being a daughter, wife, mother, sister, aunt, cousin, daughter-in-law, sister-in-law and a near-mother-in-law.

2. Being adopted was my fate. I was blessed to find Darlene and Lowell and their wonderful Scotch, Irish and German, and Swedish families. I am partial to the crazy Swedish branch (here and in Sweden).

I heart holidays

3. Adopting Daniel and having James were two of the most important events and adventures of my life. I couldn’t live without them. They don’t follow the rules but neither did their father or I.

4. My friends are like family, particularly because growing up I was an only child and ‘built family’ through my friends. I plan on retiring with some of them (Deb). Two of them (Rob A. and Susan) allowed me travel adventures I could not have experienced without them. I cherish one of them (Lisa) that lives behind me. One is now in Portland and working for a demography center (Gu). One I met at the Baton Rouge, YMCA at our children's swimming lessons (Jerri). One took care of my children in State College, PA (Bernie). One was my mentor in Human Ecology (Lyn). One I grew to know after her husband died (Kimberly). There are so many more.

5. I met my full-brother 15 years ago after we both grew up as only children in the Northwestern United States, two states apart. Rich and I lived literally blocks from where he and my birthmother lived in Ballard, Washington. My brother was a gift.

6. I am ½ Greek and ½ Norwegian although I look totally Scandinavian (pale as all get out).

I always had my own tree. T'was the beginning of the 15 boxes of decorations we now own.

7. I was an AFS exchange student in Tres Rios, Costa Rica when I was a junior in high school, which started my travel lust. I recommend international travel or residency to nearly everyone, including my children. In this, and in many other ways, my children are so unlike me. They barely want to leave the state.

8. On Christmas Day in 1981 I was taught how to weave on a back-strap loom from an indigenous woman named Rosa on an Island across from Lake Titicaca in Guatemala. I can remember thinking, “this will be the coolest thing I’ll ever do.” Fortunately, that has not been the case, but it was one of the coolest…

9. I met my husband, a Peace Corps Volunteer on a bus destined for Cahuita, Costa Rica in the fall of 1981. The bus broke down and we met again near the white and black sand beaches of Puerto Viejo two days later. He visited me again in the summer of 1982 in Portland, Oregon. We got married in April of 1983 at the Orangetown Courthouse, in NY. At the time of our wedding we had spent roughly 6 months with each other.

10. Rich and I were married twice but not divorced in between-- once in April of 1983 and again in October of 1983. The second was less traumatic than the first. Marrying him was the smartest thing I’ve ever done. He is truly my life partner. Thank God I listened to my intuition and heart.

11. Meeting the people of Nature’s Spirit in 1999 while working on a Kellogg grant studying community, spirituality and sustainability was one of the fortuitous events of my life (XOXO Elisa, Ricks, Charlie, Kathy, Carolyn, Francisco). I finally got to visit Dr. Ariyaratne and Sarvodaya, an organization that gives my life hope and meaning, and I was introduced to Auroville, Vérité, Village Action and Bhavana Dee, more reasons for hope in this life time. I need it-- “hope” that is.

12. On New Year’s Day in 2000, I spent the day with a channeling Buddhist Monk in Anuradhapura, Sri Lanka and learned about my and Sri Lanka’s destiny.

Here I am with our first boat, Nena I (my father named it after me). I love the water and smell of a sputtering 35 hp engine. The dreams I have not realized are owning a boat and living on the water.

13. My favorite books and writers are all based in the spirit or on religion. However, a requirement appears to be that the authors are about ready to leave their religion, or at least that they’re irreverent. I think this speaks volumes about my relationship to religion but not to my relationship with God. I am a converted Catholic that thinks like a Buddhist, and has a soft spot for Hinduism and Judaism, and Sufism.

14. My grandson Kellan has been a shining light in my life, and is the sweetest soul I know (other than his mother, Brandi, and my cousin Carrie). He re-taught me what I already knew, that what is best for you cannot be planned.

15. My mother has made my favorite cookies (white, puff, cookies that melt in your mouth), her spicy pumpkin pie, her creamy cranberry salad, and my Aunt Lucy’s ham sauce for me for the last 45 years of my life, mostly on Thanksgiving and Christmas. She made me cook, travel and learn to ski and swim – all of which I now love-- and is probably the person closest to me alive.

16. I have been lucky in love and have been loved well by the men in my life. I owe this to my father’s love in the first instance, I think.

17. I love to travel, cook, read, write, dance and laugh.

18. I am a loud speaker and laugher, and all my life people have been telling me to “shhhh.”

19. I like my animals often better than people, and have a hard time living a content life without them. I grieve hard when they die.

20. Moving to Louisiana was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but it has forged and defined me and my life. You’d have to drag me out of here.

21. Although I was trained as a gerontologist, I feel blessed to have found work on the other end of the life span, helping children avoid truancy and delinquent behavior, and working in an office with an eclectic band of social worker types (the closest people I’ve found in Louisiana that I can call ‘my people’).

22. Meeting Rich’s Jewish family and relatives was like “coming home.” I’ve never experienced such a feeling of belonging in my life. They make me crazy but I wouldn't have missed them for the world.

23. I like television and am addicted to American Idol, So you Think you can Dance, this season of The Bachelor and Ghost Whisperer.

24. I love weddings and funerals, both are celebrations when they are done right. Both make me sob, sleep and feel content.

25. I have a phobic aversion to the telephone, and it gets me into trouble. Rich and I fight over who has to answer it. This is related to my tendency toward hermetic behavior.

Did I mention that I do not like my picture taken? Nearly always though, at about a year later I think, "that's the best picture anyone ever took of me!" So, you can imagine that I love these pictures, most taken about 40 some years ago.

A new word from my grandson and a visit from a long-time friend

Kellan's new word

My grandson learned a new word last week. He first verbalized it when he fell into the laundry hamper in his bedroom, face down, legs up, and couldn't get out. He, yelled, "Stuck"! Of course we all think that he is a genius. Yesterday, we wanted him to pose for photographs wearing his new poncho from our Ecuadorian friends. I got the poncho on, initially backward (bad Nena), which made him cry. Then when I got it turned around, he wanted it off. A lot of tugging and pulling didn't produce the desired results. Basically, he was "stuck." And he let us know it. Daniel blames me for Kellan's bad poncho experience. I mean, get it right the first time Nena.










A special visitor

One of Rich's first graduate students, Olivian visited us this MLK holiday weekend from Los Angeles, CA. He came here 12 years ago from Romania and has remained one of our favorite students (don't tell the other students that). Kellan liked him much better than Nena because he didn't try to force strange clothes on him, and let's face it he was a lot more fun. His height doesn't hurt his attraction factor either (we are a family of short people)!

What a view!