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The dermatologist had me hold out my freckled forearms so he could inspect them with his magic light. The bony wrist protrusions just before the veins made a map across the back of the hands with long thin fingers attached on the edges. They are her hands, minus the bright red nail polish she favored later in life. I’ve always thought my sister Lori looks the most like her, but I have my mother’s hands to go along with my father’s dark eyes and one-time dark hair.

Those hands were the ones that could reach across a whole octave on the piano with ease as she played with a gentle, unhurried touch. She couldn’t wait to have a house with room for her little Spinet upright. Losing the piano seemed to hurt her more than almost anything from the bankruptcy – she kept them from taking it as long as she could.

One year those hands sewed all five of us dresses that matched her’s for the Mother – Daughter banquet at church. Much later she made an evening gown for herself with sparkling brocade trim for a night out to a dinner show in Chicago.

Many days when I came home from Junior high and high school, one hand held a cigarette and the other a book. Somewhere nearby would be the ubiquitous can of soda – early on Pepsi and later Coke – almost as if she lived on nicotine and caffeine.

Whether she was depressed or in a manic state, a book was always in her hand. She told me when they were first married, she’d go with Daddy to the library. While he studied, she began reading the Encyclopedia – she only got to the letter T before she stopped – crying babies aren’t welcome in quiet zones. She retained lots of knowledge from that exercise. I always marvelled at the seemingly unrelated facts that she knew about lots of things.

My love of reading must have come from that exercise since I’m the baby who kept her from going all the way to Z. Years later, when we had World Books I’d find her with one in hand. I’d like to think she made it all the way through, even with five distractions then.

Tomorrow would have been her eighty-fourth birthday.

Happy birthday Mother!

“The cure for anything is salt water: sweat, tears, or the sea.” I agree with Isak Dinesen and of those options, I prefer the sea. I believe it is not only a cure, but excellent preventive medicine.

Last week we drove south until we ran into the Gulf of Mexico. It was only a short escape, but a refreshing one. We got up to the sunrise (pictured above – you may have to log on to the website to see it), and went walking on the beach at the ocean’s edge before breakfast both mornings. I love walking barefoot with the waves lapping at my toes, or standing still to have the waves gently pull the sand out from under my feet. Going early in the morning meant it wasn’t too warm to walk down to the water barefoot. No shoes to carry so you could hold hands!

After breakfast, we sat on the beach chair safely ensconced under the umbrella (where we still got a little pink) and soaked in the salt air, the sound of the waves, and people watched. I had a notion about a new story that I worked on in that glorious setting. People watching did play into some of my character development. It was wonderful because Jim was right beside me so I could ask legal questions for my story. I wasn’t interrupting anything, but the people watching.

We talked about why being at the beach is so soul satisfying. Jim says it is because it is constant. It has been there for countless millennia and still is. In a world where so few things are that reliable, I believe he’s right. The hurricanes may blow through and rearrange things, and new, taller condos crowd the shore, but the sea is the same. The salt air is the same. The glory of creation unfolds before you every morning.

Wishing you a salt cure, from the sea, in your future. Enjoy!

Last week, my husband and I reached a marital milestone – no, not any of the traditional ones – we long ago blew past twenty-five and haven’t quite made fifty. We reached the magical 44th. You see, we were married on my in-laws 44th wedding anniversary.

When we told his parents that we planned to get married and the date we’d chosen, his mom immediately said, “You don’t want to get married that day.” I momentarily panicked, wondering what family tragedy had occurred on the day that my husband either didn’t know about or didn’t remember. Then she added, “That’s our anniversary. Don’t you want your own day?” I told her I thought that day would be good luck if she didn’t mind sharing it with us. She said she was fine with it, and I think she really was. My soon-to-be husband hadn’t remembered his parents’ wedding anniversary…that never happened again!

It was a popular week to marry in his family, his sister and brother and a niece had all married on nearby dates. More of the family who came after us gravitated to that general timeframe as well.

We were blessed to celebrate our joint anniversary through our 27th one. A majority of those we made a point to celebrate together, with rare exceptions when we were too far away to be there on our day. Frequently, we had big family gatherings celebrating all the wedded bliss in the time period.

Often, Mom and Dad would have a mini adventure planned to some nearby sight they’d read about in the Sunday paper local attractions write up or that they’d remembered visiting in years gone by. We wandered in parks and through caves. More than once, we had to turn around when the rutted, one lane, dirt road with names like Turkey Trot or Rattlesnake Ferry or Possum Run, simply ran out or narrowed to a dubious looking cowpath. Remember, this is pre-GPS. We ate all kinds of food. We visited museums, monasteries, and gardens. We shopped. We made the most of our celebration time together

My parents never stayed together 44 years. I’m glad we were able to follow my in-laws’ example so we could hit that mark.

My mother always believed that you were interested in her opinion and wanted her advice, whether you asked for it or not. In fact, I believe she thought you needed her help the most if you didn’t ask for it. I didn’t appreciate how willingly she shared her opinions until I was looking through my recipe book and found some pages – not mere note cards – but pages in her handwriting.

Under the Mom’s (Getting to be) Famous Chicken Salad her notes include instructions to wait until the cooked chicken breasts fully cool – it cuts better cool. And always use Miracle Whip – two heaping soup spoons full for four chicken breasts. She also notes “It’s how Mother (my Grammie) used to do it.”

The Four Hour Stew recipes includes cooking in a 9 x 13 Pyrex pan. Don’t add salt because V8 is salty (from before low sodium V8) – “you and I would salt it at the table.” It Cooks at 250 for 4 hours. “In a hurry? Do 350 for 2 hours – it is much much better cooking slower. The secret is during cooking – DO NOT OPEN OVEN OR TAKE LID OR FOIL OFF THE PAN!!! Trust me, it will get done on schedule!”

Her crumb top apple pie recipe includes instructions to only use Grannie Smith apples and Pet Ritz 9inch deep dish pie crusts. Use a pastry cutter to mix up the crumb topping and “If you don’t have an apple peeler, invest in one! It’s such a Time saver. Peels and cores in one operation.

So, even though she’s been physically gone for over three years, she’s still giving advice…I kind of wish I hadn’t written down some of her recipes myself so I would have more of her notes…..

Sisters are...
Sometimes pests.
Often annoying.
Sources of joy.
And for loving all the time.

I found this little poem written by my thirteen year old self while digging through some old papers and pictures looking for something I had hidden from myself. The whole time I was growing up, I only had sisters. I didn’t get brothers until I was a freshmen in college. The first two came with another sister, who shared my birthday, and later still came my baby brother. I can’t say little brother any more since he towers over me.

Going through the pictures, the first almost fifteen months of my life, there are only pictures of my smiling parents holding a chubby little girl – guess I’ve always been chubby – with a mop of dark hair. Then the pictures change to show two little girls dressed as cowgirls or holding hands by flowering bushes. One with straight dark hair and one with curls who looked like pictures of her mother. I don’t remember ever being without her.

Then we got a real live baby doll to play with just a month before Christmas. We put her in the heavy duty baby buggy we got for Christmas that year and rolled her all over the apartment. We only gave her up when she cried, then she was Mother’s. We made quite a picture. Three little girls with chubby cheeks and shining eyes.

And then there were four. This sister had wispy light colored hair and pale eyes. She looked a little like a Kewpie doll. She always seemed to have a runny nose that we later learned was from her deviated septum. She was the dividing line between the three big girls and the three little girls.

She was followed by the dark haired, dark eyed baby who always desperately wanted to be “big” like her sisters. We convinced her she was an angel and was sprouting wings. She would “fly” from stairs or ledges into the arms of a waiting sister. We warned her she could only practice if one of us was there to catch her since her wings weren’t fully formed. And Mother didn’t need to know she was practicing!

Then there were six. I insisted the new baby’s crib be at the foot of my bed so I could take care of her. I even got up in the night to give her a bottle and rock her back to sleep. To say she was doted on is a gross understatement. All she had to do was point and she got her heart’s desire. Mother was afraid something was wrong when she didn’t start talking when the rest of us had. Then school started and with no one to be at her beckon and call, she just started talking – clearly and in almost complete sentences. Earlier this month, “my baby” became a grandmother for the first time. Seeing her hold her little granddaughter made me vividly remember holding her the same way… It also made me feel my age, at least for a moment or two.

I have been so truly blessed, not only with my first five sisters, but my brothers and youngest sister, too. I’ll never be a Poet Laureate, but I’m good enough to stir some old memories.

Sisters are...
Your best friends.
Your worst enemies.
Your greatest supporters.
And my greatest treasures!

Thank you all for being mine!

I have been nostalgic for the Christmases of my childhood. I stay awake remembering half the night away. Mother was Mrs. Christmas. She loved everything about it and was all in on the shopping, feasting and decorating. 

Daddy always selected a tree that was too tall, even though we had tweve foot ceilings in the living room. Mother made sure “the bad side” was hidden in the corner. We all decorated with homemade ornaments, fragile glass balls and lots and lots of tinsel, on the tree and all of us! The lights went on first, but that was usually a multiple person job to get them untangled and make sure they all worked.While the untangling was happening, the red felt Christmas stockings with our names in sequins went up. Two of our great aunts on my father’s side made them for us and made one for every new baby and new spouse for as long as they were with us. They even sent a box of goodies every year to fill them. We usually got to open the stocking stuffers on Christmas Eve, after the feast.

Mother had legendary shopping skills. She also had a no shaking or touching rule about the packages under the tree. She was tired of listening to arguments about who had the most or the biggest packages under the tree so she stopped putting our names on the tags. She started using codes that she would reveal on Christmas morning. One year there were no tags at all. The packages for one person were all in the same kind of wrapping paper. No small feat to find enough paper in nine different patterns.

Decades before anyone thought to market the Elf on the Shelf, Mother had elves perched over each of our bedroom doors to report to Santa about what time we finally went to sleep each night and how many times we fought with each other.

Our meal was on Christmas Eve. One of Daddy’s clients raised geese so we had a Christmas goose. Mother was a good cook, but an even better organizer. As soon as each of us turned about seven, we started helping with feast preparation. Mother’s role became one of organizing and doling out assignments. My husband says she ran the operation as if she was a general conducting a military campaign. We all had our assignments and the result was a delicious feast.

We drew names between all of the kids and had a strict price limit. One year, two of my brothers proved the adage that people buy other people what they really want themselves. They went out separately shopping and each bought a Popeil Pocket Fisherman for the other one.

On Christmas morning we had to stay upstairs until at least 6 AM. We would gather at the top of the stairs waiting until it was time  to wake our parents up. Mother and Daddy went downstairs first, turned on the coffee and sat down before we were allowed to come to see what Santa left for us. One advantage of being the oldest in a large family was that Santa remembered me until I was eleven! 

Mother wanted to see everyone’s reactions as they opened their gifts so we always opened them one person at a time. That meant, literally, hours and hours Christmas morning to get through everyone’s unwrapping. Daddy managed the big black garbage bags to gather up shed wrapping paper in between unwrappers. We had cinnamon rolls and orange danishes hot from the oven while we unwrapped.

In the spirit of those long ago Christmases, I wish you a joyous Christmas and echo the sentiments of Dickens’ Tiny Tim, “God bless us, every one.”

This year I hope to make one of continuing gratitude, not just one season of it, as so often happens. There are so many things all around me every day that I am thankful for when I stop to think about it.

BEAUTY OF CREATION

The little gray squirrel wiggling with delight when he digs up something he’d hidden from himself sometime earlier.

The majestic bucks, a six point, a four point and two with two points, foraging together in the yard for acorns with some does. They know it is deer season!

The leaves changing colors and gently drifting to the ground. Although I must confess I wasn’t so thankful for them when I was raking and blowing them last week with my husband.

FRIENDS

The ones you’ve known since college who can bring a smile to your face when you pick up the phone to hear their voice. And the newer ones who always have a hug for you.

The ones who understand when ordering dessert at lunch is imperative and when you want to avoid the temptation.

The ones who always pray for you and with you.

SENSES

The feel of crisp clean sheets after a long day.

The smell of cookies just out of the oven.

The taste of eggnog as you settle into your recliner to enjoy the Macy’s Parade as if you were seven again .

FAMILY

The one you were born into with all its ups and downs, expansions and contractions, but most of all LOVE.

The one you married into where they treat you as if you have always been one  of theirs.

Friends who are close as siblings and who you love as if they really are.

Sisters who have become friends, too.

A husband who is always at my side no matter what and still holds my hand crossing the grocery store parking lot and in the doctor’s office.

I am truly blessed and thankful for this life and everyone in it. This year I’ll do a better job of showing it every day. I hope you enjoy the sights, sounds and smells of this holiday season and find something here to sustain you in the time ahead.