Sandy Hook Tragedy Forced Me to Slow My Frantic Pace

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What a difference a week makes.  Only seven short days ago, I, like most mommies in the USA, raced against the proverbial north pole clock, trying desperately to get it all done. My mind was reeling with visions of EVERYTHING dancing in my head. The words shopping,baking, wrapping, packing looped through my head.

 

I peeked at next week's calendar with apprehension, realizing my sprint to the finish line included a dance recital and a Christmas pageant, knowing that on Friday, Dec. 21, the date of the Mayan-predicted Apocalypse, no less...we needed to be packed, wrapped & shoved into a van headed north. My stress levels are always UP but I remember feeling especially dismal on this particular day.  Why are we going up so early? Why can't we have Christmas here at home and THEN head north, this will buy me extra time and let me relax...HOW.WILL.I. BE. READY?  I berated myself for not being a supermom. I'm always amazed at moms who work full time and still seem to be cheery despite the stresses, while I feel anything BUT...

 

That night, I found myself staring at our lovely Christmas tree and longing for the innocence of a child this time of year. As I fretted about how this was all going to get done before we travel, Marlena put her little hand on my arm and reassured me that SANTA will get  whatever I can't finish by magic. "He always does, mommy, because he's SANTA!" (sigh)

 

I smiled and reminded myself that I am the future prism of my daughter's Christmases past....one day, she will hearken back to HER childhood and recall a crazed mom pulling all-nighters, focused only on getting it all done, minus the joy of Christmas carols and chestnuts roasting on an open fire.  This thought stopped me in my tracks.  Tomorrow, I told myself, I will be the picture of Christmas cheer! I forced myself to bed early and woke up with a renewed sense of joy.  I have 11 days more to show my daughter her mommy is Christmas cheer incarnate!

 

After school drop-off, I raced home, put on Christmas music and went straight to work.  I was amazed how much I knocked off by 10:30 a.m.! Hey, maybe the cheerier we are, the more productive we are, I mused.  Suddenly, I turned on my iPhone and all my news alerts went off at once.  What now, I asked myself, another "fiscal cliff" alert?  I glanced at the headline and read the words "School in Connecticut..." scrolling. I'm shamed to say I put my phone down and went about my business. I honestly thought, oh great, another ACLU fight over a nativity scene on a school ground... :/

 

A few moments later, another updated headline alerted me with a "plink".  I walked over to see "...At least 26 now confirmed dead at Connecticut Elementary School..." OH NO!  What happened? A school accident? Oh no, surely no children were killed?

 

I quickly clicked on it and as I read the first few sentences describing the horror of Sandy Hook I sunk to my knees on the kitchen floor. NOOOO! I knew no one there but this time it felt personal. THERE WERE CHILDREN INVOLVED! My worst fears were confirmed as I read how the tiniest victims were the same age as my daughter....My heart sunk as I imagined the sheer terror in the hearts of Sandy Hook parents when they got word of this horrific event. 

 

Talk about a kick in the ass!  I realized that for 26 families, which only counts those directly killed, not to mention those injured physically and psychologically injured, Christmas was gone.  Those 26 families also had stressed out parents also trying to fit it all in yet now, in the blink of an eye, there would be no more rushing around, no more stress. Only IMMENSE grief. I cried along with the rest of our nation. 

 

That night, as all parents did, I hugged my daughter extra tight and promised her I was NOT going to sweat the stuff that matters little in life.  I felt ashamed for the second time that day, asking myself why it takes such a tragedy to remind us that nothing else really matters but the well-being of our families?

 

There will be much written about this tragic day. There will be a long road ahead for the families directly impacted by this nightmare and sadly, for the parents of the slain innocents and families of faculty and staff members, there will be no closure. EVER. Nothing good can come out of such an epic tragedy.

 

Many TRY to find some "take-away" from any such  event to be sure it did not happen in vain.  For me, that take-away is this:  SLOW DOWN.  ENJOY THE JOURNEY. We hear it all the time but do we really live it?

 

As we close in on Christmas 2012, let us honor those we lost in the senseless tragedy by soaking it all in, look at your child's face before the big day.  Burn it in your heart and draw from it every time you feel challenged or disillusioned.  Children have a way of making us see things the way GOD wants us to see them.

Mark 10:14-15--“Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. Truly I tell you, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it.”

See Christmas through the eyes of your child or of any given child. Not with gloom and dread or with dollar signs in your eyes but with the same anticipation and magical wonder of a child.  If we all do this one little thing, we can honor those children (and their brave teachers) whose lights were snuffed out all too soon.  

 

Despite the sadness we all feel this season, I wish you and yours a blessed Christmas and I send prayers for a renewed hope in coming year. Perhaps the best way we can keep the memories of  these children is to follow the immortal words Charles Dickens in A Christmas Carol:

“I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year.

So it's not a Rockwell Thanksgiving...but I still wish I could sit at the kids' table....

 

 

Today, I can almost smell the enticing aroma of my Gramma Lena's Italian kitchen, circa 1970.  For me,Thanksgivings gone by include memories of dinners that resembled the iconic Norman Rockwell picture above...that is, if you add LOUD voices, screams at a TV set during Lions football games and Italian bickering between my grandparents. For my brother and me, Thanksgiving was a blur of going from one relatives' house to the next, satisfying BOTH sides of the Fritz and Battistelli families.

 

First stop was always Gramma Lena's, where we ate earlier and we cousins played simply, by jumping off Gramma & Grampa's porch into their bushes. OK truth be told, the BOYS jumped, while I, being the only granddaughter, loved being in Gramma's kitchen as she, my mom & aunts carried what seemed like endless plates of food to the dining room table. 

 

I was the "lucky" kid who got to sit at the "grown-up " table; for a few years I can even remember the phone books placed underneath my bottom to raise me up. Every 10 minutes, as I sat with the grown-ups, an aunt or uncle would get up from the dinner table to check in on the boys.  Eager to see what sort of hi jinx was taking place in Gramma's kitchen, I'd often glance toward the kitchen to see what "those crazy kids" were up to.  Though I'd NEVER admit it to my male cousins, I silently wished I was in there having what sounded like tons of fun. Food fights. Laughter. Moments of complete silence followed by obnoxious yet funny sounds and uproars of laughter. There was probably even a bit of mockery of me as my cousins made fun of their older "princess" cousin seated with the adults.  Nonetheless, I got to sit in the dining room as the adults raised their glasses of wine and talked about current events, reports of other family members' lives and laughed at jokes that made absolutely no sense to me while my cousins made jokes that I TOTALLY would have gotten!

 

Meanwhile, grown up me....even at age eight, I sat with my cloth napkin neatly folded on my lap and followed my mom for cues as to which fork to use with which entree. I held up my pinkie as I drank my Ginger Ale (it's a Detroit thing) and I listened to the kids playing in the kitchen, sometimes even rolling my eyes like the adults did, despite my desire to be with them.  Even as the "boys" grew into young men, I still sat at the grown-up table and they opted for the kitchen. By then, it was more of a male family tradition.

 

Today, whenever we all get together for holidays, they joke around and sometimes when we're all together I almost feel like I'm outside of an inside joke, but I love that they have that sense of constancy to fall back upon no matter which direction life has taken them.

 

When we moved here to Chattanooga in 2010, I took EVERY excuse to run home to Detroit. Our first Thanksgiving here, living in a little apartment until we could move into our current house, most of my cooking gear was still in storage so we ate at a high-end restaurant overlooking the Tennessee River.  I cried all the way home, fearing our tight family ties were forever severed.

 

Today, I am spending my second Thanksgiving, ever, away from my family. But wait...I DO have a family. It's my OWN family. We live HERE, in Chattanooga, now. Yes, I will miss being with Dad and my brother's family. However, something has happened in the last two years. My daughter is now a second-grader.  She has started to build her own little roots here.  She has friends here now and so do my husband and I.

 

Do I get misty-eyed when I think that my daughter will someday never have the same KIND of "Rockwell" memories of her childhood I did, of annually coming together to give thanks under the same roof as her cousins, aunts, uncles and grandparents? Sure. Knowing many other children are in this same position, with grandparents living miles away, comforts me. 

 

Maybe Rockwell, himself, knew this when he made his famous "Freedom from Want" portrait, which ironically first graced the cover of the Saturday Evening Post March 6, 1943.  Maybe he painted it for posterity, capturing it as a moment in time we shall never again know....maybe he knew as life rolled along, families would spread out across the country....and eventually, even the globe.

Perhaps he hoped we might come together each year to replicate it. Either way, we can all still make our own Rockwell moments to this very day.  It's easy. In homes across the country, travel-weary family members are seated on couches and at tables everywhere. There are likely still kids' tables...the traditions live on.

Even if we are hundreds of miles from our family today, our hearts and prayers are still with them as distinctly as if we were seated besides them. Thanks to technology, we can talk, text, skype and enjoy social networking sites that make us feel as if we are there in real time. You see, we are STILL there.  We can all grumble about how much technology has lessened our ability to communicate but for those of us living hours away from loved ones, it can be a beautiful thing. 

 

To you and yours, from me and mine, I wish you all a bountiful Thanksgiving during which you create magical memories, no matter which table at which you are seated. ;) 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 











How Helen Gurley Brown and Cosmopolitan Magazine Shaped My Life



1982, during my most formative years

 It is with great irony and sadness that I write about the passing of the legendary publisher and icon Helen Gurley Brown, who passed away yesterday at the age of 90.  Only two days ago, as my husband and I were checking out of the grocery store, I spotted the magazine rack and as I always do, I began flipping through the various covers shouting at me to bring them home. My husband gave me his usual look, indicating I still had countless magazines I'd not yet found time to read....still, I flipped through everything from House Beautiful and Redbook to People, debating on which one would most speak to me this week.  This has been happening since I was knee-high.  While I love reading everything from non-fiction to literary classics and yes, even the trashy Harlequins, my one weakness has always been glossy magazines, with the strikingly beautiful models on the cover and headlines, screaming how they will improve every aspect of my life from my sense of fashion, career to fitness and most importantly, of course, my love life.
I blame it on my mother and the copies of Photoplay and Look magazines she left lying around the house.  Even at my daughter's tender age of seven, I'd grab them and peruse every page, filling my monthly need of Hollywood gossip.  I learned to make my father's favorite fried chicken from a recipe right out of Mom's Good Housekeeping magazine by age 10.  Once a month, Mom would let me cook an Sunday entire meal by scratch, copied from one of those magazines.  By age 13, I was making amazing meals for my family while telling you the latest fall fashion trends, the newest movies coming out and which Hollywood couples made up or split up.


Cosmo January 2012

But I digress. Back to the other day.  Just as the cashier asked if there would be anything else, I shook my head, then spotted the ever-present Cosmopolitan on the stand, with a beautiful model on the cover as usual and the alluring price of $3.99 in a bright red banner across the top. 

"That's a great price for Cosmo," I mused to myself.

Did I buy it? Of course not, because I reminded myself that my love affair with Cosmo had by now been long over for more than a decade. It was about 12 years ago I first uttered, with great lamentation, that I'd "outgrown" Cosmopolitan Magazine, the glossy companion I'd never missed an issue of since I was 18. OK, if you count the issues I'd snuck past my mother as a young teenager, I guess you can say more like age 15....

I imagine back in those days, Cosmopolitan Magazine, or what I later called "Cosmo," was to teen- aged girls what Playboy was to our male counterparts.  After all, It was Cosmo that first boldly splashed a young, naked Burt Reynolds across its centerfold in 1972.  I was all of nine years old and I remember my mother, my aunts and my mom's girlfriends' quiet giggles over it, especially after one aunt dared to tape it to her wall.



1957

One afternoon, at the age of 15, one of my BFFs from high school brought over a pile of magazines for us to read as we slathered our young bodies in baby oil to "lay out" and tan <insert audible gasp here.>  As my friends read Tiger Beat, I first read Cosmopolitan in my own right.  For the first time, my "mother's" magazine had turned to "my" new favorite read, as many of the articles (OK MOST of the articles) featured the latest hair and make-up tips and ways to tantalize and attract men, all of which appealed to my by-then boy-crazy, fashion-obsessed young mind.

Mom didn't, at first, have a problem with a few issues she'd let me pick up at the store, until the day she almost fell over in the kitchen when I waltzed in and asked her what the word "Orgasm" meant.  I was not yet 16!  She hurriedly grabbed the magazine from my hands, told me Cosmo had turned to "smut" and said I was never to bring that trash into her home, again.  (Hence the smuggled articles from then until I turned 18...)

Once I was a college girl, Cosmo was no longer smuggled into the house in a brown paper bag even if my mother still shuddered over the headlines which became ever bolder through the next several years. I'd even read HGB's daring books from the 1960s, Sex and the Single Girl, and Having It All in the 1980s, which reinforced my notion to grab life by the horns. NOW. By the time I was ready to graduate college with a degree in journalism I announced I had sent my resume to none other than Helen Gurley Brown, herself.  My mother was not surprised. 
"You know you'd have to move to New York, don't you," she asked.

Without such things like the Internet or even e-mails back then, relocating to New York was a writer's only hope to work at such a prestigious magazine like Cosmo.  That, to me, was a problem, since by then, my mother's lifelong joint disease had morphed into an affliction that would keep her in a wheelchair for the rest of her life.  Mom and I had always been extraordinarily close and there was no way I was going to move away from her, especially now that she couldn't come and go as she once could.   So....I went to work in TV news, followed by stints at local newspapers and the like, maintaining both my love of writing and my family ties.

Cosmo, however, remained in my life and became tantamount to the bible to me, a young career woman of the 1980s who was busy trying to break glass ceilings, dating multiple men and not yet ready to settle down and marry.  Every year, my BFF Julie, who has as many bumps and bruises from her past love life as do I, would call me in January to be sure I'd picked up Cosmo's annual "Bedside Astrologer," which we'd pour through like schoolgirls well into our 30s.



1927

Looking back  think about the many affirmations I received from Cosmo during those years.
Aunt at family wedding: "Dear when will you settle down and marry?  You've been out of college for five years, your mother wants grandchildren!"
Me: "You know, Cosmo magazine says women do not need to marry before 40 and they can STILL have children."

I took to citing facts from that wonderful magazine to ward off many an inquiring mind through the next several years.
I was once involved in a long-term relationship I finally ended, in part, thanks to Cosmo's article and tha magazines monthly "quizzes" urging women to be sure we weren't "settling."  While all my closest friends were getting married and I would feel that gnawing sense deep down inside that maybe I'd never have children, Cosmo ran an article about the growing trend of women postponing motherhood for their careers.  That soothed me through many a stint as the unmarried bridesmaid.

Subsequently, I was engaged twice, before I met and married my husband, at age 39.  When I finally did so, I felt like maybe I'd somehow mirrored Helen Gurley Brown, who married her husband in her late 30s. 

Just as Cosmo predicted, I did, indeed, have a baby after 40 and the universe did not tilt. By then, I was more than READY to be a mom unlike so many of my close friends who were frazzled young moms in the years that I earned my own money, bought my own cars and traveled in and out of the country on a whim.  Thanks to Cosmopolitan Magazine, I've lived a vivacious,fun-loving life without the pressure of having to do "certain things" by a "certain age."  I pursued my educational and career goals and to boot, I finally did what I knew I'd ultimately do on MY terms.... marry and become <another audible gasp> a housewife.  Only this time, I'd say I'm anything BUT a "desperate housewife" thanks to Helen Gurley Brown's non-conventional wisdom.

I chuckle when I stop to think how I'm more "Family circle" than "Cosmo" these days....but somehow I think the now late, great HGB would approve. In fact, as I approach my <gasp> 49th birthday this fall I think I will be snatching up her final book, "The Late Show: A Semi-wild But Practical Plan for Women Over 50," so I can go boldly into the next phase of my life. Somehow I feel she'll still be with me for several years to come and I've a feeling the "wild child" within will not be tamed by my "Fab 50s"  Rest in Peace, HGB and a special thanks from your "Cosmo Girls," everywhere.









Summertime? There's an App For That!

Here in the south, even though it's only June 26, children have been out of school for a month already.  That's one of the hardest things a Yankee like me has had to get used to down here....school starting in August and ending in May.  My mind is still automatically programmed to the September-through-June mode. I moved down here two years ago next week and STILL I can't seem to wrap my mind around the fact that by Fourth of July summertime is halfway over. 

Which leads me to the point of today's topic.  I've witnessed a phenomenon this summer that both saddens me and stings me with shame and blame: I call it "Virtual Playtime." 

Thanks to the folks at Apple who've created as many "fun" applications as there are humans and of course, thanks to my own guilt of giving in to it, my seven-year-old daughter has become addicted to my iPhone.

The question is no longer "Mommy I'm bored what can I do, it's become "Mommy, can I play Cookie Maker?" or " Can you pleeeeease download XYZ app that [so and so] told me about?  It's reeeeally cool." 

When we're driving to a destination, instead of reading one of her books, she now wants my phone.  If I'm at the grocery store, or doing errands during the day, I admit to giving in and letting her play away because selfishly I can focus on getting my own things done more quickly.  It sure beats having to pack coloring books and crayons. 

I first became painfully aware of this a few weeks ago when my husband and I were enjoying good food and conversation with a group of friends and their children, all approximately the same age as our daughter.  I glanced over to the "kids" table and noticed that, while they were engaging in usual child banter, they also sat next to one another with only  the tops of their heads showing as their fingers moved fast and furiously about their parents' smart phones. 

Now granted, we parents all noticed it, shaking our heads and commenting how times have changed from the days when we were kids, engaged in rowdy horseplay. To be fair, our kids still chased each other about, whooping it up and making the usual ruckus. In between that, though, there was a lot of begging on the kids' end, as they pleading their cases for us to download the latest app they just "had" to have, according to their little playmates. 

I am ashamed to admit I found myself "bowing" to virtual peer pressure as I robotically entered my password for the app to keep the peace in the interest of being able to continue on in my conversation with my adult friends.  I justified this by telling myself it's only a little bit of harmless fun here and there as I speak with other adults or do my daily chores. 

Meanwhile, every ten minutes or so, there is a "plunk" or a "whoosh" sound indicating I've got another text, email or Facebook comment. What do I do?  I stop whatever I am doing and READ IT.  *hanging head LOW *

My two "aha" moments came a few days ago as I sat outside at a community pool with the sound of happy, screaming children playing and splashing about, piercing my eardrums.  Suddenly my daughter and her little friend, still dripping from the pool, came over and asked my friend and me for our phones so that they could play with them.  Outside. On a summer day. While playing with a friend! 

My brain percolated as I glanced around the pool to see nearly EVERY ADULT was either talking 'live" on their phones as they basked in the rays or they were texting someone.  I am equally guilty of letting my daughter see me do this.  I'll answer a quick text here or there.  I'll Google or You-Tube something to better illustrate something about which my friend and I are talking. 

The next day, during a block party, as the neighbor kids were running about from yard to yard, my daughter and another child raced up to me, abuzz with excitement.  I braced myself for what my daughter might ask me for this time. To run across the street and swing in someone else's yard?  A sleepover? Nope.  She asked me for MY PHONE so she could show her neighbor this "really cool app" she uses. Really.



Admittedly, I am as attached to my iPhone as is my daughter.  My husband, only half joking, calls it my "other husband." (Admitting it is the first step...)  The good news is I am NOT a gamer.  But I can tell you what's happening in most of my friends and families lives at any given moment thanks to facebook or constant texts from them. But at least I finally recognized the problem and I know that something must be done. NOW.  I am going to BECOME the change I want to see in others.The old adage that WE are our children's best example still holds true.  How can we teach our kids to play "live," in the here and now rather than a virtual life when we adults are doing the EXACT same thing?

EXAMPLE:  My daughter LOVES "Cookie maker."  Solution:  We can bake cookies together.  She loves Skyview, an APP that shows the constellations.  Solution:  We find books to read about them and we stargaze at night from our veranda.   Anything virtual on an iPhone or iPadcan be done LIVE.  Gee, now there's a novel idea!!

This being said, I'm trying something new and I encourage other parents to do that same.  I've turned off all unnecessary technology and now only check in every couple hours (OK... or whenever my daughter ISN'T looking

"Oh sure, that's easy to say, Janice," I can hear you all saying, as you roll your eyes.  "My iPhone is my only contact with the rest of the world." Oh really? 

Try it.  The first day or two is TOUGH.  I admit to my addictions to Facebook and "checking in" from wherever we might be for fun and I'll probably not stop using social networking...it helps me stay in touch with my friends back home in Michigan without having to be on the phone all day long.  I do still use my ear buds to listen to Pandora as I breeze through housecleaning or my currently-lapsed 5K training.

Believe me when I say that even those who have dropped their landlines needn't be completely bound to time-sucking technology.  I've switched my settings on my iPhone to only announce new Facebook responses every few hours.  I've edited my sounds to only allow my phone to ring and texts because I realize many of my friends and family use this in lieu of actually calling me during work hours. Texting has saved lives, it actually saved my sanity during the spring tornado that wiped out my city earlier this year.  I LOVE texts!

What's the return on this trade-off?

I'm living in the here and now and more importantly, I'm focused solely on whomever is with me at any given moment. I'm cherishing EVERY moment my sweet seven-year-old wants with ME and only ME because I know that window of time is limited.  My daughter hasn't said so but I can already tell she feels she's gotten my attention back, it shows in her actions.  I definitely know my husband's response to having his wife back 100% makes him happy.

One last thought.  Remember how so many of us felt like call-waiting was a rude interruption on our current phone calls when it was first introduced into our culture?  How about applying that same premise to the fact that our childrens' real life experiences are being interrupted by "virtual" experiences.

Lets' spend the remainder of our lazy days of the summer of 2012 enjoying the people who are present TODAY!  Meanwhile I am off on a nature walk with my daughter on this 88 degree day, the only day this week that will fall below the 90s.... the one part of living in the south to which I will NEVER be accustomed.  >:-{



 

Two empty chairs for Grandparents' Day remind me what I miss the most

Dewey and Lena Battistelli, better known to me as Gramps & Gram, ca. 1970-something

It was 1977 and I was 14 years old (Disclaimer: DO NOT DO THE MATH.) 
I was backstage in the auditorium at  Stevenson Junior High School, preparing to go stand on those uncomfortable little wooden stage bleachers alongside my choir mates, most of whom I'd sung with since I was knee-high. By then, choir was my LIFE.  My music teacher, Miss Wendy Wheaton, had bestowed upon me a very important honor.... I'd been selected to perform a solo for the mid-winter concert.  The song she selected for me was a very popular song of the day, Evergreen, sung by none other than the incomparable Ms. Barbra Streisand.  (No pressure there.)

Even though he worked afternoons, my dad arranged to go into work later that evening so he would not miss my "debut."  I peeked from behind the stage curtains to see where he, my mom and my little brother were sitting in the audience. Good.  They were in the second row.  Beside them were two empty seats with my mother's purse placed on one and my brother's coat on the other. Those seats were reserved for my grandparents.  In fact, two chairs were always reserved for Dewey and Lena Battistelli, who had attended every choir concert, dance recital and school play or musical production I'd been a part of dating back to my first school play in Kindergarten, where I'd played a pilgrim's wife and even had a speaking line which I still remember ("Oh, mercy me!")

Understand that to them, we lived waaay "out there" in the suburbs and making that drive from their lifelong bungalow in Detroit was considered no small feat.

I was a bundle of nerves, understandably. All the backstage chattering about who will go where and which order our songs were to be performed was nothing more than white noise to me as I obsessively peeked out from the curtains three more times to see those empty chairs still unfilled.  There had been a winter storm with at least 6 " of snow  the day before and Mom worried Gramps and Gram might not be able to drive in for my concert.  She'd prepared me not to be too disappointed if they did not show up.   

The lights flickered and went dim.  Onto the darkened stage we all filtered one-by-one.  We did our opening number, my stomach churning inside, NOT because of my impending first time in the spotlight but because it felt unnatural to NOT see my grandparents out there. Mom later told me she was even given some nasty looks for "poaching," a practice still frowned upon today....

After the third song was to be my solo.  We were already through the second stanza when I'd realized they would, indeed, not be there to catch my first solo.  This was before technology, folks.  There were no iPhones or even the bulky camcorders of the 80s that preceeded them....

Finally Ms. Wheaton gave me the nod to approach the microphone next to her piano.  As I stepped toward the mic, I saw the auditorium door swing open and in rushed my two favorite people in the world, my GRANDPARENTS, who made no attempts to be subtle as they raced toward their seats way up front. Now here's your visual: Picture a short, stocky balding man, as outgoing as they come, wearing a wide smile showing the gap in his two front teeth and as always, his signature hat  in hand as he waves to folks glaring at him with mild annoyance.  As per usual, he was rushing way ahead of his wife, my poor Gramma, wearing a winter coat over her usual house dress, practical black shoes with the inner toe cut out to accommodate her aching bunions (even in 6" of snow!) and a bright ORANGE... babushka...  < cringing >.

Taking no notice that there was a concert already in progress, they loudly bickered back and forth in Italian, their entrance making such a bustle that Ms. Wheaton paused and coached me for a few moments to give them a moment to settle in. I made eye contact with Gramps who's sparkly smile and knowing wink lit up my world. Suddenly, all pre-performance jitters melted away.  As Ms. Wheaton turned away from the audience to play the first piano chord, Gramps stood up and, as my mother hid her face in her hands, pointed directly at me, informing audience members within earshot exactly how he was related to "that little girl at the microphone."  Any other teenager would have been mortified. Instead, I felt FORTIFIED and I went on to perform the song to the best of my abillity.  It would not be my last solo performance but it certainly made for my most memorable one.

I am reminded of that evening today because this Friday, my daughter's school will mark Grandparents' Day with much fanfare. There should have been a Grandparents' day when I was a kid.  Especially now, given the amount of hands-on help today's grandparents give to their offspring throughout the year. I see grandparents at drop-off and in the carpool line, I see them volunteering at school and serving at masses.  I see them in attendance at events during which a parent must be at the office.  This is definitely a well deserved day for Grandparents. 

This year, I am also reminded of the void I feel living so far from my only living parent, my father in Michigan who will, sadly, not be in attenance on Friday.  Given the fact that his granddaughter will be singing a small solo, I couldn't help but draw a parallel with my own story about waiting for Grampa & Gramma to come.  My father loves his grandchildren.  He just happens to be that dad who simply doesn't travel, whether he's feeling well or not.....so I've resigned myself to it.  My mom's brother and his wife, Uncle Gene and Aunt Shirley Battistelli, had planned to step up in Dad's absence but emergency back surgery on my uncle put a halt to that.  All the same, the gesture is appreciated more than they can ever know.  And so, rather than stew over Dad's absence I'll focus on the fact that my in-laws, now 81, will once again make the 12-hour trek from Chatham, Ontario, along with their son, my brother-in-law, to see their youngest granddaughter proudly show off her school, her work and her teacher to Oma and Opa. I can predict that, as was the case last year, they will love it. 

But that day, as I help other parents set up and serve food to our visiting grandparents and stand in back to watch the show, I cannot lie.  I'll likely fight back pangs of sadness.  I always miss my mom, that's nothing new, but days like this just magnify her absence, making it bittersweet for me as I silently wish she'd lived long enough to see my brother and me become parents.  Even knowing she's  in a better place, selfishly, I'd prefer to see her wheelchair parked next to other grandparents, not only to watch her granddaughter that day, but to introduce her to the amazing group of moms with whom I've become very close, down here in Chattanooga. Maybe to tell Mom I now understand what she did all those years as she carted me from activity to activity and to show her I am trying, every single day, to become all she hoped I'd someday become as a mommy.

Sadness aside, this week is about the Grandparents and the kids.  So Friday, I'll give my daughter two flowers representing the seats left empty by her "maternal" grandparents and remind her that actually, Gramma Mary has the best seat in the house, and I'll urge her to belt out that solo loud enough for the Heavens to hear. 

In closing....to all of the Pop-pops, Nanas, Oma & Opas, Mimi and Poppy's here at Our Lady of Perpetual Help and to ALL  grandparents across the country who love your grandchildren all year long, I bid you a heartfelt, Happy Grandparents' Day!   It should go without saying just how deeply you are loved by your children and their own children.  ENJOY YOUR DAY!

Lipstick and Liz.....Youth and Bright Makeup Springs Eternal

Yesterday I bought myself a new tube of colorful, spring lipstick and I thought about Elizabeth Taylor.  Don't know why, but when buying something that makes me feel a little more glamorous, I think of her.  Today we mark the one-year anniversary of the death of Elizabeth Taylor, coincidentally.  Perhaps Ms. Taylor's spirit directed me toward the perfect shade of spring pink. (wink)
I don't know about other women but for me, the world's been maybe just a tad less colorful this past year.  True, we hadn't seen much of the divine Ms. Liz (she once said she hated being called "Liz") in recent years because of declining health, still, it just felt like a part of my inner diva died with her last year.
I'm quite sure she probably didn't want to be seen much, anyway, given the dreadful way age and illness tends to rob even the most glamorous women of their beauty.  It happens to all of us, eventually. Like this iconic actress who collected husbands and diamonds and who made DIVA a household word, I believe I, too, would have become reclusive.  Vanity?  Yes, but that's just how I think I would behave if I were once the most beautiful actress in the world.

I find it ironic that Ms. Taylor died the first few days of spring, since she remains, in my eyes, the pinnacle of fashion and beauty. This is because springtime brings out a woman's inner diva.  This time of year, I get the bug to color my world.  Like flowers opening their petals to the first warm breeze, we peel off layers of clothes, get pedicures to bare our toes and break out the bright colorful wardrobes and make-up.
I imagine Ms. Taylor loved springtime and with her resources, she certainly didn't need to worry about a budget even if she never needed a stitch of clothing or an ounce of makeup to look beautiful.  Her lovely violet eyes and mutated double-rowed eyelashes, alone, could stop traffic. Yesterday as I browsed the make-up section, I thought about how Ms. Taylor selected her lipsticks.  Did she rely on an assistant or a makeup artist, or did she, like me, enjoy "playing" with various makeups?  She probably had plenty of help but something tells me a queen bee like Ms. Taylor would have called her own shots even with something as minuscule as the perfect shade of red lipstick. 

Along with lipsticks, I fall prey EVERY YEAR to new perfumes and that, too, reminds me of Elizabeth Taylor, who basically started the trend of celebrities coming out with their own scents.  Today you can't walk past the perfume counter at Macy's or Dillard's without seeing a celebrity perfume, thanks to Elizabeth Taylor.

Even if I'm wearing jeans and a torn tank top, I feel like a diva when I am wearing a new scent of perfume or a new shade of lipstick. In my little world, I become Liz Taylor. 

Maybe it goes back further than that.  Despite how bone tired she was, my own mother would swipe on lipstick and dab a little perfume behind each ear just before my dad came home, even if she had no place to go and was wearing raggedy old house clothes.  I used to never understand that.  Why bother, I'd tell myself as a teenager. You're only staying home.

Yet today I find myself doing the same thing.  I could be out running errands all day, carpooling, volunteering at school, working out, making dinner or even scrubbing floors, but when the day morphs into evening I get the yen to get my pretty on.  Down comes the ponytail or off comes the baseball cap.  On goes the lipstick.

I hope it's appreciated by my husband and even my own daughter and viewed as something I do for them rather than in the name of vanity.  I know in my own case, regarding my mom, it certainly was appreciated and even endearing.  We even buried her with her favorite bottle of Chanel No. 5 in her pocket.  (OK, so I emptied the remaining perfume into MY bottle of course, I wasn't gonna let THAT perfume go to waste!)   The point is, we did that because, like Ms. Taylor, mom was all about getting her pretty on.....and so am I. It's a crazy, time-pressed world filled with stress, deadlines, angst, betrayals and politics....yet making things just a tiny bit prettier just seems to make it all easier to take.

So despite my everyday, never-ending to-do list.... no matter how tired I get, I do my level best, especially at this time of year,  to channel MY inner diva like Ms. Taylor.... I try my best to carve out some "me" time....to work out, to style my hair, manicure my nails, pedicure my toenails.....and yesterday, I selected the perfect shade of pink lipstick.  I hope all ladies out there will do the same because, I think deep down, Ms. Taylor would approve. 

My parents: Colorblind in a Segregated World

It was October, 1962.  My mother had just married my dad at the height of the Cuban Missile Crisis and to make matters worse, they were headed south on a car trip to Florida, exactly where the Cuban missiles were pointed.  Relatives strongly suggested they change their destination but being 21 and knowing it all, they listened only to their hearts. 
Even their guest list caused a stir. You see, my mother worked at Detroit Rehabilitation Center as she studied for her beauty licence in Cosmetology.  She worked with, what we Caucasians casually called "colored people" back then and Mom wanted the folks she saw every day to be a part of her joy.  Upon receiving their fancy invites, these co-workers came to my mom at work and, in hushed tones, told her they would have to decline.  They assumed she would understand.

While every other person of color respectfully declined Mom's invitation, one gal in Mom's department, Bess, was especially close to Mom and she felt terrible when Mom confided to in her sadness that the others would not be attending. Bess, being a few years older and wiser than my mother, reminded Mom of  how her "white kin" might react to having "colored people" sitting at dinner among all those white folk. The others declined, said Bess, as a sign of affection for my mother's reputation.  Let me pause here for us all to reflect on this. Can you imagine a world where people of any other origin than Caucasian would cause controversy simply by attending your wedding.  Naturally, Mom assumed Bess too, would not attend.

My parents' wedding, by all accounts, was quite the festivity.  As I've alluded to in previous blogs, my mother had a disease that doctors believed would take her life before she'd reach her teen years.
The fact that she lived to marrying age, alone, was cause for celebration, not to mention she was the only daughter of an Italian family so I hear it was QUITE the wedding party. 

Now, back to the "colored people."  According to mom, the big day went off with only a few hitches, one of which was morning rain..... but the biggest "hitch" came later that evening, far after the reception dinner, fit for a king, was served.  The party was going on strong.  The live band played, intermixed with Italian accordion music, and a great deal of imbibing, as I can only imagine.  Enter.....the "colored people."

Mom and Dad's reception was jumping, dancing was non-stop and from the pictures I have, the room was elbow-to-elbow. Whil hugging someone and looking over the person's shoulder, Mom glanced at the doorway to see a couple standing there, looking terribly awkward and lost. It was BESS and her husband!  Excusing herself from the hugger, Mom grabbed her new husband and dashed  to the doorway and -- in front of whomever was present -- hugged Bess and her husband tightly, thanking them again and again for coming. 
But why did they miss dinner, asked Mom?  Bess explained it would be easier that way, so as not to stir up trouble.  This was simply NOT OK at an Italian wedding!  Mom and Dad grabbed Bess and her husband, proudly ushering them to the back kitchen -- as others watched -- and asked the chefs to fix up a full plate of food for their guests.  They were welcome to eat out at their table, Mom told them, but Bess preferred that she and her husband eat in the kitchen. 

Years later, Mom would say she was so happy Bess braved any such possible "stir" and attended the wedding.  To Mom's utter joy, she watched Bess and her husband later feel welcome enough to enjoy a few slow dances with nary a sign of anger from any of Mom or Dad's "kin."  How proud she and Dad felt!

Just two days later, en route to Florida, the honeymooners stopped for a bite to eat at a small southern diner.  As was customary in those days, it was a non-issue to see signs on the doors and in windows of nearly any restaurant or store: "We reserve the right not to serve colored people" or "No colored people allowed."  Worse yet, "Please visit YOUR own dining establishments."  Can you even imagine this today?

The white proprietor stopped the man at the doorway but the "colored" man politely reassured the owner he was simply in need of directions, his family was in the car and they were running low on gasoline.

"I told ya, boy," said the owner in a booming voice, "Ya can't be in my diner, now get on down the road, there are places that can help 'your people' just a few blocks from here."

That's all it took for my dad, a skinny white man from Detroit, to lose his cool.  OK, so Dad, at 70, is still a hothead to this day. (Thankfully I did NOT inherit his short fuse..ummmm... so OK, full disclosure, Mom had one too so it's in the gene pool, what can I say?? ;)   From Mom's account,Dad abruptly jumped from his seat and ran to the doorway to intercede on the lost man's behalf, reminding the owner the man simply needed directions.  The owner patted my dad's shoulder dismissively, calling him "son" and asking him to "mind his peace."

Not easily dismissed, Daddy did what any young man feeling like he could take on the world with his young bride beside him might do.... he pulled a John Wayne.  He hauled off and landed a punch squarely on the owner's jaw! As waiters scurried to help up their boss, Dad left the diner with the stunned lost man beside him.  The "colored" man, perhaps in his 30s, thanked Dad profusely but cautioned him to not lose his temper like that , because a young man could get himself killed over such actions down south.

Daddy simply grabbed his road map and handed it to the man, whose family was by now piling out of their car to see what had happened.  Sadly, Daddy knew it would be easier for him to get a new road map than for this "colored" man to do the same.  The two men shook hands and the wives exchanged pleasantries before both sides returned to their cars and went their separate ways. They never met again.

As we celebrate Black history Month, my challenge to you is to stand up against whatever prejudices you see. The next time you see someone being bullied or discriminated against.... for whatever reason, I ask you to be brave and stand up for that person. You will NEVER be sorry about what you stood up for, only for what you turned a blind eye against. As Dr. King once said, he had a dream that one day a person would be judged on the merit of his character.... not the color of his skin. May we all be colorblind and be like the young newlyweds from Detroit, two people I proudly call Mom and Dad. 

Girlfriends.....Drama from the playground lasts a lifetime

"Make new friends but keep the old, one is silver and the other, gold."

My daughter is closing in on the end of her 6th year and already I've had my hands full with "playground drama." At 6 it's easy for little girls to decide they have a new BFF every day and along with that comes hurt feelings for the ones left out.  The other day, as my daughter stood in the mirror asking about how she can get rid of her chubby cheeks, (which I routinely enjoy eating as a snack, ;) I was saddened and tried my best to NOT REACT...and to bite my tongue without going off on the little girl who told my daughter she had chubby cheeks!

I thought back to my life as a schoolgirl and suddenly I heard my dad's words.

"You will have many acquaintances throughout your life but very few friends."  He said it throughout my school days when I'd complain about one girl doing this and another girl doing that to offend me.  Now, on the day I'm starting college, he says it again, following up with the old adage, "If you can count your true friends on one hand, you are blessed."  Talk about a downer! 

There I was that fall, in 1981, already sad that my entire posse of girlfriends was dispersing...most of us going off in different directions, to different colleges, starting jobs, getting apartments, even a few preparing to marry right out of high school.  Life was changing at an alarming pace for me. 

How could Dad say that when, in 1981, I was a girl blessed with MANY girlfriends!  Some from childhood.  Others from theater and choir, some from dance class, some from my cheer squad, some from my job at the mall.  Life was good. On any given weekend, I never lacked for things to do, to be sure. He's wrong. We'll ALWAYS be friends, I thought to myself, indignantly.

My mom, on the other hand, gave me sager advice.  "You have no sisters, so remember that as you make new girlfriends from college and once you are into your career, some of these girls just might become like family to you someday and you will NEED them, so BE A FRIEND to them, and they'll do the same." Then she added, "Don't let petty things, especially BOYS or jealousies, come between you."  Mom's words rang out truer than Dad's, thankfully.

Today, I'm blessed with a gaggle of wonderful girlfriends, from grade & high school,  my old gym, my MANY jobs, neighbors, my parish, my husband's job, my daughter's school, each beautiful woman serving her own individual purpose in my life, as do I, in theirs, I would hope.  A couple of them, and they know who they are, are more like sisters to me than had we emerged from the same womb. 

In the old testament:Prayer of Jabez, Jabez asked the Lord to "enlarge" his territory: 
‘Oh, that You would bless me indeed, and enlarge my territory, that Your hand would be with me, and that You would keep me from evil, that I may not cause pain!’ So God granted him what he requested.”
(1 Chronicles 4:9-10) , and God did just that.

Like Jabez, my own personal  "territory" of girlfriends has been enlarged, indeed, especially since I've moved down south. When I stop to think of how I first sank into depression upon being plucked from my native Detroit, and stayed put in that tiny apartment for months like a hermit, not wishing to venture outside to see my new city, I shudder. 

With this latest move I've been blessed yet again in the friendship category.  Oh....I've STILL got my posse of BFFs who knew me waaaay back when. I think we all need those friends in our lives today....the ones who remember us when we were tiny little girls standing at the bus stop, dodging worms being thrown at us (NOT NAMING NAMES...OK...Marianne? lol) knees trembling as the bus swallowed us up and took us away to school. They keep things REAL for us when we become someone other than who we really are, because really, we are ALL still the same little girls we were then, only now we wear bras and makeup.  ;)

When the "mean girls" came along in middle school or as we called it back then, "Junior High," here was where the first real lines were drawn in the sand....those who would stand with you and those who would join others in making fun of your....ahem, red hair and freckles.....in my case.  There are those girlfriends who were with us as we made those girly rites of passages.....first crushes, first training bras, that emotional first foray into womanhood and (gasp) even our first kiss! 

Then there we were, the girls we morphed into during those final years in high school and onward throughout college.  Eventually, as we grew into the adult forms of ourselves, some girlfriends made the cut, others drifted down their own life paths off for no other reasons than our lives had taken different directions.

My mom was right because sure enough, the friends I kept since those early years, along with those I acquired in college and throughout my career (and I've had TONS of jobs!) are STILL in my life to this day. I am blessed.  These girls saw me through poor career choices,  bad romantic decisions and.... as my closest friends know, my crazy "Janice-isms....the foibles they say can ONLY happen to ME. :)  These were the ones there to hand me a box of Kleenex through every broken heart, a few even came along for drives in cars to "check out" where the said "ex" was spending time on the first Saturday after we broke up...OK some might call that STALKING but they'll never tell on me right? RIGHT?!!  LOL.  They were also there to celebrate my joy in finally finding Mr. Right and planning my wedding. 

When cold feet kicked in, they talked me off the ledge when I was scared to marry after all those years, reminding me what a great guy I was about to say "I do" to, and also reminding me of the bad choices I've made in the past regarding my poor, beat up heart.

When my mom died suddenly nearly 12 years ago, they gathered in the hospital to be with me, they held my hand, they made the calls and one even brought me a Hot Fudge Sundae during Mom's visitation. They checked in on me afterward, they never dropped the ball. 

After three days in labor and a scary emergency C-section, they came over, cleaned my house, brought me homemade dinner and held my newborn daughter as if she were their own child. Today my daughter has about 12 "aunts" despite the fact I have no sisters.
Sadly, a few of my friends from high school and I have already buried one of those BFFs from high school and here again, was a lesson learned about friendship as we friends showed up to decorate her house at Christmas as she suffered through breast cancer and took turns taking her to tests, treatments and such.  In the end, that loss, tough as it was, taught us to appreciate each other all the more. 

My daughter was surprised when I told her how MANY of those gals she now calls "Aunt" I played with and yes, even argued with, on the playground and later, in the hallways of our high school when I was just HER age and then older.  And yes, sometimes I swore I'd NEVER speak to "so & so" AGAIN!  Yet, some 25 + years later, there was "so & so", helping me load up the moving van and fighting back tears as I left Michigan.  Thank GOD for cars, planes and technology.  I can easily talk, text, or Facebook with friends to show pics of our life here in Tennessee.  I can also easily hop on a plane OR make the 8 hour drive north when a friends' dad dies suddenly. Likewise my door is open to any friends who need a break after a bad divorce or just to get away from Michigan's harsh, winter weather.

Today, however, I am equally blessed with a great group of ladies I am PROUD to call my new Chatty girlfriends here in Chattanooga.  Some I've met through my husband's job at VW, we were all transplants from MI and other areas, landed in this lovely, yet unfamiliar area.  My new VW friends helped me navigate my way through the "Scenic City"...many times over the phone as I've frantically called from atop a mountain terrified I would plunge over. (Thanks Jen and Michelle!)  Others gave us great tips for where to dine out, ride our bikes and welcomed us here (Thanks Eva!) 

Then, when my daughter started Kindergarten, my circle of friends widened to include all of those wonderful school moms.  Today, our kids play together, but already in the short time I've been here, these moms  & I have bonded so tightly.  They've helped me through TWO surgeries and a move into our current home and numerous other "dramas" in my own life they've helped me through.  We go out for a few laughs and OK maybe a few glasses of wine.....we take each others' kids home if one of us is in need of time alone or otherwise in dispose....we complain about our spouses.....then in the same breath we praise these men who put up with our hijinks's!  God knows what I'd have done without these ladies, each & every one of them!

When I had to leave my friends in Michigan behind I lamented I'd NEVER find friends who could know me as well, become as close to me or in whom I could confide or count on when the chips were down. Guess again. Like Garth Brooks said in his song Unanswered Prayers, "...I guess the Lord knows what he's doin' after all..."

So.....Today I send a great big THANKS, to my oldest (think longevity girls NOT age, lol)  AND my newest friends, I love you ALL and know this:  no matter WHERE I retire someday, I expect y'all to be in rocking chairs besides me, still spilling the dirt that makes us giggle, along with the wine that dribbles out of our glasses, due to our feeble, shaky hands.  I expect to wear our red hats and purple clothing together!