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!

30-year class reunion is a come as you ARE....TODAY.

Ready to take on the world!

This year, in fact at the end of this month, I will celebrate my (gasp) 30-year class reunion.  Now, before my fellow classmates on Facebook go on to bust my chops about "outing" them for our true ages I want to go on record as saying that I choose to embrace my age rather than lie about it.  I'm 48 & proud of it.  I count each and every year as another notch in the proverbial belt of life. I see every year on this earth as a a new experience and  a blessing.  Especially in light of the friends I've buried far too early.

Until last year, I was a Michigan resident my entire life and class reunions were a hop, skip and jump to a place to socialize with people who were in the trenches with me during my most formative years.  This year I will drive home 9 hours from Tennessee with my family to attend.  Yes, I'm coming home to eat turkey with my beloved family.

Mainly, though....it's about coming HOME and reflecting on the person I am now, compared to the person I was in 1981...when my skin was tighter, I weighed less and I had higher expectations about that big wide open world I was about to step into. 

Thirty years ago we were, all of us in our own ways, adventurers.  Playing it safe didn't yet occur to us. We didn't have mouths to feed, mortgages to pay or calories to count.  We were invincible.  We were immortal.  We didn't think about the fact that we would someday be saying final farewells to parents, siblings, or friends with whom we grew up.  We never expected we would someday be staring into a mirror and seeing...(another gasp) our OWN parents!

And while many classmates might be eating skinless white meat or skipping that extra slice of pumpkin pie as they frantically diet before the big "reveal" day, I will be enjoying my Thanksgiving meal and relishing who I am today, not dwelling on who I used to be and hiding who I've morphed into.  Several times throughout this past year I've reminded myself about the upcoming reunion and I've chastized myself for not working out more often in preparation of  "the big day."  Now, thankfully, that ship has sailed.  There are school functions to attend, dance classes, carpooling, dinners to be made, writing and other such passions that take up my precious time. Making healthy food choices these days is more about teaching my 6-year-old to eat healthfully rather than my own vanity. A nice long walk to clear my head & the occasional kickboxing session is about the best I can squeeze in.

There is something very liberating about this reunion, as opposed to my 10 or even my 20-year reunion. I now (finally)  realize that the people who matter most in my life will continue to love me as they did when I was that young whippersnap of a girl no matter who I am or what I look like and if not, well then, they never mattered to me in the first place. Ten years ago I was STILL an unmarried career woman.  I did not want my lifelong friends to see that maybe I wasn't 108 lbs anymore or notice any signs that I was approaching the dreaded 4-0.  Looking back now, I laugh at how scared I was of that approaching decade of my life. 

Now I realize that for me, my 40s were the most defining years of my life personally.  I married at 39, I had my daughter at nearly 42 and I am now a busy wife & school mom TRYING to turn my years of journalism and public relations into success as a freelance writer. 

Still....for many of my fellow classmates who started the marriage and /or parenting phase of their lives earlier, the 40s are a time of dealing with the same teenaged angst from their kids that they put their own parents through.  Others who chose different paths have had their own stuggles. Maybe they chose NOT to marry, which was perfectly fine. Some had great jobs and succeeded, others lost jobs, ended marriages or buried loved ones.  Others have fought back against major illnesses & won or are currently fighting them now.  At this point in my own life I've seen and experienced many of the same things.  The point is, we are fortunate to still be here at all.  Many of our classmates are already gone and will be there with us in spirit only. 

Time has a way of humbling us all.  Life has a way of beating us down and then every once in a while, something will lift us up again.  Seeing lifelong friends who knew me way back when is what personally lifts ME up and for this reason, I'm going back to the place where, both physically and emotionally, I believed life held so many promises.  It still does, only we are older now and with experience we often become jaded. 

For me, I have no reason to come as anyone other than the person that I am today. Do I miss my tighter skin, toned arms and sparking smile sans crow's feet?  Of course!  Do I miss that all enough to say I'm not going back there to see everyone because they'll judge me? HELL NO!  Because with age also comes confidence.  Will people say "wow, he's gone bald or gee, she's gained weight!" Sadly, yes.  We may not think so but we are ALL guilty of judging others, even if it's silently to ourselves. Will we, however, also say "...look how far we've come..."? Again....a resounding YES.   

Which is why I'm saying that while a lot of pressure seems to be placed on people to attend their 25th reunions sporting buffed bodies, fancy clothes, pictures of our perfect families and impressive business cards showing what we've DONE with our lives, the 30th is a chance for us to just come back together as we are today and reminisce (and dare I say laugh) at who we were in 1981.

If you've never attended a class reunion, I challenge you to do so.  You will be amazed at how differently you will be received by your classmates now as opposed to back in the day when you sat at the loner lunchroom table and tried to hide your braces and zits. 

I had one classmate say to me in no unceratin terms that he/she has "nothing to show for the last 30 years."  HUH?  How can any of us say such a thing?  Just being here matters!  We all thought we'd turn out differently, no matter WHAT we've done with our lives. And therein lies the beauty of seeing the friends with whom we started our life's journey, in the first place.

And to my fellow classmates from John Glenn High School, whom I'll see in a few short weeks even though I'm still trying to find the perfect little black dress...I say WELCOME HOME and I can't wait to see "y'all" over Thanksgiving weekend....party ON!!

Where Did Gramma's House Go?

The empty lot where my grandparents' home once stood

This used to be my playground

This used to be my childhood dream

This used to be the place I ran to

Whenever I was in need

Of a friend

Why did it have to end

-- Madonna

The last time I was in my native Michigan I found myself hearing this song from one of my all-time fave contemporary movies, A League of Our Own, playing in the back of my mind as I made the sad trip back to my grandparents' street in Detroit to see for myself if it was really true. Was my grandparents' home really gone?

Mom & her cousin relax on front lawn of the house on Sarena

Sadly, it was true. Gramma & Gramps' home on Sarena Street is no longer standing.  In fact, there was not even evidence a home ever sat on that little tiny piece of property.  I don't know where it went.  I don't know HOW it vanished.  Was it a fire?  Was it leveled because of how horribly corroded it looked last time I saw it?  That was in 2009, when my cousin Dave & I, feeling pangs of nostalgia for our happy childhoods, decided to drive by the old neighborhood.  We were horrified by what we found.  The once neat little white bungalow we knew and loved was now run down, the front door and windows boarded up, the siding shot up with bulletholes. The porch we grandkids all jumped off from was barely viewable because it was covered with overgrown bushes and weeds.

Gramps in front of his Detroit home in safer, happier times 

 My cousin Dave is this burly guy, a very smart, articulate teacher with a masters' degree.  He usually has something to say about most everything.  Not this day.  He stood there silently, looking like he wanted to cry.  He was speechless, as was I.  Finally we both found ourselves choked up. This was personal. Someone, or something....made our childhood just... disappear.
I couldn't just stand there ....ever the curious, I simply had to inch in closer, despite Dave's warnings that we don't know what might be in there....vermin...crack dealers, who knew what lurked inside the house we once knew so well?  So there I was in high-heeled sandals, trying to climb onto something to peer inside the window that was once my mother's bedroom.  I heard water running and for a moment I thought maybe someone still lived there.  Was I trespassing?  But no, it appeared maybe some irresponsible people now used the house we spent our childhoods in as a drug house....the lump in my throat was hard to swallow.

On the drive away that day, I think I remember saying maybe we shouldn't have gone by....it certainly didn't make us feel nostalgic....just sickened and sad.  It forever skewed memories of my entire childhood.  The hundreds of nights I slept over my grandparents' house.  The trips to the little soda shop at the corner.  The scent of Gramma's lovely peonies all neatly lined up in the backyard. The railroad tracks just three doors down where Gramps & I used to wait for the trains to pass by every night from his covered porch.  All those lovely memories now forever tainted. 

Author Tom Wolfe said you can't go home again. I guess he was right. But now, as I stood there shooting pictures of the empty lot last July, fighting back tears once again....I realized a boarded up house was at least, still a tangible memory.  I could still envision what it once was.  Now, people who drive by that area will never know that once there was a  little white house that held a family of five, that grew into an extended family of grandparents, aunts and uncles and lively cousins who gathered at the hub of our big loud Italian existence for every holiday or many times, just because. 

Being a movie buff, please allow me to use a movie metaphor to adequately convey my sadness over Gramps & Gramm's "lost house."  In the 1990 Barry Levinson movie Avalon, main character Sam Krichinsky, an immigrant to America, is now near the end of his life and in a convalescent center.  During a visit from his grandson and great-grandson, it is brutally apparent he has lost most of his faculties.  Yet in a moment of clarity, Sam laments to his grandson that a few years ago he drove past his old neighborhood only to see that everything on the street had been modernized and nothing from the old neighborhood still existed.  He went on to say thank God he finally found a street sign so he knew he wasn't losing his mind.  For a moment there, he muses, he almost thought maybe he, too, never existed.  In the touching final scene, he tells his grandson and great grandson,

"If I knew things would no longer be, I would have tried to remember better."

I couldn't have said it better.