Coming and going

Parenting has its ups and downs. If you’re a parent, you know that.

Thirty-five years ago today my first child was born. He was actually due on about September 28th, but I had been anticipating his birth for three weeks. Braxton Hicks contractions, some dilation — not to mention that it was September, meaning that I had been ungainly during the entire summer. I had pre-washed baby clothes, folded them, and put them away. I had walked around the nursery umpteen times, staring out the window and envying the robin who had a nest in the Rose of Sharon beneath as she sat next to the nest and let the sun bake the eggs, then hatched them, fed the fledglings, and shoved them from the nest. I had acclimated the cat to the presence of the baby furniture, giving him extra attention and telling him that soon he’d have a baby brother or sister.

The previous day, the 22nd, I decided to treat myself. I made a chocolate cream pie. Pie — I’ve already mentioned how much I love it. And chocolate! So anyhow, I made the chocolate cream pie and placed it in the refrigerator to chill. Chances were very good that I’d eat the entire thing the next day.

Please note: whenever I’m talking to a pregnant woman, one who is nearing delivery and anxious to get it over with, I give that advice. Chocolate cream pie. Yes, I also suggest that she engage in a last minute cleaning spree and arrange the baby’s room.

Ok, so chocolate cream pie in the refrigerator, some serious television viewing time, and off to bed.

1:30 a.m. I woke up to the thought, “Either I wet the bed or my water broke.” It didn’t really matter which, since both meant that I had to get out of bed. Turns out it was the latter. I called my doctor, showered, dressed, . . . And waited. Yep, the expectant daddy was a bundle of nerves and couldn’t seem to drag himself from the bathroom. We finally made it to the car and then to the hospital and found that the ob wing was very busy. Several deliveries that night and the following morning. Mine was the longest labor. Of course, not that long. However, there was plenty of activity, cries of “it’s coming now!!”

Meanwhile, I lay in my bed. So much for plans of “get up and walk a bit,” “make sure you change position.” The doctor examined me and didn’t like the position of the fetus. Yes, head down, but facing the wrong way. The doc positioned me on one side and said, “stay there.” So we timed contractions and talked and waited. In the middle of one contraction I cried out, “Call the nurse — it’s time!” When the contraction ended, I felt pretty foolish for that. But the nurse came in and checked me and decided that yep, it was time. Off to the delivery room and a few minutes later — with only a little frustration and a good dose of laughing gas — I was the mother of a son (at this time we didn’t go through all of those ultrasounds and other tests: he was born and that’s when I found out that I had a boy). 7:05 a.m. As I said, not that long of a labor. Good vitals: 18.5 inches long, 7 pounds.

And almost immediately there were complications. The pediatrician I’d selected arrived promptly, checked on the baby as I was in the recovery room, and came to tell me that he was jaundiced. Funny, you hear about rH negative-positive incompatibility but that’s it. Turns out that my type O+ blood wasn’t compatible with his type A+ blood. He and I spent four days in the hospital rather than the three that were typical at that time. And he couldn’t stay in the room with me, spending all but the times he was brought to my room to nurse under a special light. I saw other babies during my stay that looked jaundiced, their skin yellowish, but not him — he was a healthy reddish color with a shock of dark hair and healthy lungs, protesting that he couldn’t be swaddled like the others but had to have his skin exposed to that light.

There’s more that I could tell, but those are the basics. It really was amazing to me, that this little guy was mine, a part of me.

I remember this story each year on the anniversary of my son’s birthday, whether he’s here or not. And yes, I also remember the story of my daughter’s birth on May 6th. It’s what mom’s do.

This year my son is living in Florida — has been for 13 years. I send him a gift, talk to him on the phone (that’ll happen later today), and think about that day long ago.

This year I also went through a strange ritual, a type of letting go. Yes, from the moment a child is born, he or she and the mother begin that process of separation, of letting go. There are several milestones along the way: the first time someone else holds the baby, the first time the child stays with someone else, eating food rather than nursing, going to childcare or preschool or kindergarten, sleeping over at a friend’s house, going to camp, driving for the first time, graduating from high school, heading off to college, etc. I’ve been through all of them, though my son has not married (yet) and I’ve not had to give him to someone else.

However, this year my son bought a house. This is very exciting though it dashed any hopes that someday he’d move back to somewhere nearby. And though I haven’t seen the house yet, he told me that he’s picked out a place for his Christmas tree. In all the years that he’s been in Florida, he’s not had a tree, but now he will.

Today I sorted through the Christmas decorations — the large box, too many to use all of them every year but still there. I made piles and then repacked most of them. However, now within the large box there’s a smaller one that is designated for Anjee.

And there’s a priority mail box that’s designated for Albert.

So many memories in those boxes: decorations that they made or that were made for them or bought for them. When I packed the box for Albert it seemed pathetically small.

But I suppose it’s a start. And over the years he’ll add more decorations and eventually have a large box with too many decorations to use each year and memories to accompany them.

Where were you?

         “Where were you?”

That seems to be the question of the day.

And yet, no one misinterprets it — not today. No one takes it as “where were you before you came here?” or asks “where was I when?”

Today everyone understands the question.

“Where were you?”

“Where were you when you found out?”

“Where were you on September 11, 2001?”

Yep, today was all about remembering.

Not that that’s a bad thing. We need to remember and analyze and feel. Really feel. Because on that day, we felt something. Because on that day, we felt many things.

So where was I?

It was a Tuesday, just like this year. I was working for Head Start as a Home Visitor. I visited with a family in Kratzerville, Snyder County, PA — mother, daughter, two foster sons. It was a fun and maybe somewhat chaotic visit. Two adults, three preschool kids, how could it be anything but? The visit ended and I got in my car to drive to my office.

I’m not sure what was on my mind, but it took me a while to zero in on what was happening. I had the radio on, but I drove for a while before it registered that there was no music playing. I focused on what was being said and heard, “There it goes. It’s falling. The World Trade Center is no more.”

My thought? “I didn’t know there was a demolition planned.”

I drove for another mile or two before I sorted out the information that I was hearing. I drove the remaining miles to my office in a state of numbness.

Was I directly involved? No. Did I know anyone who was directly involved? No. Did that make a difference? No. It happened, I felt it. Or rather, I first felt the numbness.

Then I felt the sadness and the fear.

Then I looked at a map and realized that Flight 93’s crash site appeared to be far too close to Indiana, PA where my daughter was attending college. That’s when I got angry.

I’m not sure what point I’m trying to make or whether I’m making any point at all. It was far worse for those who were in New York City or Washington, DC or Shanksville, PA because that was where the actual action was taking place. But that didn’t keep the rest of us from feeling, from going through a range of emotions.

The following Sunday we sang patriotic songs in church. Of course. Suddenly the words to the fourth verse of America the Beautiful took on a new meaning:

             O beautiful for patriot dream
             That sees beyond the years
             Thine alabaster cities gleam
             Undimmed by human tears!
             America! America!
             God shed his grace on thee
             And crown thy good with brotherhood
             From sea to shining sea!

I guess it’s that “alabaster cities” portion of it that gets to me. And they definitely were dimmed by human tears. I suppose in a way everyone — or just about everyone — discovered some new bit of patriotism.

A few years later I went to New York City, the first time I’d ever been there. We went with some folks from my church, one of those “sign on to ride the bus, do your own thing for eight hours, then get back to the bus on time or we leave without you” things. My friend Donna and I weren’t there for the shopping: we just wanted to see some of the city. Of course, that meant we had to figure out the bus system and all of that, especially since we wanted to visit Ground Zero.

Wow. They had removed some of the debris at that time, but not all of it. And it was a few days short of September 11th of that particular year (2006?) and there were people speaking. We listened to them a bit, but moved on.

Instead, we checked out the artwork. It was kids’ drawings, pieced together into quilts, showing their memories of 9-11-2001. I’ve googled to find out more about that display, since I don’t remember everything about it, but came up empty. The photos in this entry are ones that I took that day, and they’re only a fraction of what was displayed.

It made me wonder: how will that memory, that memory of that day, shape those kids? I grew up with memories of air raids and President Kennedy being shot. I grew up with fears and sadness and anger shaped by those events. This generation of children, the ones who were young when this happened, will grow up with emotions shaped by an event that killed so many more, that was so much more tangible. How will that mold their thoughts and emotions in years to come?

Making a list and checking it twice

I had a conversation today about something that really bothers me: school supplies. I was chatting with a friend at work and she was complaining about how expensive it is to buy uniforms and school supplies for three kids. I’ll admit that I’m glad I’m not in that position.

First of all, the uniforms. I never had to wear a uniform to school. True, while I was attending Middletown Area High School, girls couldn’t wear slacks, let alone jeans. Skirts and dresses, every day. And those were regulated rather arbitrarily. In my senior year Mary Dinga and I were sent home to change clothes because we showed up in maxi skirts. Mrs. Graham saw us, sent us to the office to see Mr. Brunner, and he sent us home. I didn’t go home. We called Mary’s mom and went to her house. I had brought another skirt, so we sat around eating baloney and mayonnaise sandwiches and then returned to school in our shortest skirts — which were probably barely decent. That’s it: my big moment of rebellion.

And I think that it was the year after I graduated that they changed the regulations. Yep, girls no longer had to wear dresses. Thanks, Middletown Area School District. You couldn’t have done that a year or two earlier?

Anyhow, no uniforms. Except, of course, our gym uniforms. Talk about ugly. . .

But no uniforms for other classes.

My friend told me of how expensive the uniforms are. I guess that explains a few things. In my previous job we had a school aged program and often the kids showed up with torn or dirty uniforms. Yes, we saw them at the end of the day, but those same dirt spots were in the same places the next day. Apparently the uniforms were expensive enough that some of the parents only bought one pair of pants and two shirts and laundered them over the weekends. If the kids played hard during recess, they lived with the dirt for the rest of the week. It makes sense.

But on to the other portion of the problem: the school supplies.

When I moved to Maryland, the church I started attending had a backpack program going. It sounded good: church members donated supplies and the kids of the church filled backpacks with them and took those backpacks to the local elementary school to give to other kids who couldn’t afford to buy these things on their own. Good idea.

Until I realized that these weren’t just nice things that the kids could use in school: they were mandatory.

The families are given a list of supplies that each child needs to bring to school.

I was astounded. A list? The school supplies weren’t provided?

Maybe every school in the country has such a list, though I haven’t been able to pull up one online for Middletown’s schools. Let’s start with the list of required supplies for Montgomery County kindergarten children:

• 1 plastic school box
• 2 packs of Crayola crayons (24 count)
• 3 bottles of Elmer’s glue (4 oz)
• 2 dozen pencils
• 4 glue sticks
• Blunt primary scissors
• 4-count Expo dry erase markers
• Backpack large enough to hold a 9x12 folder (traditional backpacks only due to concerns about kindergarteners maneuvering backpacks with wheels)

Seriously?

The District of Columbia Public Schools ask a little less of some items: only one dozen pencils, one pack of crayons, one bottle of glue, two glue sticks, and two dry erase markers. They also allow generics. However, the following items have been added to their kindergarten through second grade list:

• 1 large pink eraser
• 1 box of tissues to share
• 1 box of markers or colored pencils
• 2 two-pocket folders
• 2 wide-ruled notebooks
• 1 ruler (inches and centimeters)

Wow. Buy that backpack and fill it up and then some. Do we buy an additional backpack to hold the children’s books?

Adding insult to injury, Montgomery County also publishes a list of “appreciated donations.”

• Any additional packages of the already mentioned supplies
• Tissues
• Hand soap
• Hand sanitizer
• Clorox wipes
• Baby wipes
• Gallon size Ziploc bags (with labels)
• Sandwich size Ziploc bags
• Quart size Ziploc bags
• Paper towels
• Fun band-aids
• 8-count Crayola markers

Alright. So what exactly is the school supplying?

When I was in elementary school (let’s forget kindergarten, since that was not in a public school at that time), on the first school day of each month we received two things:

A lined tablet.

A number 2 pencil.

If you lost your tablet or pencil or used them up before the end of the month, you needed to supply your own.

As to cleaning supplies (forget about Ziplocs — I don’t think they had been invented yet), they were there, ready for use. The same applied to crayons and colored pencils.

And of course, our composition books, into which we copied the poems we needed to

memorize and the Spanish words that we were learning.

(Though we didn't have fancy blue composition books -- they were all brown. And no hard covers on them, just something thicker than paper but thinner than card stock.)

The same was true when my kids were in school: they received their pencils and tablets. Sure, everyone liked to supplement with notebooks and trapper-keepers and other stuff, but the basics were there.

I find this new trend really disturbing. What are we doing to help kids to learn? What are we supplying? And no, it doesn’t all go to teachers’ pay — they buy more than the items on the lists to help their kids along, taking the money from their own pockets.

Shouldn’t those supplies be provided for all children? Shouldn’t they enter school knowing that education is so important that the grown-ups surrounding them — not just their family members but ALL adults around them — have provided what they need to help them succeed?

Somewhere along the line we went off-track. Way off-track.

I'll drink to that

I had to go to the local post office today. In this case “local” doesn’t mean the closest post office, but the one that’s assigned to my zip code and delivers my mail. The closest is a very small office and I’m not sure that they even deliver mail — for all I know they might just have box rentals and counter service.

But that’s unimportant. I went to the post office to pick up a package. The package was from my son and contained (besides the inflated bubble packs that are so much fun to stomp) a DVD of Leverage Season 1 and a K-cup sampler.

They’re all decaf, which is good for my body, though a part of me wishes that I could still drink caffeine without upsetting my health. All in all, it was a very thoughtful gift and I’ll enjoy sampling all of those.

Coffee. It was an acquired taste. I never really liked coffee, never bothered with it, until I hit college.

Okay, so that’s one of those, “well, duh. . . Coffee is for grown-ups” moments, right?

Wrong.

Keep in mind that caffeine was not an issue when I was growing up. I drank tea. All the time. It was just one of those things.

My grandmother insisted that she was English. She was quite proud of that. Proud to the point that she dragged me out of bed in the wee hours of the morning to watch the wedding of Charles and Diana. While we were on vacation. And she was only part English: her father was of German descent.

But enough of that. Gammy drank tea and so I drank tea.

Our tea was brewed with teabags, nothing fancy, just Lipton. We drank it with milk and sugar for breakfast, usually with either toast or a cookie (see — cookie, not biscuit, therefore only part British).

Later in the day we drank iced tea, or as we called it, “ice tea.”

No, we didn’t drink it like that with the lemon slice. Instead Gammy made it with lemon juice already in it. We had to roll the lemons to soften them, cut them in half, and then use a juicer.

And then a strainer to make sure we weren’t drinking seeds.

Of course, my favorite way to drink ice tea was with mint. Gammy grew spearmint in her garden, brought it in, steeped it, and then strained the liquid into a separate jar for us to add to our tea.

She added sugar to the tea, so it was sweetened, but not like Southern-style sweet tea. Nowadays I much prefer sweet tea to my grandmother’s type, though if I’m brewing it, I use mixtures of various types of teas.

On to coffee.

In our family coffee was an adult beverage but that doesn’t mean that the kids couldn’t try it: we just didn’t like it, so why bother?

But that changed with my college years. And the Gedunk.

I just looked up that word, hoping to find photos of the Gedunk. Wikipedia tells me that a “gedunk bar” is a snack bar on a US Navy vessel. It also is the snack bar in the student union of Grove City College, as well as the name of that institution’s alumni magazine. I’ve glanced through the magazine a few times. I sat in the snack bar more than a few.

Yes, more than a few times. In fact, I think I spent more time in the Gedunk than in classes. We studied there. Studied. Do you believe that? You shouldn’t: I don’t think we ever studied there. We sat and talked and played games (some day I’ll talk about those) and smoked and drank coffee or cherry Coke and ate pizza burgers. I couldn’t find any photos of the place and it’s probably changed, but it had a huge impact on me. After all, that’s where I learned to love coffee.

I should point out that by this I mean coffee, plain and simple. Yes, I drank it with sugar and milk or cream. But it was simple coffee, not espresso or cappuccino, not Starbucks or any other brand name. Coffee.

Alright, back to childhood and drinks.

In our household, throughout the day we drank water or milk. Yes, we occasionally had juice but we were big water drinkers — when we weren’t drinking ice tea. When I went to my friend Lorrie’s house I drank Kool-Aid.

I liked going there — we didn’t drink sugary fruit-flavored drinks at my house, just sugary-lemony-tea drinks or water.

But I liked going to my friend Karen’s house even more. Why? Because her mother always had a huge pitcher of eggnog waiting for us. No rum or nutmeg, just sweet and frothy goodness. According to today’s standards, it’s a wonder we even survived. After all, it’s dangerous to eat raw eggs, right? Of course, much of what we did in those days should have killed us.

Anyhow, when I think of eggnog, that’s what comes to mind. I think that one of these days I’ll even try to make it. In preparation for that, I’ve spent some time looking around for a recipe.

EASY EGGNOG

6 eggs

3 cups milk

8 tablespoons sugar

3 teaspoons vanilla extract

1/2 teaspoon ground nutmeg

In a large bowl, beat the eggs using an electric mixer.

Alternately add the sugar and the milk.

Continue beating until mixture thickens slightly.

Add vanilla extract and nutmeg.

Cover and refrigerate until chilled (at least 3 hours)

Of course, I’d leave out the nutmeg. But maybe, just maybe, it would taste like the eggnog we drank in Karen’s kitchen.

And I might also try it with coconut milk. And rum.

Oh — while I was searching for an eggnog recipe I also came across a poem, so I may as well include that as well — even though to me eggnog is a comfort food rather than a holiday treat.

If you see a fat man who’s jolly and cute

Wearing a beard and a red flannel suit

And if he is chuckling and laughing away

While flying around in a miniature sleigh

With eight tiny reindeer to pull him along

Then - let’s face it - your eggnog’s too strong!

Write it out.

8/9/2012

Good morning, Lynne.

This feels so strange — I don’t remember the last time I wrote a letter. I knew I had some stationery somewhere around the house but had to search to find it — a full box that someone gave me for Christmas one year, completely untouched. Hopefully I’ll remember how to do this and my penmanship (is it still penmanship if I print?) will remain legible or at least moderately so.

The funny thing is, for years I was an avid letter-writer. Friends at home when I was on vacation, college friends, random friends made at camp. I’d pen five or six pages and send them off. It was always an adventure to receive letters as well. Later I started collecting postcards: by that time I no longer wrote letters, relying on email instead (and usually failing miserably at that!). I joined a forum called The Kitchen Table comprised of fans of Anne McCaffrey. On the forum I found a section titled PCX — postcard exchange. Through it I connected with others who enjoyed sending and receiving postcards and for several years enjoyed finding cards to send, often to forty people per month from around the globe. I have most of the postcards organized into books, though I should add the couple stacks that I have. I no longer send posties (it became too expensive) but I still keep up with some of my PCX friends through a friend’s forum and Facebook.

Yes, I know, that was written a month ago. But I couldn’t finish the post right away, not until Lynne had received the letter that I sent. Right? So after I sent it I had to wait and I didn’t know for certain that she had received it until I checked my mailbox and there was a letter from Lynne.

And of course, then life got in the way, so I didn’t get back to it. Perhaps if the topic had come up during one of my general words writing months I’d have continued. But during August I was working on a sci-fi novel and needed to concentrate on that first.

Of course, my writing plan for August didn’t quite work out as it should. I had planned to write 50,000 words and finish that novel. I had also planned to write 50,000 words in June. FAIL. I did manage to write 26k+ in June and over 30k in both July and August, so not bad, but I didn’t meet the goal. This month I’m shooting for 800 words per day on either the sci-fi novel or the blog or both plus 20 pages of editing on a third project. So far I’m almost on schedule, just 150 words behind for the month and ahead on the editing.

But I digress.

Lynne complains that people don’t write letters anymore and that the world is a sadder place for that.

I think she’s right.

Back in May I volunteered at the Gaithersburg Book Festival. I told the organizers that I would work anywhere they wanted me. To my disappointment, they had me acting as a tent assistant in one of the non-fiction tents. The tent assistant part didn’t bother me; the non-fiction did. C’mon folks: I write fiction! Or at least at that time, I wrote only fiction. Obviously, I’m writing non-fiction now. Unless I’m lying. Which I’m not.

Ok, back to the Book Festival. The first author in our tent was Vincent dePaul Gisriel Jr. Never heard of him, right? That’s because he’s a local author — local to Maryland — and has written only one book, a non-fiction work. I’ll admit, I still haven’t bought the book: I didn’t have time to visit other tents that day to do so and I forget at other times. But I intend to buy it. The author stood up and told how he started researching in an attempt to write a book about his father’s career as a bombadier during World War II. I’m sure that appeals to some people, but not to me.

What does that have to do with this post?

That’s very simple to answer: to further his research, Mr. Gisriel decided to read through the stacks of letters that his parents had written back and forth to each other during that time — and saved. The result was NOT a military book but a love story, a story that outlined the lives of two people who were in love but separated by a war.

Wow. Just wow.

I have a few items of correspondence from older family members. Very few items. But I find them fascinating.

I think I mentioned in an earlier post (one entitled “Stuff”) that when we were sorting out all of the stuff in Gammy and Pappy’s house, I claimed a wooden box. Nothing fancy or beautiful, but it appealed to me.

There were lots of interesting things inside:

Including a manila envelope.

Yeah, I know — like you really needed a photo of that. But when I was snapping pictures today, I was also trying to see how many I could get before the almost completely discharged battery gave out. I managed all that I wanted and more and still made it to the charger before my camera shut off.

Anyhow, the manila envelope. Inside were a variety of papers. Several of my grandmother’s knitting patterns — and a crochet one that I had jotted down after I “read off” a chicken-shaped egg cover that she liked to use at Easter time but wanted to have more. She had written out some prayers.

No idea why. For her own use so that she’d remember? Prayers that she intended to use with her church women’s group? Or had she read somewhere that writing prayers helped to focus? The pages are there but they’re incomplete, lacking background.

Also in the manila envelope were the folio-type pages with two of my great-grandfather’s poems.

Those could be dated at about 1911. Ok, no date on them, right? But there was also a postcard.

The postmark reads Fort Des Moines Iowa, Jan 6, 1911 and was mailed to Miss Harriett Reynolds of Des Moines.

The message:

Hello S.H. (or that could be D.H. — Sweet Harriett or Dear Harriett). I hope you are better by the time you receive this. Will see you on said date. A.C.S.

That’s followed by an inverted pyramid of X’s and the words “love you.”

It was written from my great-grandfather to his future bride, my great-grandmother.

Nice, huh? Other correspondence in the box included a note card.

Inside was a lengthy letter from an 85-year-old woman, Mabel. It may have been my grandmother’s cousin but I’m not sure. I am certain about the age, since it’s mentioned in the letter. And seriously, at 85 she was writing a lengthy and legible letter of encouragement when I can barely get out a line.

Even Christmas and birthday cards.

These have no postmarks or stamps so they must have been placed in envelopes, and yet. . .

Those are longer messages than most of us write nowadays.

And they saved them. I’m sure that many of the letters were thrown away. Ouch. I really wish that I could have read them.

Me? I can remember writing letters. And letters. And more letters. I’d write about everything, and I do mean everything. At Christmas time I’d send everyone lists of everything I’d received. Boring, right? But it took up pages and pages of that new stationery I received each year. And sometimes I’d write something with more meat. I can remember in the summer of ‘72 (Hmm. Sounds like a song title.) — Hurricane Agnes. I was home from college and I chronicled all of it in a letter to my friend Ed. When we arrived back on campus he commented that maybe he should save it because some day it might have historical significance.

I wonder if he did save it?

As for me, I’ve saved very little. There might be a few things tucked away in my parents’ attic, but I doubt it.

I did come across one letter — or at least a message. It came from my friend Karen.

If you can’t read it, she complains that if she waits to write a real letter it’ll be way too long before what she wants to send gets to me.

Cool stuff. She was on a writing tour for her first novel and these are promotional items. Since then she’s written and published more novels, but I’m still waiting for the letter.

Of course, I haven’t written to her either. But I saw her just a few weeks ago.

Back to my letter-writing.

I managed to write to Lynne — four pages. Why? Well, she asked for my address so that she could send me a postcard and gave me her address, in case I ever wanted to write a real letter. That seemed like a challenge, so I did, and sent along a packet of postcards for her collection as well.

And in return I received this:

She even used sealing wax.

Talk about memories. Once upon a time I wrote and wrote and wrote. I had an assortment of stationery and seals and wax and stickers and pens, and I also occasionally made my own envelopes from magazine pages. Letter-writing took up my time and energy and I took it very seriously.

Now I have the internet and I’m writing a novel and other things. I can keep in contact instantly with email and Facebook.

But I still feel guilty and one of these days I’ll have to reply to Lynne’s letter.