Neither Gentile nor Jew, Servant nor Free, Woman nor Man: Age 18

When I was 18, I decided that the Catholic Church was not for me and left it behind.

I had been completely confused by what my teachers were dishing out in Religion class. I had parents who sort of flirted with the idea that there was really not much difference between denominations. Though it was a requirement to go to Mass each week, I had no idea why it was so important. My pastor was so caught up in social justice issues that he forgot to teach the Faith that backs it all up and makes it make sense.

As a result of all these mixed messages, I believed that not even the Church knew what it was teaching. Asking those three entities what Church teaching was on any given subject might yield three different answers.

So there I was, the summer after my senior year, desperately looking for a spiritual home. And I found one at a local evangelical megachurch. The services were engaging and uplifting and I found more than a little support for asking questions and they seemed more than happy to help me find the answers.

In those days, there was not yet a definitive Catechism of the Catholic Church, nor was there access to the vast resources of the Internet to research and find answers. When I asked questions, I got two kinds of responses: 1) a kind of a wishy-washy response about "following my conscience" or 2) I would get answers that seemed rehearsed and didn't seem to come from a grounding in scripture at all.

***

I had been away from Mass for several months when my father asked me to come and sing with his parish choir for Christmas. The music that was routinely played at the services that I went to at my evangelical church were simply no match for the majestic beauty of the choral masterpieces that my parents' parish choir was singing. So, on the First Sunday of Advent, I went to Mass to sing with the choir.

Music has always been a path to God for me. I find that every time I have a close encounter with God, music is involved either as an inspiration, a response to the experience or just the sign pointing to the beginning of the road. This time it was no different. It was love of the music that drew me to Church that day and marked the beginning of the path back.

I didn't go to Communion, of course. I still thought it was just a symbol and I didn't need a wafer to get close to God. I carried His Word in my heart, but I can remember meditating on the people coming back from Communion. No custody of the eyes for me: I was completely unaware that watching people receive Communion was kind of rude.

I spotted one of the kids I grew up with lurking at the back of the church. I always assumed that he was a juvenile delinquent. He had kind of a rough attitude and was always dressed like he was more ready for the bar, than church. But I recalled that he seemed to be here every Sunday.

He filed up to receive Communion behind one of the sweetest little old ladies I have ever known - one right behind the other - and with the same light shining in their eyes and an attitude of complete trust, they both received Communion. I realized in that very moment that there must be something here. There must be something real here.

I closed my eyes and realized that all over the world there were thousands of people receiving the Eucharist at that very moment.  It was something that united all of us: the bad, the good, the rich and the poor. People who had lived before me and those who would come after me, too. Heaven help me, I actually heard the first verse of "One Bread, One Body" playing in my head: "Gentile or Jew, servant or free, woman or man, no more..." We truly are one body in Jesus Christ. And if the Eucharist crossed all those boundaries it could not possibly be untrue.

I was still unaware of the meaning of the term "Communion of Saints", but I had an experience of it in my head that day.  I suddenly became aware of the unity that exists in the Eucharist - a unity that transcends time and space. It was life-altering.

Since that morning, I have never doubted the efficacy of the Eucharist. I knew it did something real, but it would be a few more years before I understood the Real Presence. I knew that there was something about it, and that I needed it. I realized that I had been missing it. It was food for those on a journey and I was definitely on a journey. But as yet, I still did not understand the reality of Jesus (body, blood, soul and divinity) in the Eucharist.

***

The thing I found so appealing about the evangelical megachurch I became attached to was if there was a question, they knew where to get the answer. They always looked to the Bible. In my experience, the Catholic Church simply didn't have that knowledge of the Word of God. But, the strength of this ability to go to scripture also becomes its weakness. The problem with the Sola Scriptura mindset is that there's a question of interpretation. Some things just can't be explained neatly. If I disagree with your interpretation, for example, who's right?

Because of the hierarchical structure of the Catholic Church, there is an ultimate authority for interpretation. In my 30's I would eventually figure that out, but as a teenager, I was still very dedicated to having my own say and my own way. The breakdown happens when individuals decide that they don't like the Church's authoritative teaching so they throw it out. That's why I was getting different stories from different quarters.

Intellectual Pride is a constant struggle for me. I always want to handle things myself and then, once I have it handled, get back to God. Unfortunately, that's exactly the wrong order. I'm still working on that one: Poverty of Spirit and Humility are virtues that still elude me.

Additionally, there is an actual grace that is imparted in the Sacraments that you simply do not get elsewhere. While we have grace showered on us from all corners, the close, personal encounters with Christ through the sacraments give specific graces to strengthen us and build up charity in our lives. This is crucial to building understanding between ourselves and the world around us, as well as in our own hearts - leading us to know who we are as sons and daughters of God.

***

After realizing that there was a reality that I had missed in Communion, I couldn't wait to get to Communion the next week. Of course, I had no idea that I needed to go to Confession, but that would come later.

God used the Grace of the Sacraments to bring me closer to him and began to renovate my soul. I had found one missing piece, but was still searching for that scriptural support.

A Summer of Music, A Butter Cow & Cold, Delicious Milk

Once upon a time, I was a teenager.

Yes, that's me in my amazing, polyester uniform.
Oh, the glasses! Oh, the mullet!
Where are the Fashion Police when you need them?

I know. It's hard for me to believe, too.

The summer I was 17 was a magical summer. Having completed my junior year in high school, I was already looking toward realizing my dream of being a professional musician. To that end, my choir director, Mrs. Essman, nominated me for a few awards and opportunities. One was the National Choral Award, (which I won). The second was a scholarship to the Governor's Summer School for the Arts at Ohio University, (which I was awarded). And the third was the one that would change my life in more ways than I could have imagined.

When I got the notification that I had been accepted into the ranks of the All-Ohio State Fair Youth Choir, I was ecstatic. Just a few short months later, I reported for practices a week before the Ohio State Fair opened. At the time, The Ohio State Fair was the longest state fair in the United States, clocking in at 21 days. So, in the end, I was holed up on a bunk bed, in an un-air-conditioned dorm (right across from a very smelly sheep barn) for an entire month.  Not that I was complaining. As the oldest of five kids, I was glad to get out of the house and off on my own.

My first wave of homesickness hit me when I arrived in the cafeteria for dinner the first night. None of us were quite sure what the entree was. We assumed it was meat, but it had been pre-chewed and re-formed into pork chop shaped objects then covered in a layer of gooey sauce that resembled brown Elmer's glue, more than gravy. We dubbed it Mystery Meat and resolved to find a better spot to eat from then on.

More often than not, our hang out was the Wendy's tent. But after a few days, Wendy's got expensive and so we opted, instead, for the fresh farm goodness of the Dairy Barn's swiss cheese sandwiches, fresh milk, and ice cream cones. You could eat like a king for about $2.00. But the best part of the Dairy Barn was the air conditioning.

Each year, the American Dairy Association honors someone, or something uniquely "Ohioan" by creating a sculpture in butter and displaying it with a cow and calf, also sculpted out of butter. Even though the sculptures are kept in a cooler, to maintain the constant temperature in the summer heat, the whole building had to be air conditioned. We spent many evenings in the Dairy Barn just fascinated by the Butter Cow Display. How could you make something that realistic looking out of butter?  Actually, it was pretty cool. In addition to being, well...cooler than our dorms.

When the Fair began we sang.
And sang. And sang.
And we marched and marched.

We'd have between 4 and 6 shows per day and we hoofed it from spot to spot. I, being a foolish girl, had decided to come forward to volunteer my bass-drum playing skills to the drum corps and that was why the 1986 AOSFYC boasted the very first all-girl drum corps in the fair's history. We were very proud of ourselves until it was 98 degrees and we had to march the entire length of the mile-long fairgrounds carrying our big, heavy drums. Then we were just tired. And very thirsty.

So back to the dairy barn we went.
Tell you what: Milk never tasted so good.

This year is the 50th Anniversary of the All-Ohio State Fair Youth Choir.  Founded in 1963 by Glenville Thomas, the choir has marched in the Parade of Roses, The Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade and has sung all over Europe and the United States.  Each year, students from all over Ohio submit applications for the positions within the choir. In my year, there were 310 positions and more than 1,500 applications. Some years were smaller, but none were bigger.  Added all together over the lifetime of the choir more than 8,000 students have made their way through this program. That's a large impact.

Interestingly enough, it all comes back to the Dairy Barn again this year. Glenville Thomas and the All-Ohio State Fair Youth Choir are the honorees this year for Butter Cow.  It's a massive sculpture and took 6 people to complete. Check out this video to see how it's put together.

We used to go with our kids every year. Invariably, we would stop off in the Dairy Barn to see the Butter Cow and have ice cream and sandwiches, but as the kids got older, it got hard to go.  I haven't been to the fair for a few years now. Too busy. Too hot. Too expensive.

But this year, I think I need to make a pilgrimage to see the Butter Cow and have a swiss cheese sandwich in the Dairy Barn with my husband. After all, you can still eat like a king for $4.00.

And I need a picture with that Butter Cow. 
(I wonder if I can find my shirt?)

If you're in the area, you can visit the Butter Cow, too. The Ohio State Fair runs July 24th - August 4th, 2013. For more information about what's happening at the fair, click here.

Scraps of Paper and Old Pictures

Yesterday, we worked on organizing my mother and father in their new house. We were having my brother's graduation party and my son's birthday party there today, so, I offered to come up to help get things in order.

In the course of arranging the furniture in the living room, we had to decide what to do with my grandmother's trunk. It's an ugly thing. At some point, some fashion conscious soul painted it hospital green. I never thought much about the trunk when Grandma left it for me 30 years ago. It was just a place to store stuff. I never really went digging through the papers on the bottom, and really, I think Mom asked me not to.

As time passed, I discovered that the trunk no longer fit my room decor (I was now sharing with my baby sister and didn't have room for it), so I gave it to my Mom. Mom stored afghans in it until they moved out to the country and then she stored board games in it. Over time, it became more battered. The hammered tin was peeled away from the top of the lid by bored, busy kid fingers, the paint peeled away in some places revealing some of the bare tin. The wood lid was cracked by someone trying to use it for extra seating. But, Mom never pitched it. I could never figure out why, except that it belonged to her mother. So, when we had to find a spot for it in the new living room, my sister suggested that we use it to store records in. We all agreed that'd be a good use for it and we opened it up to empty it out.

The first thing to come out were the board games. One was a first edition Trivial Pursuit game that I can remember playing with my mom and brother. I can still remember the rule of thumb about Literature questions: If all else fails, guess William Faulkner. It's usually right. I remember Mom nursing the babies while we'd play the game and Dad would play the piano. It was good family time. That brought a smile to my face. Then we started to find the pieces of my grandmother's life.

There was so much there: Pictures, placemats with pictures of the Arizona desert that she loved so well, homework that my brother and I had done well on that she kept, receipts for the house that she and her 4th husband had been in the process of purchasing when she left him. The receipts were titled Mrs. Katherine Garl. My sister said, "Who's that?"

"That's Grandma," I said.
Mom chimed in, "Frank Garl was her fourth husband."
"Wow," said my sister, "I had no idea she'd been married more than once!"
"Yes," said my mother, "she kept looking for the piece that was missing. I don't know if she ever found it."

We continued to dig through the chest. Mom told us that the chest had been a stagecoach chest (not a steamer trunk, as I had always assumed) and that it had been given to Grandma by another ancestor. Mom estimates that it's about 150 years old. We found a lot of pictures of my great-uncle Jim. He had been a bus driver for Continental Bus Lines. We found not only pictures, but his tie bar and name plate from his bus. I think Grandma told me one time that he had always been her favorite brother.

We also found a 10 peso note marked "Japanese Government" signed by several American servicemen. We're still trying to figure out what it is? Is it Occupation Money or perhaps from the Phillipines? With so much of Great Uncle Jim's things in it, I wondered if the chest had not been his gift to Grandma.

As I cleared out the last of the paper, the old bank statements, the greeting cards that were never sent and the Christmas gift tags that littered the very bottom of the chest, I began to think of the sum of these scraps of paper and old pictures. They tell part of the story, but only part. They don't capture the life and spark of my grandmother. They don't tell us about her heart and soul. But they are strong reminders of a person who, for better or worse, I loved very dearly and they brought her presence to the surface of my memory to share with my sister and my daughter, who never knew her.

I am so grateful that she left that piece of herself with us because it brought her close to me again.

Playing for Keeps

When I was a child I took 4 years of piano lessons. My talent with music was evident at a young age. I could sing almost anything and was already beginning to learn to sing in harmony by the time I was 6. I could match pitches that my dad would sing, finding them first with my voice and then finding them on the piano. My parents decided that they needed to feed this talent. So, Mom and Dad took the initiative to find one of the best teachers in the area, Mrs. Lucy Chu. I sat in the basement studio of her house with about 9 other kids, every Saturday morning, and we were taught, using the Suzuki method, to play our scales and simple little tunes that every parent hoped would turn their child into the next virtuoso.

Mrs. Chu had a strict policy for practice: One hour per day, to be broken up in to three sessions of 20 minutes each, (20 minutes before school, 20 minutes right after school (even before homework!), and 20 minutes after dinner). Parents were to be as engaged in this activity as the child was. They had to sit with us during lessons and then during each of our 20 minute practice sessions. I can only imagine, looking back now, as a parent, that my Mom must've said, "You've got to be kidding me. I have things to do!" In fact, I know she did. I certainly would!

Needless to say, though I excelled in my vocal music progress, there was something about piano that I could never grasp. It never really became part of me. I could never make the keyboard "one" with me. I can still to this day remember my teacher coming around to critique our wrist placement with her thick Chinese accent, it came out something like "rike dead fiss". Really she was trying to tell me not to tighten my wrists, to relax and to hold them "like dead fish". My husband taunts me with this image to this very day. Somehow, my 7-year-old self found nothing musical or exciting about "dead fish". Looking back, I now understand that she wanted me to relax so that the music would flow from my hands effortlessly. I still question whether "dead fish" was the right metaphor for a bunch of 7-year-olds.

I learned a lot about theory from Mrs. Chu. I still remember all of my scales and all of my I, IV and V7 chords for every key. I could even transpose things. But, after about 3 years, Mrs. Chu despaired of me ever amounting to anything. You see, I wouldn't practice for an hour a day. I was very lucky to get in 20 minutes a day. So, Mrs. Chu passed me along to Mrs. Livingston. She was the nicest lady. It was she who introduced me to Bach. I began to learn that there was more to piano than the Bastiens had ever dreamed up.

I began to learn a piece from Anna Magdelena's Notebook. It was a minuet and I loved it, but I couldn't play it. I couldn't make my left hand do what I told it to do. I could play the right hand. I could play the left hand by itself, but I'll be darned if I could ever put the two of them together.
I began to think that perhaps Mrs. Chu was right and I would never be able to play piano, so when my mother threatened me with "practice or quit", I knew I couldn't ever do it perfectly, so I quit.

When I was a Senior in High School, I was at a performing arts school and keyboard was required. I dragged my old piano books out and began to play with them. I started to make some progress. I could play two hands at once, but not two notes in each hand at once. I finally conquered that minuet. I was so proud of myself! It was Progress, but not nearly enough.

By the time I reached college and was required to pass a keyboard proficiency test, which included playing a four-part hymn, all my dreams of ever being proficient evaporated. I had learned, along the way, from my Dad, how to use the chords on a lead sheet to play and that was good enough (or it would have to be). My mind simply couldn't take in four notes and play them all together. It was unthinkable. I froze.

Fast forward 20 years...

About a year ago, I began practicing my piano again. I don't know why, but somehow I thought, maybe this time it will be different. I picked up a book of simplified hymn accompaniments (most of them are in 3 parts) and I can (sort of) play them. I drill them until I get them right. Then I thought, why not something a little more daring?

I work for a pipe organ company and for a church so I thought that maybe I ought to learn how to play a pipe organ. So I picked up a setting of "In Dulci Jubilo" by Bach. It's still mostly one note in each hand, but the parts move independently and it is for organ (so it is actually on two different manuals) so it is a little more of a challenge.

I have a friend who is a brilliant organist (at least I think he is) who caught me practicing at church one day. I froze immediately and couldn't play anymore. I don't know if maybe my inability to play goes back to being afraid to fail or if I simply can't stand the thought of being embarrassed. But I have come to an important determination: I must conquer it.

But this time, it's all on my own time. It doesn't really matter how long it takes me to learn the piece. I can take a whole year to perfect it. I can work on conquering that fear of messing it up and learn how to recover and keep going, just as I have with choral singing. Maybe in a few months (or a couple of years) I will summon the courage to call one of the organ teachers in town to actually take lessons. But, honestly, right now, this is just a battle with myself. How much can I accomplish on my own? Am I really a hopeless case or just a nervous Nellie? I guess we'll find out...

Am I crazy? Picking up a new instrument (organ, no less) at 40! Probably.
What else is new?

Old, old friends

After High School I lost track of absolutely everyone who was important to me as a teenager. Fortunately, there's Facebook.

I just linked up with some of my favorite people from High School on Facebook. It's so nice to see their smiling faces and hear their ordinary lives are a lot like mine: ordinary, but kind of cool. It's amazing to see how many places they've landed, too. One of them is in New York, one is in Germany and others are scattered throughout the Midwest. There's a runner, a holistic medicine practitioner and a choreographer among them. The whole lot of them are incredibly talented lovely people. People worth knowing, that I took for granted.

These are the Band Geeks and Choir Nerds and Drama Fanatics that I spent my days and evenings with when I was growing into the person I have become. I didn't realize how much I missed them. I wonder if they missed me...

Voting

I arrived at the polls at about 6 am this morning. I was second in line (or so I thought). The guy ahead of me was my next-door neighbor and shortly after I arrived, the rest of my neighbors arrived. It was like a big party in front of the school. At about 6:32 we decided that we'd check to see if the door was open so we could go in to vote. It was at that point that we discovered that we had all been waiting at the wrong entrance! There were a couple of hundred people already in line. I listened to people talking amongst themselves. Some of the people had never voted in an election before!

I was amazed. I cannot remember a time when I didn't have some sense of the political process. As a child, I can remember forming political opinions (childish though they were). I can remember deciding that I liked Jimmy Carter because he promised never to have a Press Conference during "Little House on the Prairie" on Mondays at 8 pm. OK...I was six. It sounded like a good political promise at the time.

This year, the debates and the topics are more grown-up and more important than ever before. It only took me about 45 minutes to get through the line at my poll this morning and was well worth the time. I urge you, if you haven't done so already, to go vote. Vote your conscience. Everyone has a voice and everyone's voice should be heard.

Solder and Coffee

I have been working in our Solid State lab at work, on and off for the last month or so, doing wire and solder work. Solder is pronounced saw-der. Soldering is the process by which electronic components are attached to a printed circuit board (the "guts" of anything that is electronic), by melting a composite metal until it makes a complete unbreakable contact between the metal on the printed circuit board and the metal contact of the component. (It is also used in making stained glass and jewelry, though I have never tried my hand at either of those.)

When I started soldering at work, it had been a very long time since I had worked with a soldering iron. I learned to work one when I was a teenager. My father, an electronics design engineer, decided that if I was going to earn some money by working a job as a teenager, I ought to learn to do something useful, other than flipping hamburgers and asking people if they want fries with that, I guess. So, he began to teach me his trade.

I learned to solder and how to make printed circuit boards (like, the actual boards that the components go into). By the time I was 18, I had helped to pay for part of my Catholic School education, had purchased my own car and insurance, had mastered a useful skill or two and learned the value of hard work, done well.

Fast forward 25 years.

I am now working for an organ company. In addition to my music background, and my computer and customer service background, I have found a spot where my highly specialized skill of printed circuit work comes in handy. It's kind of relaxing for me, since it is one of the earliest job skills I acquired. One of the first things that I noticed was the smell. Solder has a distinctive smell from the composite of metals and flux. It is a smell that I associate with home since my father ran his company from our basement until I was in High School. But something was missing: coffee.

I am not a huge coffee drinker. Sometimes I will have a cup in the morning to get my eyes open, but usually that's it. But, when I solder, I have to have a cup of hot coffee sitting right next to me, where I can smell it. My Dad was an inveterate coffee drinker and the combination of smells reminds me of home. Solder goes with coffee, and coffee goes with "home". Somehow, the coffee and solder smells, together, make it all "right".

So every time I come in to work, if I have to solder, I go up to the kitchen, pour myself a cup of coffee and then go turn on my soldering iron. While I drink my coffee and the iron heats up I think about how grateful I am that my dad cared enough and trusted me enough to teach me about his work.

Then I smile, think of home and get to work.

The Mother's Curse

You are arguing with your child.

You are exasperated over him/her wasting his/her considerable gifts of talent and intellect on pursuits such as X-Box, Skateboarding, clothes, boys, MySpace...the list could go on.

The child blocks your brilliant arguments with a dazzling display of 12 year old tactic (also known as stubbornness) that so stuns you, that you throw up your hands make an annoyed groan and drop your hands to your side apparently beaten. Of course, because this is your child, you know you could take them in a fair fight, but kids don't fight fair. You only have one thing left to do. You know you must curse your child.

Born of centuries of mothers before you, you raise your right hand and point at them and say:

"Someday, you are going to have a child just like you."

The child looks at you in complete and utter amazement. This is the best you can do, Mom? But, your child is young and has no idea what you have just done to him/her. You, on the other hand, know exactly what you have done. Your mother's curse is standing in front of you looking like at you like you looked at your mother a century ago. And you just think, "Yep. It serves you right, you little brat."

The Mother's Curse is the most powerful curse in the world, I have decided. Of course, there are biological reasons that it works every time with natural children. But what about people who seek to avoid the Mother's Curse by remaining single, or becoming a nun or priest? Oh, believe me, there are employees/parishioners/students/co-workers who will fulfill these requirements, too. You can run from the Mother's Curse, but you cannot hide. Eventually, you will run into someone who fulfills your Mother's Curse.
I didn't even have to be a mother to run into mine the first time. Actually, I think it was really someone else's, but I got to observe. When I was 25, I was on a trip and visiting a family who had 5 kids, like we did. The oldest daughter had been left in charge of the crew while her mother had come to the airport to pick me up. Of course, my flight was delayed (when are they not?) and so we were later than anticipated in getting back to the house. Oh! You should have heard the hue and cry!
"You always do this to me! I am never on time for anything because I always have to watch the kids! You are never ever on time! I am so embarassed because I'm late for my party!" It went on and on.
I realized that I had said exactly, to the letter, those things to my Mom at 16. It was like I was listening to myself. I was horrified.
I happened to be travelling with a friend and I looked at him and said, "Remind me to call my mother tonight and apologize for being 16." He promised he would. And I did call her. She laughed and forgave me. WOW! what an eye-opener! Sometimes, that apology is a long time coming, Mom, but I think that my mom would tell you it was worth the wait.
The interesting thing about the Mother's Curse is that, although at first your Mother gets some smug satisfaction in the fact that your child is proof that you did not know everything at 12, in the end she feels badly for you and wants to help you get through it, too. That's because she loves you. It's really kind of a reflexive curse in that respect.

Remember the pop wisdom, "When you point a finger, there are three pointing back at you."? Well, that's what happens. Your mother has to suffer through the pain you are feeling as you realize that you were a deeply flawed individual at 12, and that you don't know how to fix it in your 12 year old, either. Grandma must watch as you struggle with this creature whom you both love, who is, in fact, not just your curse, but her curse and her mother's before her and so on and so on...

But, don't worry, it tends to build bridges between mothers and children. Who else am I going to ask about why my child is wasting all her time on MySpace when she is so brilliant? And why she speaks to me as if I am learning disabled? I go straight to the source. Mom knows, because she had me, but more importantly, she had herself.
And maybe that's the key to undoing the Mother's Curse: Knowing yourself.

Speaking your mind

There is a right way and a wrong way to speak one's mind. My daughter, The Princess, found this out yesterday.

When I was in 8th Grade, I had a teacher who didn't listen to what I was saying to her. We were preparing to take a test, "the Pimsleur test", which was a standardized test. We were instructed to sharpen two pencils before we left the classroom and then to get in line to go to the gym. I, being the good Catholic School girl I was, followed directions and did just that. But, on the way to the gym, where we were taking the test, someone bumped my hand and I dropped my pencils on the tile floor, breaking BOTH leads. I was annoyed, but no matter, I would just explain to the teacher when we got to the gym.

The problem was, that when we got to the gym and I explained the situation, my teacher didn't understand what I was telling her. She said, "I told you to take care of that before we came down."

Well, never one to let things rest, I responded with, "You saw me sharpen them, (I didn't say stupid, but I wanted to...) you weren't listening to what I said." She told me to sit down. I was not amused and not deterred. And we repeated the conversation. This pattern contiued for about three rounds until she sent me to the Principal's Office, where I informed the Principal that she needed a new teacher; mine was too stupid to listen when people spoke to her. That time I did say "stupid" and that got me in trouble.

She called my mother, but I was NOT suspended.

The Princess, on the other hand, has not learned the graceful art of righteous indignation. And there is an art. Most of it has to do with keeping your tongue in check. Not my strong suit, and evidently not hers, either.

So, yesterday, when she gave her friend a hug (which, BTW, in the Columbus Public Schools is strictly forbidden) and was called on the carpet. She informed them that she was leaving the school since they would not allow her to go back to class. When the Principal tried to stop her, she told him what she thought of this rule, in no uncertain terms. And when she believed that he was not listening to what she was saying to him, she was not polite at all. I am still not sure what she said, but I understand it was laced with obscenities.

They called her father, and they suspended her for 10 days. Not for telling off the Principal (which would have made more sense), but for hugging a friend who needed comforting. This cuts her out of her concert (where she had a solo) and the last day of school (so she's all done for the year).

What would have made this situation different for her? Speaking her mind without using foul language.

Foul Language has become so commonplace in our vocabulary that many people don't even realize they are swearing. The F-word has become like punctuation in the ghetto idiom. It's almost like a rhythm keeper for their cadence. But, it is not just the lower class. You hear these words everywhere. They offend, yet, they are in use by virtually everyone who has a mouth to speak with.

I am certainly not lily-white. Until high school I didn't swear or curse at all. In fact, I was horribly scandalized that the boys in the tuba section were so crass in front of me. But, in wanting to be "one of the guys", I eventually became de-sensitized to it and would join in. A very bad habit. And one that I still have yet to break. My husband will tell you that my tongue is black. I am sure that this is where The Princess gets the idea that she can use this language to speak about the injustices of the world, but she is wrong. I am wrong. And society is wrong for allowing this to happen. These words should not be a part of our everyday speech patterns.

Everytime we open our mouths to say something negative, a swear word does not have to come out. I don't know if any of my readers are as bad as I am, but I challenge you to keep a tally for one day. Keep a tally of how many times you use a swear word. Every word counts, not just the first one in a sentence.

Then think about this. What message are we sending to the world around us about what we think of what we say? Is what we have to say important enough to us to communicate it clearly, in a manner that will not offend our listeners, but convince them instead? Or do we just want to be angry and never have our thoughts adequately heard?

I think it's an important distinction and one that I hope I am not too late to teach my daughter.

Remembering

Every year, my father-in-law goes to the cemetery to plant flowers for his deceased relatives. It was usually a family affair when my husband and his siblings were young, but now usually he either does it alone or Michael will call him and ask if he and the children can go along. In his Irish family, roots are of supreme importance. I have found, in being married to an Irishman, that I am indeed related to half the known world. It is the only group where I can truly say that someone is "my 4th cousin 4 times removed" with a straight face and actually expect to be embraced.

But, I digress (as usual). Roots are important to Michael so he takes the children to visit his Grandparents and Great-Grandparents graves, as well as various Great-Aunts and Great-Uncles and old family friends. My children know all of their names and countless stories about them: what they did for a living, who they were as people, what they were like...

My family does not do this. I think I went to visit my grandfather's grave one time when I was 8, the year after he died. We planted a tree. The tree did not make it. Thus, we were consigned to search the moonscape of flat gravestones searching for our grandparents' graves.

When my uncle died, recently, we all went to look for the grave, since we were there. We had a very hard time finding it. I was mortified, since I know where each of Michael's people are buried. And when we finally did find it, it was starkly different from the well-tended, flower-laden gravestones of the O'Keefe family: bare and lifeless. But, is the comparison fair?

We celebrate our grandparents' legacy differently. We celebrate their lives through what they did and where they were. My uncle and cousin run the family business. My cousin is the 4th generation of opticians. Our family is very proud of the fact that we were the first licensed opticians in the state of Ohio. I frequently tell my children that the reason we plant Geraniums is because my Grandma Harris always had them in the front window of her house. In fact, she had discovered a way to make her geraniums last year-round and save her the money of buying new annuals each year. She put them each in a clay pot and then buried them, pot and all, in the front flower bed. Then, in the fall, she would dig up the pot, wash it off, and put it in her front family room window. Mom and Dad estimate that the geraniums we "inherited" were about 17 years old. And, yes, my kids know that story.

My Grandpa Joe gave us all the gift of music. We cease to function without our music. I have my grandfather's reed organ in my dining room. It was in my living room, but my son wanted to be able to play duets with the organ and piano, so he moved it in next to the piano. My grandfather had wanted to be a musician, but was not allowed to go to school for music, because he had to run the family business. His love of music saturated the family, however. And we are greatly indebted.

My grandmother Kate is remembered every time I sign my name. Not to mention the fact that she gave me a taste for Boston Baked Beans and Brown Bread. (YUM!) She also left me a love of live baseball. I can remember going to Clippers' games with her and my mother and having them tell me how it all worked.

I didn't know my Grandpa Leo hardly at all, but, my mother always told me he loved to drive. and he could tell what was wrong with an engine, just by listening to it. I have found that I can usually tell what wrong, but I have no idea how to fix it. And I do remember him, whenever I open the hood of a car and think, I wish I had known him better.

My father and I just recently finished our terms on the Board of Directors for the club that my Harris relatives belonged to. My Grandfather actually served on the board himself in the early 1970's. Because we had so many family events at that club, we can't help but remember the fun we had every time we go there. I can remember very clearly playing hide and seek in the telephone booth (which I thought was cool because there was carpet on every wall and the ceiling, too.).

I recently attended an office party at the club. I walked around with some of my co-workers and showed them the portraits of the Chorus through the years. They were amazed when I was able to point out my Grandfather, Father, Mother, Cousins and Godparents in the pictures. Unlike the bare lifeless gravestones we found in the flatlands of Resurrection Cemetery, we found their legacy coloring the walls and hearts of the places and people they touched. And we work to maintain those memorials.

It isn't that we don't remember our dead. It's simply that we remember them differently.

Happy Memorial Day! May all your remembrances be sweet!

Submissions

I submitted one of my poems to Poetry Magazine. I am so nervous! I have never submitted any of my writing EVER before. Writing poetry is such a personal thing. It kind of lays your soul out there to be examined carefully by anyone who cares to read it. And, even more frightening, it leaves you open to be ignored completely. No one likes to be alone or to think that they are uninteresting.

I had a friend who majored in Theory and Composition (music) who once told me not to ever give anything I cared about to my professor to analyze. He was right, of course, because the professor will rip it to shreds in the process of grading it. You feel as if your have had your heart ripped out and stomped on. Unfortunately for artists, that is exactly what you must do, over and over. And not just for your professor, but everyone who hears your work. One has to develop a thicker skin when one is an artist. Not everyone has the same taste.

So, here I am, waiting to see what they have to say. Will they like it and just think that some of the grammar needs to be straightened out? Will they like the concept, but say that it's all been done before by better poets than me? Will they love it and ask me to write more?

I am reminded of being in high school and waiting for the play callbacks and then the final cast listings to be posted. I could never stand the pressure of waiting, so I would always choose the last audition spot I could possibly take. It served me pretty well, I guess. I made every play. I even had pretty good parts in them. When I auditioned for college music programs, I always took the last audition date because they told me that they would tell me immediately whether or not I made the cut.

I hate to wait for answers. I'm very impatient. That's probably why I write a blog, too. I wouldn't want to wait to see if I was acceptable to be published or write anything that was actually long enough for a book...no, no, I am a short story-poetry-essay kinda girl.

I never thought that I would ever write poetry. I was not very accomplished at it in school. I still can't write a decent song lyric to save my soul, but somewhere in the far-reaches of my soul, there is poetry. It peeks out every now and then to surprise me. I will be looking at something and suddenly a torrent of words will attack me to describe the scene or the feeling I am having. It is really quite surreal. I have taken to carrying a notebook with me everywhere so I have something to write with.

Well, I guess I'll see if any of this stuff is good enough to be printed. Then, I guess I'll write some more. I can't stop. It's like an addiction. Strange how all the arts are like that.

Oatmeal - The Mortar of the Family

I love oatmeal. I grew up with it. I can remember every now and then, Mom would get the little packets of instant oatmeal at the store. It was a challenge to remember which kind you liked from the last time you had them. My favorite is Cinnamon and Spice (or is it Raisins and Spice?). Back in those days, only Quaker made the little packages and so it was expensive. It was a rare treat when Mom bought the flavored oatmeal and we went through it like locusts through a wheat field.

Now that I am a grown up, I eat the regular stuff -- less sugar, more nutrition. I encourage my kids to flavor their own oatmeal. We have cinnamon, spices, raisins...they wrinkle their noses and tell me it's just not the same. And it isn't. I can't lie to you. I remember my mom telling us to do the same thing and John and me telling her, it just wasn't the same. I wonder what addictive substance they put in Quaker Instant Oatmeal.

To use up all the regular oatmeal we wouldn't eat, Mom also used to make the fabulous Oatmeal Scotchies. They were oatmeal cookies with butterscotch bits in them. She liked to bake them up hard so that they would absorb more milk when you dunked them. Yes, we are cretins. To this day, Oatmeal Scotchies are what you make on a cold, winter day. But, I make them softer than she does. Every now and then, Mom would send them to school with us as breakfast. Heck, they were probably better for us than the packets of instant oatmeal we so ardently desired.

Then along came Michael. Michael's family had another recipe for oatmeal cookies: Aunt Maggie's Oatmeal Cookies. Aunt Maggie was my mother-in-law's aunt and had developed this recipe during the depression (I think...correct me if I'm wrong, guys). This recipe is a blue ribbon winning recipe that mixes up and is put into the icebox to chill before slicing and baking. And, they are SO good. But, it is a completely different kind of cookie. Instead of being and "OATMEAL cookie" it is an "oatmeal cookie" (using only 1 cup of oats for the whole batch as opposed to 3 cups in a traditional recipe). They are very popular everywhere we take them, but only Michael makes them. I have not perfected the art. I am not patient enough to let them chill.

Oatmeal is a funny thing. It tends to remind me of home, comfort, stability all those things that we all long for and try our best to recreate for our families as we grow older. It is sort of a cement that ties, past to present and future. Something that is passed from generation to generation.

But, if your child forgets to wash out their oatmeal bowl, you will discover that oatmeal is another kind of cement, too! You will be blasting it off forever, using your elbow grease, and then the green scrubber, and finally moving to the steel or copper mesh scrubber you use for the cast iron. Yes, oatmeal is not just figuratively a cement for the family, it can be quite literally a cement for the family.

I am convinced that the Ancient Egyptians were on to this connection and used oatmeal to mortar the pyramids together. What better way to show that the family was going with you to paradise than with 2 tons of dried oatmeal?

Supposing that this is actually true, do you think that I will ever be able to get this bowl clean?

Mint Chocolate Cookie Ice Cream for Lunch

I have been on a diet for about 2 years.

OK...not really a diet. I watch what I eat a little more carefully and exercise more. I gave up sugared pop in favor of diet pop ('cause I still have to have that caffeine kick at 2 pm) and actually, I drink a lot less pop and a lot more water. I eat what I want, but I eat less of it. I try not to go back for seconds and all that stuff. And actually, it has worked. Very slowly, but it has worked. I have gone from 345 pounds to 285 pounds. It's a little disheartening to say, "I've lost 50 pounds!" and look at yourself in the mirror and still see the same fat blob sitting on your belly. But, I know it is working.

So, why am I sitting here with a pint of Ben and Jerry's Mint Chocolate Cookie Ice Cream on my desk?

I just took another bite and I can tell you: Because it is good! It tastes good! It is REAL food. I don't have to guess about what is in it. It will be the same things I put into the Ice Cream maker when I was a kid - sugar and cream and mint extract (along with whatever is in these WONDERFUL Oreo knock-offs). I got one of those "Light Ice creams" once and there was an in gredient list as long as your arm with things like "Carageenan Gum" on it. Does anyone REALLY know what carageenen gum is? No, I want real food. Not polymers and plastics flavored to taste like food.

I could say that the devil made me do it. But, that's not true. I did it because I like Mint Choclate Cookie Ice Cream. I discovered it when I was about 14 at a chain called G.D. Ritzy's (anyone out there remember them?). They made Mint Oreo ice cream. Having been a Mint Chocolate Chip fan, most of my life, I was thrilled at this new development in ice cream technology. I think I had a cone everyday after school for the first two years I was in High School. Ritzy's was at the end of the street where my high school was. I have been hooked ever since. Mind you, I didn't gain the weight immediately. No, it wasn't until I stopped walking the 1.78 miles home from school that the ice cream began to leave it's mark.
Yes, everyday, is too often. But every once in a while...it calls to me from the freezer aisle. I always check the Ben Jerry's display to see if they have Mint Chocolate Cookie. No other will do. Not everyone carries it, so when I find it, I always try to buy it. To encourage the grocer to keep it stocked, of course... Well....and it tastes good! I don't always buy it immediately, as in this case. Today is the product of a 4 week wait. I have known it was there and I would studiously avoid that aisle so that I wouldn;t be tempted. But today, I was no match for the siren song.

The great thing about Ben & Jerry's is not that it is organic, or family farm friendly or any other platitude you can come up with. No, it's that it only ocmes in pints. Otherwise, I would have to eat a half gallon when I have a weak moment.

Now, if you'll excuse me...my lunch is melting on my status report.

(God, this stuff is good...)

Sunday Dinner at Mom's

I guess I have an unusual family. In fact, I know I have an unusual family. I am the oldest of five children, the youngest of whom is 17 years younger than I am. The oldest of my little brothers is only two years younger than I am, but the younger three kids are all younger by enough that I was celebrating my 10 year class reunion, before they were even out of high school. Such a wide range of ages could make for a very fractured family. But, my mother, in her infinite wisdom, was not about to let that happen, so she instituted "Sunday Dinner".

Sunday dinner is done at Mom's house almost always. We have tried having at the kids' houses, but somehow it just doesn't work. There's not enough room, it's too far (even though Mom lives further from the city than most of us), you name it, there's an excuse. We celebrate all the birthdays and the honoree always gets to choose the menu. We have had everything from steak and chicken for grownups with healthy appetites, to a "cereal bar" for my son, Michael, when he would eat nothing else. It is very relaxed (almost to the point of being comatose). We all sit around and chat while dinner is getting ready. Sometimes we help with the cooking and preparation, other times we don't. Long ago Mom gave up trying to clean up for all of us, but somehow the chaos suits us. We just move anything that is in the way off to the side and sit on the chairs, the floor, the tables...wherever we can find space.

Dad is never exactly thrilled to see us all coming. He hides in his room or goes and plays his trumpet in another room. He is a very introverted person by nature and none of us really takes offense. He just needs his quiet time and we need to see each other and touch base.

Sunday Dinner has become a touchstone for all of us. As we have gotten married and had children of our own we have become quite a mob. When all of us are together, there are 21 of us. We use our time together to bounce ideas off of one another, to cry on each other's shoulders about the stupid thing our kid did at school and to share the small triumphs of our own lives. When I miss a Sunday Dinner, I become disjointed and out of touch with my siblings and I begin to miss them. Even the younger kids have insights to offer to us older kids that we have never would have seen with our jaded eyes.

No...none of us is perfect. And yes...we get into some HORRENDOUS fights, but, each week, we know that Mom will be serving up dinner for all of us. All of us, whether we behaved ourselves last week or not, will be welcomed back, and, indeed, expected at the crowded table. And that's what a family is. It is a place to renew and recharge. A place where we can go to get a hug or a pat on the back. A place where we can be loved for who we are and not what we own or what we have to offer. A place where there is forgiveness and love.

I love my family, warts and all. I hope that Sunday dinner becomes a tradition in more households. It is priceless.

Snowfall

I do not remember when I realized that snow was one of my mother's favorite natural phenomena, but I think I was quite young. I have a very hazy memory of sitting on her lap at the front door of our little post-war house in Colonial Hills watching the snow fall. We would sit with the storm door shut, but the front door open so we could see more. I can remember her telling me that she loved the snow, because it never snowed where she came from. Mom came from the deserts of southern Arizona. Since then, I think I have always loved the snow, too, but until just recently, I never wondered what made me like the snow so well.

I was a winter time baby (born in early March) and so, when I got my driver's license, I had to learn how to drive in the snow. The test was to take DAD in the car and not scare him. This was a tall order. I couldn't exhale in the car without scaring my dad. I remember picking up my Grandmother (his mom) from her house for dinner. He dutifully rode over with me (since it had recently snowed) and coached me the whole way (now, tap your brakes...not too fast, now). Once my Grandmother got into the car however, he became a bit more frantic that I do a good job. Finally, Grandma told him, "Be quiet, David! For heaven's sake you're making her more nervous and she's doing just fine!" He, being a perfect child, (har-har) did stay quiet and I did manage to "pass the snow test". I always considered myself a good snow driver and actually liked driving in the snow. But walking in the snow is a totally different kettle of fish.

Walking in the snow requires attention to detail, balance and the reflexes of a cat. You never know what may be hiding under that clean white layer of snow. It could be ice. One day, it was doggie doo-doo. Sometimes it is a thin layer of ice on top of a very deep, very cold puddle. I have managed (knock wood) not to fall on the ice at all this year. I am feeling pretty good about my snow walking skills now, too. So maybe one of the reasons I like snow is that it provides a challenge that I am able to meet.

But, I think the real answer came out when I was discussing the snow with a friend. He also loves the snow. Being from Northern Ohio, Columbus is a bit of a disappointment where snowfall is concerned. After all, significant snowfall here is 2-4 inches. That's just a light dusting where he comes from.

I asked him why he liked the snow. He told me that he thought it was mostly nostalgia. It got me to thinking why I liked the snow. I decided that I liked it because I liked the way it looked on the trees and because it quieted the city. Both are true. I love waking up in the morning after a snowfall and seeing all the trees, bushes, cars, houses...everything covered with a clean layer of white; still undisturbed by feet and shovels and salt trucks. Everything is slightly muffled and the city is quieter and looks cleaner. You can hear the blood rushing in your ears. It reminds me that I am alive, still.

When I was in my twenties and early thirties I would actually wake up during snow falls. I couldn't sleep. It was almost as if there were an electrical charge to the snow. I remember being pregnant with Michael and waking up suddenly, as if some one called my name, only to find that it was snowing. Then sitting at the picture window of our first apartment looking across to a ravine and watching the trees fill up with snow. It was breathtaking. I just sat there in silence and watched the snow.

So, I guess if I boil it down to the heart of the matter, it is nostalgia. It is remembrances of learning to drive, of sledding down the ravine hill across the street from our house in Clintonville, of standing up to my hips in the snow after the blizzard of '78 (snow so deep that we couldn't sled!), and of "School without Schools" that February. Memories of taking Joe and Sarah out to sled and coming home to hot chocolate or warm cider and fresh cookies. Memories of my first apartment and preparing to have our first child. It is the memory of sitting on my mommy's lap hearing her tell me about a dry, barren place where the magic of snow never happens and hearing her spin the magic into a lifelong joy that springs up every time I see flakes of white falling from the sky.

I can't wait for it to snow again...

Driving

I will always remember the anniversary of the day I got my driver's license. It is the day after my youngest brother's birthday.

The 1976 Grand LeMans Safari Wagon
She served me long and well.

I was scheduled to take my driving test on February 12th, 1986, but, on February 11th when I arrived home from play practice, my mom informed me that she was in labor, most likely, and that she probably wouldn't be able to take me. Looking back, I am sure that she thought I was mad at her, but really I was not. I was excited that the baby was FINALLY coming, but still, disappointed that I would have to wait to get my license. Mom suggested that I call my Aunt Sharon, who, though she could not take me on the 12th, could take me the next day. And, thankfully, the testing station at Delaware was willing to move the date for me. They were SO nice.

The Mighty Duster
Save for the sporty pinstriping on the side,
this is what she looked like.

I drove with my aunt to Delaware from Columbus in my parents' 1976 Pontiac Grand LeMans Safari Wagon. If you have never seen one of these, it is huge. So big that it comes with it's own zip code and area code. When the test administrator came out to get in the car she said, "Honey, are you sure you want to take manuverability in that thing?" I told her that my other choice was a 1969 Plymouth Duster with no power steering. She agreed that this might be the better choice. I passed the test with an almost perfect score. (I pulled too far forward to see around a corner.) and I had my license!!

Aunt Sharon took me to Friendly's to celebrate. I was so happy.

But nothing in the world was more sweet than being able to take my brother over to the hospital (all by myself) to see our new baby brother (at that time, children under 14 were absolutely not allowed in the hospital to visit, so my other brother and sister had to stay home). Weighing in at 12 lbs. 3 ozs. and 26.5" long, he was twice the size of some of the babies in the nursery and he was beautiful. And, I must say, after seeing him just last night...he still is!

But when I told my kids that tomorrow was the 22nd anniversary of getting my driver's license, they were, like, "So?"...I guess they just don't get the excitement of being behind the wheel and being in control of what you are doing and where you are going. In time, they will come to understand. It's like being the president of your own little country. You're in control of communications and media ("I pick the radio station"), you are in charge of laws ("Don't eat in my car and don't kick the seat.") and you are in charge of justice ("Do that again and you are walking home, kid."). Heck, when you drive a 1976 Pontiac Grand LeMans Safari Wagon and it really is your own little country.

I wonder if I get a UN delegate with that car?