A Full Church

Will my church be full or empty?

In my family it's not a matter of if you will get cancer, but where and when. All four of my grandparents and one of my uncles have tangled with (and lost to) cancer. I have already battled thyroid cancer and I am staring down a second biopsy for breast cancer in just a couple of weeks. I don't really want to talk about dying here, though that's an inescapable part of the conversation. I want to talk about the way we live.

I was very young when my grandfather was diagnosed with lung cancer. He died when I was 7 so I don't remember many of the details of his illness. What I do remember is being at the funeral home the day of the funeral and all I could see were knees in dark dress pants. I actually got lost in the crowd of business suits thinking I was still standing next to my dad. Later that day, I remember exiting the limousine at St. Patrick Church and walking through a crowd of people standing all the way out to the sidewalk. I didn't realize what that meant as a small child.

It wasn't until my uncle died of cancer about 7 years ago and there was a similar traffic jam at the funeral home and the church that I realized that both of these men had made a tremendous impact on the community around them. The church was absolutely packed for both of their funerals and the crowds spilled out onto the sidewalks with people whose lives were touched in a very real way by these men. At my uncle's funeral, I heard story after story from people who he had cared for and whose lives were better for him being in it -not because it was him, but because God called him to serve the poor and the lonely, and he heeded that call.

When I think of these men, I think of the Just Man as described in  Psalm 112: 9 "Open-handed he gives to the poor; his righteousness endures forever; his horn shall be exalted in honor."

My brother is currently fighting cancer and right now he's fighting off pneumonia and a sinus infection, too. It's hard to watch him go through this. John has always been the one who was more active, more in shape, more driven, more generous, really - kind of more "everything". He is a great friend and a wonderful and supportive brother. To see him scrambled and gasping for breath was disturbing to say the least.

In my grief over my brother's illness, I have realized that John's church will be full. Over the years, he has served the community in many ways - inviting those without family around to share Thanksgiving with us; donating time, money and toys to struggling local families; working as a volunteer firefighter; giving of his substance to people when ever and where ever they needed him. He, like his grandfather and uncle before him, has made an impact on his community, and, God willing, will continue to have an impact for years to come.

I want my church to be full when I die, too -not because I am so awesome (I am not), not because I am ready to die (again, I am not) -but because I am ready to live. I am ready for God to use me to really make a difference in people's lives. I am not so sure that my life right now is one that inspires a full church at my funeral, but I hope that I can live up to that charge. Just like the cancer, it seems to be a family tradition.

Photo Attribution: St. Patrick Church, Columbus, OH by Nheyob (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

On Expectation and Gratitude - A Stoic reflection on Mother's Day

My flowers? No, they were for my Mom.
But they're lovely all the same.

Yesterday morning I sat with many of my friends in the social hall following mass commiserating about what a disappointment Mother's Day is.  On a day when Mothers should feel honored and special for all that they do, all we could do was complain:

"All I want for Mother's Day is a clean house."
"All I want for Mother's Day is a nap."
"All I want for Mother's Day is for my kids to behave like human beings."
"All I want for Mother's Day is to have my kids at mass with me."

 And everyone together: "Is that too much to ask?"

I'm not sure when things changed for me. I can remember one Mother's Day, in particular, when I was crushed that my husband hadn't even gotten me a flower. The house was always a wreck. Nothing ever went as planned on Mother's Day and invariably, I was working. I think I have cried on every single Mother's Day since I was married. But this year was different.

Maybe it's the Epictetus I read earlier this year. Epictetus (c. A.D. 50-130) was a Stoic philosopher of the Hellenistic period. The Stoics believed in controlling the things that are up to us, (like our thoughts, desires and reactions,) and letting go of things that are not up to us, (like other people and things.) Epictetus would have loved the Serenity Prayer.

This plays out in a few different ways, but by and large the Stoics are known for treating everything generically - nothing is more important than anything else. If your favorite dish breaks, then you should just say, "It was just a dish." and move on. When something that belongs to you passes away from you, be it an object or a person, Epictetus tells us that we should just say "I gave it back." It's almost as if everything is on loan to you. When things come to you, you should appreciate them, but when they pass on, you have to let them go.*

That's a pretty radical position if you think about it. Epictetus takes this position to its outermost limits in The Encheiridion, saying that when you kiss your wife or your child you shouldn't think of them as "yours" but as "a wife" or "a child". That way, it won't hurt if they are lost to you.** I think this goes too far. It denies the incommunicability of the human person (the idea that every person is unique and cannot be replaced), but there are still lessons we can take from Epictetus.

One of the most important lessons Epictetus has for us is Fragment 8 - "Do not seek to have events happen to you as you want them to, but instead want them to happen as they do happen, and your life will go well."***

Yesterday I realized that because I wasn't expecting anything for Mother's Day, I was not going to be disappointed in the way the day played out. Because of that lack of expectation, everything was a gift and I was more grateful and relaxed than I would have been had I been expecting something specific.

The nap I got, my son and his fiancee coming to Mass with us, the lovely chat with dear friends, the delicious dinner made by my youngest brother, the lovely walk with my husband in the evening --everything was beyond my control and so it came to me as what it should have been: a gift. It was something I didn't ask for but it was given freely as a token of affection.

I think that in the past, I have set my family up for failure. When I expect great things, sometimes I get them. But often times, life intervenes and makes even the best intentions fall apart at the seams. When things happen on Mother's Day like colds, Houdini-Dog escapes, or freezers being left open accidentally, our yelling and tears and hurt feelings don't change those things. They are out of our control and Epictetus would tell us that we should just let them go.

I think he might be right about that. It is definitely a much more peaceful way to celebrate the day.

Want to learn more about Stoic philosophy? Read "The Handbook (The Encheiridion) of Epictetus".

* Epictetus, The Handbook (The Encheiridion). trans. Nicholas P. White (Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company: 1983), 12.
** Ibid. 12.
*** Ibid. 13.

The Acrobat

My Little Green Car - The 1976 Datsun B210 - Best. Car. Ever. 

I let the clutch out very slowly and pushed on the accelerator.  I listened for the pitch of the car’s engine to tell me when I had enough power to make the turn and get up and over the hill.  I thought I had it right, so I let out the clutch all the way and the car lurched forward and died. I’d let the clutch out too fast.  As it began drifting backward toward the car behind me, I stomped on the brake and the honking commenced.

Crap! I could feel the tears of frustration begin to sting my eyes as I started the car again.   I was going to be stuck on that little hill forever.

Mom took a deep breath and said, “They’ll wait.  If they get antsy, they’ll go around.  Third time’s the charm.  Just take it easy and give her a little more gas.  It’s all about balance.”  My mother had the patience of Job.

I’d bought the car for $200 two weeks before my 19^th birthday, even though I had absolutely no idea how to drive a standard shift car.  It was a little, dark green, ’76 Datsun B-210.   I couldn’t drive it, but, oh, I loved it.  It was sporty, gas-efficient, and, best of all, it had an after-market Pioneer digital cassette deck stereo system in it that kicked butt. 

I missed the independence that a car gave me after selling my first car.  It had been a 1969 Plymouth Belvedere with a bored-out 6 cylinder engine.  It could pass anything but a gas station.  I missed long rides with my music and the thrum of the big engine.  I missed being able to go wherever I wanted to, whenever I wanted to go, (as long as I had the gas money).  I longed to pop in my U2 cassettes and listen to the stereo system of my new car at top volume, with all the windows down, blazing down the freeway like I used to in the Mighty Thunder Wagon.  The only way I was going to reclaim my independence was taking the leap and learning to drive a stick. 

Mom had been raised on a ranch in Arizona and had learned to drive when she was about 12.  Because they lived 50 miles across the Arizona-Sonora Desert from the nearest town, it had been essential that my mom and her sister know how to drive in case something happened and they had to go for help.  So, as soon as Mom could reach the pedals in the International Harvester pickup with “three on the tree”, her Daddy had taught her to drive.

Once, my dad had bought a VW van.  Mom drove like the car was an extension of her body: smoothly and confidently.  Dad could not master the VW clutch.  Every time he drove, we’d hold on to the panic handles for dear life.  Eventually, he killed the van.  We’d been on the freeway on our way to Pataskala.  He was so mad that he walked all the way home.  As he ranted, he vowed he was never going to own another standard shift car, much less a foreign car.  So, though most of my friends learned to drive from their fathers, Mom taught me the ropes.  She was unflappable.

As I sat on that hill with all the traffic behind me waiting, ever so patiently, I thought about equilibrium.  Mom watched the traffic on Karl Road for an opening so I could make the turn.

“Okay, kid, here comes your break.  Now, push down on the accelerator and ease off your clutch until the gears pull at the car, just a little bit.  Try not to let it grind.”

I began to let out the clutch and push on the accelerator and the pitch of the engine dropped until the gear engaged.  It caught with a sound like an enormous zipper would make and I grimaced.  That sounded expensive.  The car moved forward slightly.  I eased back a little on the accelerator and found the balance point between the clutch and accelerator to keep it steady on the hill until I was ready to move.  The car I was waiting for made a right turn without signaling.

Nice, I thought.  I could’ve made that turn anytime.  Now I have to hurry.

“All right now,” Mom was saying, “push down that accelerator and let go of the clutch.  One motion, honey.  Go. Go. Go.”

I hit the pedal on the right a little too hard and let my foot off the clutch a little too quickly.  The car shot forward and shuddered like a bowl of Jello in an earthquake as I turned to the left.  With a final lurch, a squeal of tire tread and a clank of the flywheel, I was off!  Finally!

“Good job, kid.”  Mom smiled, “That’s the toughest thing to learn: turning left at the top of a hill at a busy intersection.  Good job.”

I let out a sigh of relief.

“You hungry, Mom?”  I pulled up to another stop light just as it was turning red.  I engaged the clutch, let off the accelerator and shifted the car back into first gear as I began to brake and waited for the light.

Mom sighed, “I guess it’s time for lunch, isn’t it?”  I nodded.  She continued, “Well, let’s stop and get something and then we’ll lurch on home.”  She chuckled.  I made a face at her. The light changed and I let out the clutch and pushed the accelerator.  I took off smoothly, as if I’d driven the car for years.

“There you go!  You got it!”  Mom was pleased.  She settled back into her seat.  I hadn’t noticed how tense she’d gotten.  “See. It’s all about balance, kid.  Once you learn how to balance, everything else is easy.”

Immortality and Other Second Chances

"Look toward Him and be radiant and your faces may not blush for shame.
This poor one cried out and the LORD heard and from all his distress He saved him."
Psalm 34: 6-7

This past week I received a diagnosis that I was sort of expecting. After extensive testing my doctors have discovered two nodules on my thyroid gland. We already knew it was big, but now there are nodules on it and it has to come out. The further threat is that these nodules might be cancerous. The blood work looks good, but there are other biomarkers that don't look so good.

Usually, people with overactive thyroids are given radioactive iodine to kill the thyroid and then they are monitored for new lumps and bumps over the rest of their lifetime. But not so with me. In the course of my testing, we discovered that I am very allergic to the iodine. So surgery is the only option for me.

So, out it comes!

The thyroid gland sits at the base of the throat and surrounds the windpipe. Just behind the thyroid are the vocal nerves. In order to get at the gland, they will have to cut an incision in my neck and move all the muscles aside so that they can see what they're doing. Everything is so tightly packed in there, that they don't do laparoscopic surgery. This means that for the first several weeks of recovery, my speaking voice will be hoarse. My singing voice will be out of commission for about three to four months. If it is not damaged by the surgery (and there is no cancer - please, Lord, no cancer!) I should be able to sing again by the summer.

I'm worried.
Okay, I'm terrified.

There have been times, in the depths of my depression that I have wished for some deadly disease to take me quietly. Something that I wouldn't have to explain to God. I have hated my life - and that is a very sad thing. There is so much joy in my life, but all I could see was the suffering.

And that's the dark part. But that's not the end of the story.

This is old hat, but here goes: You never appreciate what you have until you might lose it. 

I have always appreciated my voice. Maybe I've appreciated it too much, in fact. While I have been off chasing my muse, everyone else has had to stand by and wait for me. My husband put college aside for me. My children have done without me for large expanses of time. My faith is intimately connected to my voice and my ability to sing for Mass.  It is an exercise in humility for me to NOT sing (and to ignore those who sing poorly) during Mass.

So many, many times I have bristled with the idea that I could do something so much better than someone who already had the job. I have harmed friendships and careers with my ambition. And where has that left me? Busy to the point of a breakdown. Lonely, though I have many friends. And frightened that the thing on which I have built my life, (and in many respects, my faith,) is going to be taken away.

But, there is hope. There is always hope - because we have a Savior. And he is so good to us.

For me, that hope came to me while singing for the funeral of a woman who was just a little bit older than me. As I sang the familiar parts of the Requiem Mass and listened to the readings I had heard a thousand times over I was reminded of God's great generosity.

The first reading was Isaiah 25:6-7, 9:

On this mountain the LORD of hosts will provide for all peoples. On this mountain he will destroy the veil that veils all peoples, the web that is woven over all nations; he will destroy death forever. The Lord GOD will wipe away the tears from all faces; the reproach of his people he will remove from the whole earth; for the LORD has spoken. On that day it will be said: "Behold our God, to whom we looked to save us! This is the LORD for whom we looked; let us rejoice and be glad that he has saved us!"

I know that I need to trust that God has a plan for my life. I have no idea what that plan is. Maybe that's why things have rolled out the way they have over the past several weeks. There have been many new doors opened to me - and some closed, too.

I may have years left or I may die tomorrow. There is no way for me to know when I will be called. The best I can do is to live for God in the time I have - however long that time may be.

So, in the midst of all this Sturm und Drang, I found a prayer today while beta testing an app that I thought fit the bill pretty well:

Prayer Against Depression

by St. Ignatius of Loyola

O Christ Jesus

When all is darkness

And we feel our weakness and helplessness,

Give us the sense of Your Presence,

Your Love and Your Strength.

Help us to have perfect trust

In Your protecting love

And strengthening power,

So that nothing may frighten or worry us,

For, living close to You,

We shall see Your Hand,

Your Purpose, Your Will through all things.

(via Catholic Short Prayers App - http://shortprayers.valent.co/)

Creative Writing - Week 1

Well, I have no idea if I did the assignment well, but I kind of like the little story I created (partly fiction and partly non-fiction - as if they'd get up before 10 AM.  Ha!).
The question was: You have one free hour to yourself.  What do you do?
I was supposed to use lots of concrete details and sensory details to describe the situation and the minimum number of words was 250.  I exceeded that by at least 100%.  Let's hope my teacher is understanding of being a blabber-mouth.

One, Stress-Free Cup of Coffee

I have finally dropped my husband off for work and returned home to my sleeping teenagers.  There’s no school today, so I decide to forgo the usual breakfast mayhem and let the kids sleep in.  What do they have to do today, anyway?  We were just planning to clean and put away Christmas.   That can wait for an hour.  I could use an hour of quiet and relaxation.  Usually, by the time the kids leave for work and school, my ears are ringing from the music in the bathroom and the “Where’s my shirt?” questions.  I live for the moments of peace and quiet.

I look over at the sink, piled with dishes and sigh.  Nope.  I’m not going to do those, either.  That’s Mikey’s job.  “I wouldn’t want the poor bugger to be bored,” I think with a wry chuckle, “He’ll be so thrilled to have something to do.”

I walk over to the coffee maker to start the coffee.   I don’t usually drink coffee at home so it takes me a while to gather all the stuff together.  The coffee we have is whole bean and has to be ground.  I wonder where that grinder is.

I begin to dig through the cabinets to find the coffee grinder.  These cabinets are a mess.   They’ve got baking pans in with pots and pans, and what is the cat’s bowl doing here?  I start pulling things out of the cabinet while I stand on my head and feel all the blood rush to my brain.  Finally, I locate the grinder and put all the pots and pans and cake pans and pie plates back into the cabinet.  Of course, the grinder had gotten pushed to the very back of the cabinet.  Nothing is ever easy.

I plug in the grinder, dump the coffee beans into it and push the button.  The grinder does its job and I pull the lid off to put the grounds into the filter.  The sharp, pungent smell of the fresh ground coffee breaks through the musty smell of the dirty dishes in the sink.  It pierces the fog of my morning thought.  Mmmm…  This is going to be so good.

I draw the water, pour it into the reservoir and hit the "on" button.  The coffee pot begins to make its chugging and popping sound indicating that it’s working, thank God!  I use it so infrequently that it's always a gamble.
I sit down at the computer and bring up my email and read “The Writer’s Almanac” and check to see if any of my friends have written to me this morning.  Nope, it’s all spam: 

“Buy a new bra from Lane Bryant!”  

“Save 60% with Groupon!” and 

“Come see Mr. Jones at The Book Loft, where he’s signing his new book!” 

The bold letters scream at me from the little box on my iGoogle page.  I delete all of them and hear the coffee pot sputtering and spitting in its efforts to expel the rest of the water I put in, turning those last few drops into life-restoring, brown, caffeinated water, otherwise known as coffee.  I have a friend who once remarked that she believed that Juan Valdez (you know, the Columbian Coffee guy) should be canonized because he brings the dead to back to life every morning, right in her kitchen.  The coffee smells divine.  It smells like home.

I close my laptop and walk over to the counter to pour my coffee, only to realize that there are no cups clean.  Really?  Yes.  I turn on the hot water and wait for it to get warm for what seems like an eternity.  After I wash a nice big mug and pour a nice cup of hot coffee, I add a generous helping of fancy coffee creamer and sugar to it.  I take a sip and let it warm my tongue and sting the back of my throat.  Man, that’s good coffee.  I breathe in the smell of the Irish Crème laced perfection in my mug and sigh contentedly.

Turning to the living room, I look for a spot to sit among the piled up laundry and school books.  I have to set my mug down and move some laundry back to a basket so I can sit on the couch.  I get caught up in the task and before I know it, I have cleared the whole couch and separated Michael's laundry from Celia's and ours.  I have to remember to have the kids take this all upstairs and put it away.  

Finally, I have a spot to sit with a book to visit with some long-lost literary “friends” and relax for the last 15 minutes of my hour alone.  I sit back and grab another sip of my coffee, which is now the perfect drinking temperature and relax back into the couch with a smile.  Thank God for this hour long break.

Teenagers

An acrostic poem for an assignment

Teenagers

Tickety-tackety, texting non-stop,
ever in doubt of where she'll end up,
endlessly fumes she's not pretty enough,
never predictable, always in flux,
a teenage girl is a wonder, it's true. She's
gentle one moment,
egregious the next,
rages against all authority, but
she sighs in your arms as you wipe all her tears.


Comments? Suggestions?

Manners

I have been thinking a lot about manners recently. Going beyond the simple "please" and "thank you", and the art of eating with silverware instead of your hands is really rather rare these days, it seems to me.

Manners used to be taught in schools as part of a well-rounded curriculum. Sometime in the 1970's or 1980's, manners ceased to be important enough to address as a subject of education in the classroom (and indeed, in some cases, were scorned as old-fashioned) and were relegated to the ranks of "things we learn at home". At the same time, parents, who had always been responsible for instilling and developing social skill training were being told to let their children be "free to be who and what they wanted to be". In addition, many families were coming apart at the seams and families who previously had a parent at home to administrate and supervise the children gave way to a culture of "latch-key kids" and unsupervised teenagers. There was no way to transmit the culture of "mannerly behavior" that sustains our restraint and charity (or kindness toward others) as a society, because there was no one around to teach or enforce it. And now, those kids are the parents of today.

Today we have two problems in society that are, I believe, directly related to this lack of social training or "manners". The rise in bullying (and its cousin: violent crime) and the rise in violent political debate correspond with shocking clarity to the decline in the importance of manners in our schools and homes. Why?

There are a couple of reasons. Manners are a set of rules that give a person something to fall back on in unfamiliar situations. It's a framework of what to say and do (or what not to say and not to do). But, it is like using a tool in an emergency. When your car has a flat, if you have never tried to use that lug wrench or jack when it is not raining and dark, it's going to be really hard to use for the first time it when it is. Practicing manners, then, is a way to use a set of tools that will stand you in good stead when the unexpected happens.

For example, if you are at a dinner party where you know only your host, you have a set of rules governing what you talk about with your fellow partygoers and how to go about it so you don't offend anyone. That seems pretty esoteric, but imagine that you are the new kid at school and all the same rules apply (to everyone). Suddenly, you have a structure for how to act and what to say (and so do they), that, if enforced, could save you embarrassment and a lot of grief.

The second reason that manners are important, is that they give you a sense that you are not the most important thing in the room. It demands respect for your fellow man. From a Christian perspective, each person is created in the image and likeness of God and that is enough to keep us from harming another in body mind or spirit, but in the world of secular society, we had to legislate it. Hence, manners. And, if followed as the societal norm, the type of respect that comes from adhering to manners could save kids' lives. Heck, it could save your life.

"But what about my right to say what's on my mind?" You wouldn't believe how often I hear this from kids who are caught saying something inappropriate to a peer, or worse, an adult. Each of us has the right to Free Speech in this country. I realize that this is a hotly contested freedom right now. Where does that right end? 

When I was very young, my mother told me that I had my rights as long as they did not interfere with another person's rights. That means, that as long as I allow another equal time and do not personally attack (physically or verbally) another person, I am within my rights to speak my mind as regards my political values and ideals. And they are within their rights to speak theirs. So, why do we have all of this politically based violence? I can only assume it is a complete lack of manners. There is no way that a gentleman or lady would ever lay hands on another person if he or she disagreed with that person.

So it seems to me that these are pretty basic rules to teach and enforce:

1. Keep your hands to yourself.
2. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.
3. If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all.
4. Do not whisper in a public setting. Anything you need to say to your neighbor can wait until you are alone.
5. Do not interrupt people when they are speaking. Your turn will be next.
6. Never talk about religion or politics at a dinner party (or in the lunchroom).
7. Do not address private matters in public. (I do not want to know what goes on in your bedroom. Did you want to know what goes on in mine? I didn't think so.)

If these seem simplistic let me share a story. I had a couple of children in my choir that were bullying another child. They weren't using their fists. They were using their tongues. They were teasing this young man because he was overweight and it was getting to be a weekly occurrence to find this young man in the car crying. This kid was a "tough guy", but he'd never lay his hands on a girl and he wasn't witty enough to take them in a battle of wits. It was very frustrating and hurtful.

Finally, I asked my husband to address the problem with the girls' mother and the girls themselves. He asked them if they knew the "Golden Rule". They replied that they did not. He taught it to them, had them explain what they thought that meant, and then explained that they needed to abide by it whenever they came to practice. Pretty basic manners, right? Yet, the mother was furious, saying that he had humiliated her children and sent their father to me to complain. He told me, "We just don't do things like that anymore." I responded, "Maybe we should." Let me further explain that these girls were not young hoodlums, they were middle-class suburban dwelling girls. They definitely, in my opinion, should have known better.

I know that I am certainly guilty of treating people with a lack of respect when they displease me. I have gotten very sloppy with my manners in the past few years and I did not enforce them adequately with my children. But I intend to redouble my efforts.

What about you?

Just a little plug for one of my favorite children's manners books: "Miss Manners' Guide to Rearing Perfect Children". Not only is it hilarious (and, therefore, a good read,) it's invaluable information for every age your child will pass through all the way through college. Let me also say that when we follow Miss Manners' advice things really do run more smoothly around here.

The Christmas Tree that I absolutely, positively could not get up before Christmas Eve

Years ago, my husband and I started a tradition born of a conflict between two family traditions. His: Put the tree and every piece of tinsel you can find out on the weekend after Thanksgiving so we can enjoy it all the way through December. Mine: Get the tree up, simply decked out with just enough lights and no tinsel, on the weekend closest to Christmas Eve.

I adored his Mom's fabulous Christmases! And I wanted more flash and dazzle than my Mom did, but I didn't think it was appropriate to put it all up quite so early. So, we compromised and decided that St. Nicholas would "bring" the tree on December 6th. We always put the tree up on the 6th or the weekend closest to it and then it comes down on Epiphany (January 6th). Up for a nice, neat month that brackets the entire Christmas celebration, we thought we had the perfect solution. This worked for years. The kids grew up under this model and there was great joy in the O'Keefe household. But times have changed.

Last year was the first time it happened. The weekend closest to the 6th, we had a concert. The next weekend was a party. As there was the following weekend. And, because I direct choirs, just forget all about evenings. Those are completely booked from November 1st until Christmas Eve.

And so it happened that the children were in bed, we had guests coming over the next day and my husband and I sat sagging on the couch. We stared at the little grouping of trees, set up and lit, but not one ornament on them, at 2 AM, following Midnight Mass. Without looking at each other, we conversed. We were that tired.

"Well," he said," you know, they kind of look nice that way."

"Hmmm...." I replied, kind of absently, "Kind of rustic."

"Maybe we could just leave them that way, " he suggested hopefully.

"Well, I think they need a few ornaments." I said, sitting up a little to get a better view of them. "Maybe we'll just use our very favorite ornaments." I started digging through boxes. "At the very least we have to find Engel Elsa." (Engel Elsa - "Angel Elsa" in English- is our tree topper.)

"OK, we'll just work for a little bit and see where we get."

Well, we worked until 4 AM and the trees were beautiful. We used every ornament in the boxes (once they were open they all came out). The next day we garnered rave reviews of the decoration job, even if we had bags under our eyes, it was worth it. On the downside, we didn't actually take the trees down until February (or so...)

Well, it looks like this year, we are headed in the same direction. When I left for work this morning, there weren't even any lights on the tree. We are as far behind as we were last year. This year, however, I do not have to sing a Midnight Mass, which will make things earlier. Plus, we are planning it all out. We have a dinner planner and snacks for setting the tree up (donuts and mulled cider...). But, of course, anything could happen.

Whatever the outcome, whether the tree is dressed or not, Christmas will come. Just as Jesus comes to us, ready or not, in His birth at Bethlehem. Mary was certainly not prepared to have her baby sleeping in what amounts to the animals' food bowl. I am sure that she never imagined that a manger is where she would lay her Lord and Son. The Shepherds were surely surprised. They were sleeping, after all!

But, Jesus didn't seem too concerned about all the trappings of His Kingship. He was ready to be here. It was the fullness of time. He wasn't embarassed by sleeping in a manger. That was the plan. The star shone brightly and all the angels sang of the Glory of His coming to us on Earth. All we are asked to do is show up and pay him homage, and then go out and tell of His glory.

Not prepared for Christmas?
Maybe the only person that has ever really been ready for Christmas is Jesus.

Painting: Nativity (Holy Night) - Correggio

What time did you say that would be?

Son: Can I have some chocolate milk, Dad?

Husband: Sure, son. (pours milk in a glass) Now what do you say to God for the blessing of chocolate milk?

Son (rolls eyes): *Thank* you.

Husband (chuckles evilly): And what would you say to God if he were German?
Wife raises eyebrows but refrains from responding "Gott sei dank!"

Son (rolls eyes even further back into his head and replies while walking away into the next room): Danke Schoen!
Wife to husband (raising one eyebrow and smirking): So, um.... are you saying that God isn't German?

Son (interjecting from the next room): Of course not, Mom. If He was German He would have given us a time for the end of the world.

Ah Yes! Sociology lessons at the O'Keefe house.

Woodcut: The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse by Albrecht Dürer

We will miss you, Grandpa D

Missing Man Formation

I am re-posting a blog from many months ago. Today we lost my husband's grandfather. This post was written with him in mind. We will miss him, but I am sure in the knowledge that he has gone to be with his beautiful wife and is no longer in pain or confused.


I'm going to put in a plug here for "The Writer's Almanac", published by Garrison Keillor. The Writer's Almanac comes to my mailbox daily with a poem and then tidbits and biographies about authors who had significant events on this day in history.

Today's poem was written by a man who, to my knowledge had only one poem to his name: John Gillespie Magee, Jr. He was a pilot in WWII and flew with the Royal Canadian Air Force, before the US entered the war. Today is his birthday. Like me, you have probably heard this poem before, but today, it really moved me. I'll tell you why after you read it.

High Flight (an Airman's Ecstasy) by John Gillespie Magee, Jr.
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air...

Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, nor even eagle flew —
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

My grandfather-in-law is an aviator. He flew at around the same time as Magee, fighting in WWII and then again in Korea. After he retired from the Army Air Corps, he continued to teach in his flight school in Texas. One of his students was my brother who tells me that Grandpa has nerves of steel. Yep, I'll bet he does.

This brave man has more decorations than you could shake a stick at, including several Purple Hearts and at least one Bronze Star. In WWII, he was shot down in enemy territory and crawled out on his belly with a broken jaw, after watching his friend be killed. And yet, he is good hearted, humble and kind. His love for his grandchildren and great-grandchildren so very great. It even extends to me, outsider that I am, and I am doted upon.

But now, he suffers from Alzheimer's and we are watching this fantastic man slip away. But he is not slipping away into nothing. He is still the kind hearted, humble, loving grandfather I have always known him to be. True, he no longer teaches flight. True, he needs a little more help, but would I give back even one second of this time we still have with him? No. Do my children benefit for having him in their lives even in a diminished capacity? Yes. I do not believe that any time that we have left with this great man is a waste in any way. I am so honored to know him one of our great American Heroes and to be loved as one of his children.

And when he does finally pass on from us, though right now he cannot take flight, I know that he will be going to touch the face of God once again.


As we sat with Grandpa last night for the last time, holding his hands and reading to him from the bible, I realized that, though he was unresponsive, every time one of my children spoke, he would twitch his hands and his face would relax. I am grateful for the time we had with Grandpa. My kids are so lucky to have been able to get to know and love him, and he to get to know and love them.

Anniversary

As I sat at lunch today, eating a sandwich with my husband in honor of our 18th anniversary, I had a memory that I shared with him. I remembered being a child and deciding that what I wanted to get for my parents for their anniversary was "dinner out". So, my brother and I talked to Dad and convinced him (somehow, who knows how) that he should take us all out to dinner for his anniversary.

Michael laughed and said, "And it was your present to him, right?"

I laughed too, "Yeah, 'Hey Dad, we want to take you out to dinner for your anniversary, but we don't have any money, so you have to pay.' Yep. Just like that."

And then Michael said, "Wow! That's a great analogy for the Gift of God's Grace."

"Huh?" I looked up at him a little startled.

"Yeah, think about it. Most people use the analogy of God drawing a picture with you, but really that means you're still doing something. This is much better. You did nothing. Your father gave you the gift of the money to give back to him in the form of a present. Dinner. Grace."

You know, I have been with Michael as his fiancee and then his wife for more than 20 years and he still amazes me. I did nothing that would ever have merited such a wonderful man as I have, but here he is. God has richly blessed me.

Grace.

A guest contributor

My husband works in a cafeteria. He is a short order cook and is a wonderful one at that. One of the most popular items of equipment in the kitchen is the ice cream machine. But, alas, the ice cream machine is somewhat fragile and breaks on a fairly regular basis. So, instead of a simple "Out Of Order" sign, my husband penned the following:

An Ode to our Old Friend

Oh, sweet milk maid!
Oh, sweet frozen stream of cream!
How we shall miss thee;
Whose glinting body
And black knobbed rack
Brought delight to men and women alike;
We grieve thee at thy passing.

Gone, but not forgotten,
Thy devoted turn to jello
Whose red body wiggles,
Cool and fruity,
To remind us of the sweetness we found in thee.

The powers that be made him take it down. Some people have no sense of humor.

Open Letter To My Husband on Father's Day

Dear Honey,

Seventeen years ago on this date, I gave birth to our first child, a son, whom we named for your father (and incidentally, you). As I lay in my hospital bed, pretty near dead from exhaustion, you stroked my forehead as I nursed our son and you told me that this was the very best Father's Day present I could ever give you. Terrified to be a mother, I told you, I couldn't do this alone. You promised me you'd always be there. Now, as our son turns 17, a year away from being a man in his own right I have some things I want you to know.

You are an example to our children of a good father in that you lay your life down for us, as would a good shepherd, and that is what God has called you to do. You provide a good example in the temporal world by your work (you almost never miss a day) and in the spiritual world with your prayer life.

I want to thank you for continually setting the limits, setting the bar and policing the action in the house and on the town. I know you get frustrated with our kids when they get lippy or don't seem to get the idea of "social graces", but they are listening and absorbing. If it's any comfort, I always get compliments on how lovely our children are to have around.

Rebelling is all part of being a teenager, I suppose, but never ever doubt that your children love and adore you. Who else would lead sing-alongs to "The Nightmare Before Christmas", I ask you? Certainly not their mother!

You are a credit to your vocation and we all love you! Thank you so much for being the father of our children. I am no longer terrified to be a mother. I know that no matter what happens, you will be there, as you always are. I feel blessed everyday to have a partner in this life like you!

With All My Love,
Katie

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.

Hope

A Hope-Filled Prayer

O sweetest Lord Jesus Christ, may my soul ever yearn towards Thee:
May my soul seek Thee, find Thee,
tend towards attainment of Thee,
ever meditate on Thee,
and do all things to the praise and glory of Thy Holy Name.

Do Thou alone be my hope,
my whole trust,
my delight,
my joy,
my rest,
my peace and my sweet contentment.

Do Thou alone be my refuge and my help,
my wisdom and my possession,
my treasure in whom my heart and
my soul remain fixed immovably, forever.
Amen.

-St. Bonaventure

My Mom gave me this prayer for the end of our choir practice last night. I thought it was beautiful. I think it's going to be a regular prayer for us.

The Surprise Party

Well, I turned 40 on Thursday. People keep asking me how it feels and I tell them, "40 feels a lot like 39, only slower".

My husband and mother threw a surprise party for me on Thursday evening and it was lovely, but not a surprise. Mom wanted the whole thing to be a surprise, but my husband decided that they couldn't really surprise me with the party (I always find out), so he would surprise me with the guest list. I wasn't allowed to ask who was invited or who was coming or "Did you invite...?" I just had to take what rolled out. And what rolled out was lovely Old friends, new friends, long-lost friends, friends I see everyday...

As I sat looking at the crowd of assembled people trying to delicately eat some hot wings and barbecue meatballs, I was reminded of some past surprise parties. This was not the first time Mom had tried to surprise me.

When I turned 16, she threw a surprise party for me and only three people came. I wasn't particularly sad, but I knew that Mom was. I had a lot of fun making custom pizzas with my three friends, one of whom had moved to another school earlier in the year. Later, I found out that she had invited a ton of people and that some of them had even said they would come, but didn't show up. Now, of course, I know that life happens and the best-laid plans sometimes go awry. I can remember, though, at 16, feeling a little sorry for myself that more of my friends didn't come.

When I turned 21, my husband helped my mother with the party. This is truly one of my favorite stories. My husband and his sister, Julie, were supposed to keep me out of the house while it was being cleaned up (with 3 little brothers and sisters still at home this was no small task). I guess Mom announced to everyone, after we left, what they would be doing today, whereupon my Dad went to the basement and began to sort old computers. As if anyone was going to be in the basement! Oh well...

Anyway, because Julie and Michael couldn't keep me interested in shopping for long enough, I came home early. Mom was in a state and couldn't figure out how to get me upstairs so that people could arrive. And even if she got me upstairs, she couldn't get people in the house without me knowing. Finally, when the first guest arrived (my mother-in-law-to-be) Mom lost her cool and told me about the surprise. I had had no idea. I was so shocked and thrilled. Michael sent me upstairs to get changed into something a little more party-like and as I was curling my hair, my friends, Missy and Kristen came running up the stairs shouting "Surprise! Surprise! Surprise!" I remember laughing and smiling so much that evening.

But, nothing beats the 40th. They had to get a room at a local parish in order to get all the people in. I don't know how many people came, but it was a lot. And, as my mother-in-law always says, all the right people came. They always do. Everyone had a good time. Everyone had plenty to eat (and it was so good, Mom)! And, I am humbled, truly humbled, by all of these people's good wishes and kindnesses and those of the people who called me to let me know that they could not attend but were thinking of me.

As I was sitting there, surveying all the people in the room through misty eyes, one of my close friends leaned over my shoulder and said to me, "Now, when you feel like no one cares, just look around this room in your memory and remember how many lives you have touched and how many people care."

I can't believe I have so many friends. I wonder, sometimes, what they see. But, I am grateful, all the same.

Photo: St. Pixel's Blog - Sharona

Above Average

"My kids are not your average kids..."

Doesn't everyone say that? Everyone's kids stretch them to the breaking point, push them to the limit and push every hot button that you own (and some you didn't even know you had)...Yet, you take them somewhere or send them to play at a friend's house and the friend's mom says, "Oh, Susie/Tommy is so polite and nice. He/she can come back anytime." And you stand there, slack-jawed, thinking, "My kid? Are you talking about this rapscallion?" All the while, you are holding your struggling kid by the arm, and gritting your teeth through your benign smile, as they try valiantly to not put their coat on and say, "Oh, thank you so much."

And, still, at the end of the day, you know, you could never deny them. Those are your kids. They have your eyes, your smile, your freckles, your faults and your flashes of genius and you love them. They are wonderful.

What is it about "my kids" that makes them so above average? Garrison Keillor announces at the end of his weekly monologue that Lake Woebegone is a place where "all the women are strong, all the men are good-looking and all the children are above average." Keillor has commented several times that Lake Woebegone is a fictional place that is designed to be somewhat like "Anytown, USA". It's supposed to be anywhere that you are and anyone whom you might know. And his statements and, now famous tag-line, point up the universality of his reflections. All parents think their kids are something special.

When I was a kid, my Mom was not a stage mother. She has totally become a stage grandmother. Seriously. Her grandchildren are the smartest, most beautiful, talented, creative children on the planet. Just ask her. Of course, her sister believes the same thing is true of her grandchildren, but, from a completely unbiased point of view (and I say this with no small amount of irony), MY mom is right.

I asked my mom why she wasn't more like that with us when we were kids. She told me she didn't want us to get big heads. I completely believe that. But actually, she told me, she'd talk about us to anyone who had ears to hear, outside of our earshot, of course. We always felt like we had to work a little harder to be better and I don't think that hurt us. We always strove for excellence and still do in our grown-up lives.

My husband's mother was different. She told her kids every day that they were the most special, talented, precious creatures that God put on the planet. Whether they earned those titles or not. It made them pretty unbreakable when it came to outside criticism. Critiques just fall off of them like water off a duck's back. They know that they are loved and wonderful. No matter what life hands them, they just get up and keep going.

My children have a mix of the two. I adore my children. I tell them often how much I love them and how smart and interesting and talented I think they are, but they have to work for my praise of the things that they do with their talents. My husband just adores them, he will still go into their rooms at night to watch their 13 and 16 year-old, giant bodies sleeping away and marvel at how spectacular they are, just like he did when they were babies.

And they are...spectacular, I mean. And above average, too. But isn't that the whole point of being individually created creatures of God? We are all wonderfully made and every one of us has something unique to offer the world. I guess that would make us all "above average."

Photo by starpuncher, found on Flickr.

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?

Bacon and Chocolate

What is it with men and bacon, and women and chocolate?
I mean, really!

We were in the car the other day with the boys and they had my sister order sandwiches with bacon on them. My husband commented that "Now the kitchen staff knows there are men in the car." And it's true. Men are all about some bacon. When Wendy's was advertising the Baconator, did they have some cute chick selling it? Nope. They had a bunch of big, burly men in the trademarked red, pigtailed wig "rioting" for some meat on their sandwich. But, not just any meat...Bacon.

Then, a couple of weeks ago, my youngest brother popped a link to this fabulous dish called "BBQ Bacon Explosion" up on Facebook. I mean this recipe is not to be believed. Since then, I have had TWO other male Facebook friends (neither of whom know my little brother or each other) reference this same recipe. Unbelievable.

I have also noticed that men eat bacon when they are stressed out. It's like a salve for the soul. I wonder if it is the salt, or the fat that they crave. My husband, a grill cook at a local investment firm, noted that when the stock market started taking a nose-dive in September, bacon consumption and mashed potato consumption went through the roof. Very interesting.

Now, women are all about some chocolate. I can prove this. My sister, the day that the boys were ingesting half-pound servings of bacon and beef, decided that we, the girls, would have to go get Chocolate Nachos. Yes, Chocolate Nachos. My sister introduced these items of delight to me the last time I was so stressed that you could literally see the grey hair growing in as I stood there. This dessert is a creation of the Jimmy Buffett restaurant chain, Cheeseburger in Paradise. (Nope, it's no longer just a song, Parrotheads.)

When my sister told me about them, I didn't believe her. But, she told me they were so good that she actually had dreams about them. One night she was talking in her sleep and when her husband rolled over and touched her arm, she growled at him "Get away from my Chocolate Nachos!"

Chocolate Nachos are dangerous. First, they make chocolate tortillas and vanilla tortillas, then they cut them up and deep fry them. Then, they drizzle them with hot fudge and put sprinkles and diced strawberries on them. This is all served on a platter with vanilla and strawberry ice cream (for dipping?).

So this, and no other, is the ultimate stress food for women. Chocolate covered, deep fried bits of carbohydrates, served with sprinkles and strawberries and ice cream...

(What diet?)

What are you doing New Year's?

For the past 20 years there has only been on New Year's Eve party I have ever attended. If your last name is O'Keefe and part of your family tree includes Gini (my mother-in-law) there is only one party: her party. It isn't that she's selfish and doesn't want us to have fun that she's not included in, but more to the point, she wants to know that we are all safe. And, besides, why would you want to go anywhere else? Read on, and you'll see what I mean.

When Gini was young, her father was in the diplomatic corps in Occupied Japan. I believe they lived there for about 5 years before returning to the U.S. It became a tradition in their family to eat Chinese food on New Year's Eve. After all, it has all the elements of a good "lucky" New Year's feast: you know, pork and cabbage. So, these days, Gini puts on the Chinese Buffet to end all others every New Year's Eve.

The family begins to gather at about 5 or 6 in the evening and we all help to assemble the Egg Roll filling. Then we roll them. Throughout the night, Mike will fry up several at a time so they are always fresh and hot. Gini makes her absolutely-not-to-be-believed Sweet and Sour Pork and Fried Rice. And, of course, there are the usual drinks, served from the Art Deco bar that she and I found at an Antique Shop 5 years ago.

The nice thing about having Chinese Food on New Year's is that you can eat a lot of it. Every 20 minutes or so, you're hungry again, so the joy lasts all night.

My other favorite tradition of New Year's Eve at the O'Keefe's: Peanut Brittle. My father-in-law's family used to run a confectionery in town back in the 30's, 40's and 50's, and into the 60's. Mike still makes the BEST peanut brittle ever. The peanuts are always delicious and the brittle part (that sugary stuff that sticks it all together) is so clear that you can see light through it. It absolutely melts in your mouth. Then, there is the fudge and all the cookies and dips and cheese balls. Yes...it IS all about the food.

People that we see once or twice a year as well as family and friends of all the siblings (there are 6 kids in my husband's family) circulate through the kitchen (where all good parties happen). They have a bite to eat and talk about their families and what they are up to. We all talk and laugh about the passing year, hitting all the taboo subjects like politics and religion. We express our hopes for the coming year and talk a good game about our newest resolutions. We marinate in the cigarette smoke (Gini and her friends are big smokers , as are most of Michael's siblings) and pray that we don't have sinus infections in the morning. But, we wouldn't want to miss out on the conversation by going to the not-smoke-filled room... And we would never just not show up: The rule is "If you don't show up, you get talked about."

At about 11:59, we turn on the Times Square celebration and watch the ball drop, giving each other kisses and hugs to ring in the New Year and drinking toasts with Champagne, or Gran Spumante, or sparkling grape juice, or 7up - if you had too much Chinese Food.

By about 12:30, it's all over and we head for home to sleep off that 15th Egg Roll we had at 12:10 and remember why we make that New Year's Resolution to lose weight each year.

Happy New Year!!!