The window

It lies before me, lush and green, dewy and fresh, crystal clear, and I am in awe.

The cerulean blue, the forty shades of green, the shadows tucked in all the right places leave me breathless.

The ferns, bright and free, their fronds blowing gently in the breeze, or twirling madly like dervishes in the wind clutch at my heart.

A sprinkling of creatures like a Disney movie come to life are there before me. The rabbits in the grass, the ducks in the downspout puddle, the squirrels and house wrens, cardinals and blue jays appear as if some great artist put them there.

I do not go out and sit among them like I once did when I had a screened in porch, but it still catches my breath when I look out the window at the end of my apartment. Uncluttered with nothing more than a sheer valence with fern like edging, it is the greatest piece of art around.

As a child I once thought heaven was a rolling field of grass where lambs and calves stood under white porticos waiting for people to walk by.

Now I know that heaven is where I am.

Giving, not giving

Giving and not giving. Both have a definite place in this world.

Too much of either one creates terrible things.

And the quality of both make all the difference in the world.

There is not enough money in the world to make people change who they are, because money only buys things. You really can't buy happiness, or self control, or love. You can buy services, but if people don't use, understand and value those services, or if they believe they are really for "other people" and "other people's children" they are not going to make a huge difference.

Changing the attitude and belief system of a six year old is much easier than that of a thirty year old. The secret is consistency over a long period of time and a year or two is forever to a young child while it can be nothing to older people.

We grow up reflecting our family values, sometimes generations of family values, but once we are adults we are capable of choosing to change. It's certainly not easy and it won't come wrapped up in paper with a gift card. It can be facilitated by counselors and psychiatrists and psychologists, but in the end it has to come through us and be owned by us if we really want to change ourselves.

Giving ourselves permission to change is even better than not giving ourselves permission to continue being miserable, but it's okay to start in either place.

Stay in touch

I have been visiting my aunt and uncle this weekend.

It is fun to see people who have known me all my life, to see my cousins and introduce my daughter to people she barely remembers from her childhood.

We had a wonderful time.

They live in a small back woodsy part of the country where some people, including my cousins, cannot get internet except through their cell phones. So, no cable and not much choice of who their phone providers are. That's hard for me to even imagine in this day and age.

Yet my aunt and uncle (who do have cable and regular internet service)  are the kind of role models we all need. Retired engineering professors in their mid seventies they are up to date in every way. My aunt has the latest iPhone, tablet, computer and opinions on everything.

She is not easily led down any path, not by her church, any one news station, or family or friends. They both know how to research everything and make an educated choice based on that.

I know a lot of younger people who are not so tenacious and well versed about this world we are living in now. People much younger who are dragged kicking and screaming into each new generation of technology and who vote for someone because their friends do.

We can't afford to lose touch anymore. Things move too quickly.

Today

I am getting to the point where it is very important to me to do what I want with my day.  Who knows when that might be my last day?

Nobody really knows when their time will come and not knowing means making decisions that might be final ones. Long term ones are just as important as others, because no path is simply A to B.

And those little zigs and zags along the way can turn out to be some of the best.

So today I want to love as much as I can.

Love what I do. Love what I feel. Love what I think.

It can't get any better than that.

Chimeras

I don't know if it was my generation, my family, or just my own psychic make up, but being myself has always been difficult.

A chimera by nature, some of my first memories are: of trying to impress my mother right after my second birthday by dressing myself in my new baby negligee, knowing that my father loved it when I told the how do you get down off an elephant joke, and realizing that my godfather loved it when he asked me if I wanted something and I said, "not peticicketdy."

I was aware of people and how they responded from the very beginning. I was also aware that things were good when other people were happy and not so good when I was the cause of unhappiness.

So . . . is being myself knowing how to please other people, or honoring my own feelings? Do I even know what my feelings really are as opposed to what they are supposed to be?

Obviously it should be a little of both, but as late in life as nineteen my grandmother informed us, "When someone asks how are you, just say yes, because they really don't care."

Life is smoother if it's all about other people.

On the outside

For a while.

I saw a quote that said “You either like me or you don’t. It took me twenty-something years to learn how to love myself, I don’t have that kinda time to convince somebody else.”

- Daniel Franzese

It has taken me longer than that and I'm still on the fence sometimes.

That is the question

I read that Trump has now hired an attorney of his own to deal with his proclaimed innocence.

I cannot tell you how many stories I have read of Trump refusing to pay someone for their agreed upon services. The people contracted for a certain price and after they delivered they were paid less than the agreed upon price. Contract in hand the people threatened to go to court when they were told, "Go ahead. We have enough money to keep you in court so long you won't make any money on this at all."

And he was right. Trump has enough money that he can do whatever he wants to the average American.

Now the questions are: Does he have enough money to do this to the American Government? Can he buy his way not only into the presidency, but through it? Can we rise above the corruption long enough to save our people and our country?

Incompetence

There is nothing sadder, or more disheartening, than someone posting an irate righteously indignant rant about the perfidy and incompetence of another and doing it with spelling errors and incorrect grammar.

We have a leader who has reinvented the meaning of the word truth and has chosen a cadre of anti-gods, each in charge of their own particular brand of incompetence.

No one can compete with our mighty leader who brays his incompetence out at all hours of the day and night in the form of tweets.

We are becoming a nation based on the idea that nothing is so sacred it cannot be destroyed by the very people who have sworn to take care of this country and that is incompetence at its best.

Service

My daughter and I stopped at a Subway for a late lunch today.

When we walked in there was no one behind the counter. No other customers came in until I was paying the bill and she was filling her soft drink.

One young server finally came out, followed by another. It took me a minute to decide what I wanted and I did change my mind on which bread I wanted, but I did it almost instantly. He didn't have time to even pick up the other bread. My daughter pretty much ordered immediately.

I say all of this because the man behind the counter made it plain he was beleaguered by our presence and I was trying to figure out why. Did we take too long to order?  Did we interrupt their afternoon break? Does he not like women? Does he not like women who could be a couple? Does he not like older white haired women? Does he not like people who order six inch subs instead of twelve? Or maybe he doesn't like large women?

When I asked what the sandwich of the day was he told me in such a way as to imply it was an awful choice, which I agreed with.

I even thought his rudeness might be my imagination so I didn't call him on it, but I did not tip him. As we left my daughter said indignantly, "I work in fast food and he was rude!  I would never treat customers like that."  I told her we weren't going to let him ruin our lunch, yet he certainly put a pall over it.

I did come home and drop a line to the company although I can hear his response now. They didn't even tip! They couldn't make up their minds. Stupid women, come in in the middle of the afternoon to feed their fat faces.

No one can be meaner to me than me.

Six degrees

I am an ordinary woman who loves vicarious vacations. Meaning I enjoy hanging on the memories of friends and family who go places and know people I never would on my own.

It requires a symbiotic relationship where one person enjoys re-membering their good times, or stories, as vividly as possible so I can grab onto their coattails and follow along.

There is an art to living this way.

It means I become so immersed in their words that I can go back two hundred years and time travel through the stories of pirates, and Prussian soldiers, Union soldiers and presidents, Dough boys and Native Americans, musicians and even students of famous musicians.

Just knowing someone who knew someone becomes exciting, because only the highlights make it that far into the future. Very few people wax on about dusting furniture in 1801.

It is the 3D version of six degrees of separation.

Lofty goals

I think I'm gonna build a house.

A big, two story Victorian house with turrets and a porch -- it should be the perfect summer hobby.

I can't wait until it's time to pick out paint colors and wallpaper. Then rearrange the furniture!

But first I have to build the house.

I can do this.

If I can only get the box off the floor and open it.

And sometimes pretty

I used to watch a television series called The Highlander. Adrian Paul played an immortal Scotsman who had two major roles. He went around cutting the heads off of other immortals to garner more power, but only if he was forced to cause he was the ultimate good guy. He also always had a woman who brought out the playful side of him.

One scene I loved was when he was walking out of his Dojo with a beautiful woman on his arm when he ran into his immortal love interest. She challenged him about something and he nodded to the woman beside him saying, "She says I'm awesome."

How often do our compliments come from people who don't really know us? But they are still nice to hear.  Of course when someone who loves us says we are awesome, or pretty, we are often more likely to take it with a grain of salt fearing that it is more loyalty than truthfulness.

We owe each other more than that. When I tell Bestest he is a great teacher I really mean it. I've seen him teach. I recognize a good teacher. So when he tells me I am a good editorial assistant, or pretty why do I have such a hard time believing that?

First of all beauty does lie in the eye of the beholder, so whether he is talking about my face, or what shines through my face, I need to give him the same credit he needs to give me. Even if we are only a mutual admiration society there is much to be gained by that.

But we are so much more. I can count on his goodness and truthfulness. It makes me feel competent and safe -- and sometimes -- pretty.

Looking back

I look at a picture from the past and realize I am everything I ever wanted to be in that picture. Everything! I was doing the thing I wanted most to do and looking the way I always dreamed of looking.

This is a reality check.

I had no idea at the time that I was at that point.

I knew I was doing the thing I had always dreamed of, but it wasn't feeling the way I had dreamed it and I saw myself completely differently. I thought I was frowsy and dumpy and pretty much a failure. How could that be?

Now I realize I was with the wrong person. I was in love with someone whose life dreams were totally at odds with my own and our attempts to reconcile these differences would change the whole course of my life over the next twenty years. I'm sure they changed his too.

He wanted overtly sexy, a bit gaudy and someone one hundred percent focused on him and his needs. I wanted sophisticated, elegant, and someone to share my dreams of peace, love and lifelong learning.  I wanted to read books, write books, and discuss life with our child nestled between us taking it all in. I wanted the Family bed, absolute trust and a quiet life centered around us and close friends. Good food, good friends, good life -- can mean something totally different to different people and we were so different.

Why didn't I see that?

Because I loved him . . . at the beginning and that beginning was today May 17, 1968. Unfortunately trying to make it work pretty much destroyed everything we both loved about each other. And it certainly blinded me to the beauty I was and had.

Looking back  leaves me feeling sad.

Yesterday

Yesterday,  all my foibles seemed to congregate.

The silvery gray hair I have coveted for several years seemed like such a good idea that I called my stylist and asked her what she thought. Not only did she think it was a great idea, due to a cancellation she could do it at three and I would be out of there in time for dinner with my daughter and granddaughter at five.

It turns out there is nothing natural about my hair. It is not colored or permed, or even sprayed with anything other than water, but it is just as I expected. It has a mind of its own and evidently it does not want to be silvery gray.

The stylist washed it. She lightened it. She tried light gray, dark gray, even blue gray. It came out copper, gold, yellow, lavender and purple! It was like a nightmare from the gold lagoon. She tried redoing many of these things with small alterations like heat and heat under plastic. She tried consulting other cosmetologists and different concentrations of all the above grays.

Some of my hair acquiesced but not the middle. I looked like a granny gone bad with a rattail, or squirrel tail, or some other rodent thing running down the middle of my now leathery scalp. I finally settled for a sort of pinkish gray I could live with for a few days and then she cut my hair. The plan is for her to come to my house and use a product they are not allowed to use in the salon because it isn't their brand. She swears it will work.

So, I went to pay (for just a haircut) and the words on the credit card machine looked out of focus. I wasn't too surprised. I felt unfocused at that point. My back and neck ached from so much time leaning and perching in tense mode for nearly seven hours! But it turned out to be more than that. The lens had fallen out of the right side of my glasses!

Why not?

I talked to a person who voted for Trump and I heard his barely repressed anger with the world as he sees it. An otherwise intelligent man who thinks Trump might shake things up and make everything fair again.

I guess it is his rage at the unfairness of a world that is not rewarding him for all the hard work he has put in over a long lifetime of trying to always do things right, that blinds him to the reality of Trump.

But he's going to find out that unfairness hasn't even begun to surface in this world he voted into being.

He's willing to overlook all of the grotesque racism, bigotry, misogyny and plain old hatred and lying, because he's only seeing it through a good old boy's redneck eyes.

He doesn't have a clue that there are really people who think letting people die because they can't get the medical care they need is a good thing.  How else can they legally kill the poor, the sick and the infirm and save themselves the annoying prospect of letting them use social security as they age?

And gun laws?  Let's let every lunatic conceal and carry.  After all the very rich can hide behind their walled in estates and security guards.

And why not let Trump break laws, commit treason, brag about assaulting women because he's rich, if he can stir things up?

A little vigilante justice was okay in the small towns of the past. It kept the derelicts off the streets and kept everyone safe, right?

Except he will soon discover that he is considered one of the derelicts if he isn't in the top three percent. 

And then it will be too late.

A microcosm of peace

Standing in line to buy a ticket to the zoo today, I was pleased to notice the wide variety of people around me.

Young, old, infants, men, women, boys, girls, Chinese, Spanish, Mexican, Japanese, Korean and many more sorts of diversities that could cause a potential problem in the wrong situation.

Yet today we were apparently all just there to have a good time and tolerant of the fact that everyone else had a right to do this too.

As we made our way around the zoo, I noticed children doing the things children do: cutting in front of people, stepping on people's feet, pushing their way through crowds so they could see better.

Again, no one seemed to have a problem with this. They only saw small children too excited to realize what they were doing.

Sometimes it was annoying. This was the first time I have ever seen such a big crowd at our small local zoo and if it annoyed me to feel so crowded, or to have to shout over the noise sometimes I am sure it did the same to others, but in the end it was really no big deal.

We were all just there to see the zoo and have fun with our loved ones. We wanted this to be a wonderful day and were willing to overlook a lot of the things that would possibly be excuses to be holier than thou, or self righteous, or hurt, or just plain grouchy in order to keep this day special.

If we can do this for an afternoon, why cant we all try a little harder and do it in a world always on the edge of lethal anger.

One

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness . . . I wonder if Charles Dickens  realized that he was putting an archetypal thought into words people could quote for the rest of eternity?

Tonight, as I sit here breaking my good eating plan, watching the sun go down on my beautiful ferns that always seem to grace my life in the best of times, and contemplating how the family of my birth and the family of my heart are slowly coming together, I am afraid to really believe any of it.

I am also in the process of losing a baby tooth that should have been gone nearly sixty years.  What was frightening, but exciting back then feels frightening and grizzly now. Frightening because I might have to go to a dentist and have tooth pegged into that hole. Grizzly because losing a body part at my age feels a bit prophetic.

I have been losing things all my life. By three we had moved and I lost my first friends. They were followed by many others as my family continued to move as I grew up. Then I got married and it wasn't long before I realized that I would lose my husband, the man I thought I would be with forever.

It was about that time that I began to think about the word forever and come to the conclusion that forever only exists in the head and the heart. It never really lasts in the physical world.

Another word for growth is dying.

Shiva dances away the old moments to make way for the  new ones. Nature allows for most things to let go of their seeds so that propagation can take place. Christ died so that he could rise again. It is an old story, but a familiar tale and in the age of wisdom it makes itself clearer.

I watch time slowly melting away the physical person I have always been. Dropping off one tooth at a time, a little eyesight at a time, a bit of muscle mass, or the elasticity of my skin and it is like a horror movie I can do nothing about. At the same time I feel the beauty of love manifesting around me like a light that warms me through and through.

The connection we all have is a miracle hidden so deeply in misconceptions that I don't know if it will ever rule the world, but just glimpsing its existence now and then is glancing enough to keep me looking for more.

Joy

Joy is such a paradox.

What brings joy to one person may not even make another smile.

Born out of wedlock to two different parents it can miss its target altogether, or land fortuitously exactly in the right place.

Sometimes it grows straight up like a sunflower among a million of its own kind and sometimes it leaps out of the shadows like a sunbeam on a stormy day.

But the one thing it always does is lift us up. Carried on the arms of it's energy we become younger, lighter, happier. We are buoyant!

Riding on the wings of joy I walk my daily mile faster, eat all my healthy food with gusto, deny myself with a smile on my face.

All because of this joyful thing that looms ahead of me, pulling me into its light, making me one with the feeling that all is right with the world and all will be well.

Truly well.

Deep and dark

Out of the darkness comes a vision of love, a favorite friend, or sometimes a child.

I see a vision of this loved one.

Stationary.

Frozen in time.

And I shout, "Hello!"

"Hello, hello!"

There is mumbling from the other end. Bright words I cannot make out.

And then the line goes dead.

Only to ring again.

And again.

And the last time is FaceTime.

Darker than all the rest, there is not even a picture now.

 I shout, "Hello!"

Those lucky people close by are speaking to him in tones I can't make out, but his pocket never allows me to speak to him myself.

You

I knew you when . . .

You were small and afraid, gentle and loving.

When everything you did . . .

Was tentative and sweet.

I knew you then . . .

When you were afraid to be afraid.

And practiced everything . . .

A million times.

I knew you my friend.

As I know you now . . .

Bright and strong, light and true.

You fill my heart

Like dust motes on a sunny day.

The rules change

When I was a child, my mother made me take a nap every afternoon so I wouldn't catch polio.

Now I take a nap because I sat down in a chair and my eyes wouldn't stay open.

I used to run for hours hitting a tennis ball.

Now I force myself to walk a mile in less than a half hour.

Once I had to go home at a time set by my mother's iron clad rules.

Now we go home when Kathy runs out of oxygen.

Once the worst thing that could happen if I broke the rules was a spanking, or being grounded.

Now it's a life or death situation.

Enough

She thought she had it all and she did.

The first four years it was exactly what she thought it was going to be. The huge white mansion, the elegant fine furniture, the big yard and roses every Saturday morning.

Then the babies came and that wasn't easy. Caesarian births, sick children, but if only the cars had not gone south, or perhaps if they had stuck it out -- there were so many reasons to change, to sell, to move.

And suddenly she was no long the adored daughter living just around the corner, no longer the gorgeous red haired stylish beauty living in luxury. She was living in a two bedroom house with three children, all sick with a major problem and a husband working as a grad assistant.

His world revolved around the university now. Hers revolved around cooking, cleaning, ironing, changing diapers and talking to toddlers.

She would never again have enough. Enough house. Enough clothes. Enough food budget. Enough style. Enough money.

It's hard to know your mother never starved by old world standards, but she never had enough of anything to be happy or satisfied from the time you were three on.

It's spring

Spring in the Heartland is uniquely ours.

Six white Charolais calves come gamboling out into the meadow kicking up their heels, shaking their heads, joyful and ready to play.

Soybeans lie waiting under the rich dark earth. Soaking or sleeping, they will pop their tiny heads up when the time is right and pour the nitrogen back into the earth for the corn that will follow in other years.

Corn also lies under the surface. Quaking. Terrified that it will drown if the water is too deep, or stays too long, but eager to grow too and send its golden ears up into the air, listening to the wind sussuring across the prairies of old.

Barbed wire fences. Ancient red barns. Modern mills and million dollar equipment stand side by side where once the grass stood five feet tall as far as the eye can see.

The rare free range chicken vies with the mice and birds for cover when the red tailed hawk swoops in and snakes patrol the earth in symbiotic work.

It is an ancient process blending into the scientific ways of today.

A cat's eye view

The door:

Standeth between me and yon rabbit with the seductive hop. If only I could pounce upon that fluffy cotton tail, chase it through the tall grass, roll with it in the dandelions.

It keepeth me from chasing the squirrel with the bushy tail and the birdies with their quick bright eyes. How can it be right to separate me from such tantalizing delights?

Damn the door, damn the door, damn the door.

My mother, the big one whose fur is missing, bringeth me large green ferns that swing and twirl outside my window. I watch them grab at the birds I am not allowed to touch and she goes out to give them long drinks of water from her little pitcher. But am I allowed to pet them? Can I join in their dervishes?

No, I cannot. No, I cannot. No, I cannot.

The small white hisser in the bathroom taunts me with its stillness. Yea though I sit by this creature for hours on end. It will not play with me. I pounced on it once and it's bowels fell out. Small hard and shiny with no scent at all, they  rolled across the floor, but did it acknowledge me?

No, it did not. No, it did not. No it did not.

Mother prepares a food mat before me and my bowl runneth over. Surely she cannot expect me to sup from the floor like a lowly animal.

She cannot. She cannot. She cannot.

Surely she must understand that I am a jealous cat and when she has no other interests before me, I will crawl upon her lap and allow her to love me forever more.

Acat. Acat. Acat.

Doctor appointment

I might be able to fool everyone else, but I cannot fool my own body.

It knows when it is resting.

It knows when it's awake.

It knows if I eat bad or good

And when I'm eating cake.

So, I better not cheat.

I better not cry

I better not slack off.

I better not lie.

Cause I can't fool my body anyhow.

Intensity

Life is hard. There always seems to be a challenge on the table -- a dream that is dying -- or a memory that won't fade.

The spirit burns, fueled by all these twigs, these droppings that feel so important in an instant and so ephemeral in the long run.

I suppose that is why I live in the moment as much as possible. 

The intensity of living takes every breath I have. It leaks over into the night and replays the reality in experiences even I couldn't dream up.

There is no respite -- no escape -- no turning back.

Hope flutters before me like a willow wisp in the wind and I chase after it, giggling, because what else is there to do?

Horrors

People tend to be perverse creatures. Even the best of us  have our little quirks.

If things become too safe at demolition derbies, or big races, attendance tends to flag. If magic acts are death defying people flock to see them. Evel Knieval was popular because what he did was truly dangerous. Horror movies and novels have a macabre hold over people. The circus did not just perform lovely acrobatics. It had man eating lions, sword swallowers and people working without a net.

There is something horribly wonderful about the adrenaline coursing through our veins. Those of us not brave enough, or foolish enough to want to be the death defier can experience terror  through movies, books and dangerous sports.

Being scared makes us feel safer, more loving, more appreciative of everything else. Vicarious thrills really work for most of us.

That is not such a bad thing. We are hard wired to experience this. Otherwise we might have to fall off a cliff to know it would be terrible, or step into the fire, or meet a scary person in the dark in order to know to avoid these things.

So good people watch and read scary stuff all the time -- even many of those who profess to hate it.

Watch your great aunt's soap operas, the violence is less physical, but it's there all the same and bad deeds abound in toddler's cartoons.  And I doubt if this is a new revelation. Look at the Bible.

Humans have a mean streak.

It's more than dinner

One of the things I love about visiting Bestest is the way they prepare food. 

After years of cooking for a family I tend to think of food as something I have to do when there are a number of people to feed. Somehow it doesn't really seem worth the effort if it is only for me.

That is not the case at Bestest's house. They will plan out meals so that they marinate and cook meat over the weekend in order to have unbelievably wonderful dinners for a week.

Salads are carefully cut up, very diverse and topped with something delicious.

Vegetables are things like baked asparagus, or braised Brussel sprouts. 

And even dessert is likely to be a cake they whipped up from scratch and baked just before dinner.

We eat in the dining room. Use real napkins. Drink wine.

And this all makes each dinner a special occasion. A bright spot at the end of a day that sets the atmosphere on quiet, peaceful and elegant.

On the edge

Talking about traditions with Bestest this morning made me realize that I was born on the edge.

I was born November 25, 1949, right before the 1950's, that magical beginning of the age of plastic.  Credit cards, chairs, toys like the world had never seen before accompanied me as I grew up.

The rhythms and traditions of my childhood were the last remnants of a world not based on the pure commercialism that television was bringing into being.

Our year began with New Years, a time when our family got together for a long night while the parents played Bridge and the children gathered in the basement toy room to entertain each other.

Valentine's Day began by making paper envelopes at school, homemade cookies at home and bringing the two together for an afternoon of sharing tiny cards, picked out and signed personally in pencil, for all the students in the classroom.

St. Patrick's Day was eagerly anticipated as a day to wear green to school and sing Irish songs, but there was no thought of pinching those who did not.

May Day culminated in making little paper baskets shaped like cones and making paper flowers at school. At home we also made those baskets, or wove them out of paper strips before picking flowers around the neighborhood to fill them. Then, usually early in the morning, before people were out and about, we would hang them on door knobs, ring the bells and run like mad for cover. No one chased us and no one kissed us. That part of the tradition was already dying out.

Decoration Day would find the porch filled with those peculiar tall-handled baskets filled with flowers for the graves. We would take them out and hear stories about those relatives who had already passed on.

In the summer we looked forward to band concerts on the square every week and on some magical day my mother and grandmother designated, we made trolley cars out of shoe boxes with windows cut in the sides. I remember saving colored cellophane to make stained glass windows and tying a shoe string on the front to pull them. After dark, we would put a candle stub on a jar lid, cut a chimney hole in the roof, and pull our trolley around the block.

The fourth of July found us eagerly awaiting the purchase of new cap guns and, if we were lucky, new holsters and even cowboy outfits with boots and hats. The day was spent shooting each other, banging box after box of caps on rocks with hammers and burning snakes on rocks until dark. Then our dad would set off the sparklers and sometimes we would catch a glimpse of fireworks far away up in the sky.

Labor Day was only the weekend before school for us, a day to lay out the new shoes and maybe the new outfit we couldn't wait to wear.

Halloween was the beginning of the big holidays. We would collaborate with my mother who would make elaborate costumes for us and then take us trick-or-treating around the neighborhood to show them off. Sometimes we had to go inside for pictures, but then the treats would be extra special -- like popcorn balls, or caramel apples.

Thanksgiving and my birthday often coincided, but there was no mingling here. Thanksgiving was a gathering of the entire extended family, in the middle of the day, for turkey, stuffing, pumpkin pie, marshmallow salad, mashed potatoes, cranberry jelly and deviled eggs -- it was all about family and food.  My birthday was waking up to find presents on the buffet in the dining room and waiting all day until dinner time. I got to pick the kind of cake I wanted, almost always chocolate with red roses, and my father would bring it home when he came. Then we would eat a favorite dinner, have cake and ice cream and, at last, open presents, usually something to wear and something to play with.

Our Christmas tradition started early when the Sears catalogue came. We would make list after list of the toys we wanted and long paper chains that we could pluck off one day at a time in place of the Lenten calendars my children had. About a week before Christmas my father would take us to pick out a huge tree and come home to set it up and wire it to the woodwork in the living room. The next day we would decorate it with boxes of old glass ornaments and bubbling lights. We had regular lights too, that were big and got very hot. In the end we added the tinsel, one strand at a time and then sat back in awe to admire this family creation that meant Christmas was almost here. Sprinkle in a few Christmas Carols here and there and that was it until we went for a drive Christmas Eve. Looking for Santy Claus up in the sky, or visiting my paternal grandmother, whatever it was called, it was giving my mother a chance to wrap presents that would be opened when we discovered Santy Claus had come.

These were the routines of my childhood some of which I tried to carry on for my children, but many that simply dissolved as credit added to available cash and more mothers went back to work. There was more money to spend over time, but less time to spend it in.