I went shopping the other night after work. Kohls was having a big sale. They sent me a coupon for an extra 15% off. They were just begging me to shop! I decided to look for things for my new nephew. Even though he won't be here for a few more months. I did find some great things. I am trying to limit myself, in light of the economic situation at Goofy Grape.
In the past four years, I have gotten very good at locating the girls' racks in the children's department. So I had to reverse my direction and venture into that strange territory- the boys section! Habit made me reach for the purples and pinks; before I brought myself around and said 'no!'. As I looked at the boys' clothes, I noticed a lot of puppies. Great! Being a dog mom, I love to purchase cute things with puppies on them. (I would also like to purchase cute things FOR puppies, but my dogs do not like clothes. They show their distaste in an amusing way, although sometimes it is painful because they bite. So I long ago learned no clothes for the beagles!).
Later that night, I remembered the old nursery rhyme. 'Little girls are made of Sugar & Spice & Everything nice'. And if I remember it correctly, boys are 'snakes and snails and puppy dog tails'. Is that why they put puppies on boys clothes??? Well, either way, little boy Davey is getting clothes with puppies on them. Erich pointed out that most of the outfits I bought had 'jailbird stripes' (stripes is another popular theme with boys' clothes I discovered). Hmm. I'm sure he'll look cute, even if he is a jailbird made of puppy dog tails.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Boys and Girls
My sister, Laura, is expecting her second child in September. Laura is the mother of Sydney, my adorable niece whom I talk about way too much. This little girl has all of us wrapped around her little finger. My heart just sings when I talk to her. Now, most days, she doesn't want to talk to me on the phone. She has a play phone, and she talks to Aunt Amy on that a lot. So when I'm on the phone with my sister, Sydney rarely has anything to tell me.
But those rare times when she does want to talk-- oh how happy she makes me! She will tell me something that is going on, at home or at school. I don't always understand everything she says. Not having my own children, I am not fluent in toddler speak. For the most part, she speaks pretty clearly. You forget you are talking to a three year old. But sometimes, I don't catch what she said. I make encouraging sounds: "Oh yes?", "Really?", "Wow". And when the conversation is over, I ask my sister to translate.
I have learned that talking to Syd can erase the worst day. When I am home and we play together, I feel so happy, so great. I didn't ever think a child could make me feel so wonderful. Not wonderful enough to want to have kids of my own-I believe God wants me to be Aunt Amy, not Mommy. But she has this power over me.
So I was thrilled when my sister announced she was expecting again. For a couple of months we've been wondering if we'd have another girl. Or if maybe, just maybe, this time we'd have a boy. There hasn't been a boy in mom's part of the family since my Grandfather was born, 94 years ago. Oh sure, my Grandfather has a younger brother; and his sisters' both had boys (Grandpa and his brother however, both had daughters). But in the direct line, Grandpa was the last boy. He & Grandma had two daughters. Mom and Dad had my sister and I. And Laura had Sydney. Several times we found ourselves asking 'what would we do with a boy?'
We're going to find out. My sister had her ultrasound yesterday, and she's having a boy. My BIL and Dad are giddy. A little shocked too, I think. Mom & I thought 'let's go shopping!' Everyone is pretty excited. We've never had a boy, but we're going to find out what it's like.
I know what it is to be an Aunt. And I know what a joy my niece has been. I can't wait to meet my nephew and find out what it's like to have a little boy to play with!
But those rare times when she does want to talk-- oh how happy she makes me! She will tell me something that is going on, at home or at school. I don't always understand everything she says. Not having my own children, I am not fluent in toddler speak. For the most part, she speaks pretty clearly. You forget you are talking to a three year old. But sometimes, I don't catch what she said. I make encouraging sounds: "Oh yes?", "Really?", "Wow". And when the conversation is over, I ask my sister to translate.
I have learned that talking to Syd can erase the worst day. When I am home and we play together, I feel so happy, so great. I didn't ever think a child could make me feel so wonderful. Not wonderful enough to want to have kids of my own-I believe God wants me to be Aunt Amy, not Mommy. But she has this power over me.
So I was thrilled when my sister announced she was expecting again. For a couple of months we've been wondering if we'd have another girl. Or if maybe, just maybe, this time we'd have a boy. There hasn't been a boy in mom's part of the family since my Grandfather was born, 94 years ago. Oh sure, my Grandfather has a younger brother; and his sisters' both had boys (Grandpa and his brother however, both had daughters). But in the direct line, Grandpa was the last boy. He & Grandma had two daughters. Mom and Dad had my sister and I. And Laura had Sydney. Several times we found ourselves asking 'what would we do with a boy?'
We're going to find out. My sister had her ultrasound yesterday, and she's having a boy. My BIL and Dad are giddy. A little shocked too, I think. Mom & I thought 'let's go shopping!' Everyone is pretty excited. We've never had a boy, but we're going to find out what it's like.
I know what it is to be an Aunt. And I know what a joy my niece has been. I can't wait to meet my nephew and find out what it's like to have a little boy to play with!
Saturday, May 1, 2010
A Good Vet
I have two beagles. For those who don't know, beagles are motivated by food. Whenever someone is in the kitchen, you can bet there are two dogs, standing right there, hoping. They have earned the nickname 'The Underfoots'. Because if you are in the kitchen, the beagles are underfoot. They don't mean to trip you. But if they were to trip you and score the loot you had, well that would be ok too.
The few times one of them has gotten out of the yard, we grab treats and take off after them. If you want to get Cobalt to come in the doggie door, wag food in front of his nose. I've heard it said that a beagle's nose will get them in trouble. And while they have been known to get on the trail of a bunny in the yard and lose the ability to hear me; if I go out with treats I get their attention again.
Unfortunately, it seems beagles look at the world as one giant bowl of food. The beagles look at something and sniff it to determine if it is edible. If a simple sniff did not satisfy them, they may lick it. When all else fails, the beagle will eat this item. If they throw up, then they know that item was not food. It is not just our beagles. I've heard other beagle parents tell the same tales.
Our dogs have eaten a LOT of stuff. As a puppy, Onyx used to eat rocks. That earned her a trip to see the Vet Lady. When they were puppies they found leftover easter candy and chowed down. They managed to get the mini chocolate eggs out of the foil-ate the chocolate and left the foil. Thankfully they did not get sick! A couple of months ago, Onyx ate a used tea bag. Erich uses his tea bags twice, and he had left it within reach of beagles.
By far, Cobalt is the worse of the two beagles. For Cobalt trash-surfs. He pulls things out of the trash can and eats them. Doing this has enabled him to eat various types of plastic, although deli bags (especially those that once held roast beef) are his preference. Today he trash surfed and may have gotten chicken bones. We aren't completely sure. I wasn't home, and Erich found trash all over, and it looked like missing chicken bones.
It seems every couple of months one dog or another eats something that they probably shouldn't. I try to be very careful, but Erich sometimes slips. He crunches the trash down instead of taking it out. He leaves tea bags around. Each time one of the beagles eats something, we end up calling our vet (when it's during office hours that is). We are usually in a panic. And our vet, Steph, just tells us 'watch them closely. He (she) should be ok'. Steph is always calm. She doesn't judge us, or yell at us for being bad beagle parents. She tells us things to feed the dog to help them, such as 'give them some whole wheat bread to help them pass the item'. It helps us to know that no matter what our dogs eat, we can call Steph. She cares for our dogs as if they were her own. It gives us peace of mind knowing we can call her.
So many thanks to Steph. Since I haven't been successful in training the man to pick up, it is nice to know she's got our back when our dogs explore the world with their mouths!
The few times one of them has gotten out of the yard, we grab treats and take off after them. If you want to get Cobalt to come in the doggie door, wag food in front of his nose. I've heard it said that a beagle's nose will get them in trouble. And while they have been known to get on the trail of a bunny in the yard and lose the ability to hear me; if I go out with treats I get their attention again.
Unfortunately, it seems beagles look at the world as one giant bowl of food. The beagles look at something and sniff it to determine if it is edible. If a simple sniff did not satisfy them, they may lick it. When all else fails, the beagle will eat this item. If they throw up, then they know that item was not food. It is not just our beagles. I've heard other beagle parents tell the same tales.
Our dogs have eaten a LOT of stuff. As a puppy, Onyx used to eat rocks. That earned her a trip to see the Vet Lady. When they were puppies they found leftover easter candy and chowed down. They managed to get the mini chocolate eggs out of the foil-ate the chocolate and left the foil. Thankfully they did not get sick! A couple of months ago, Onyx ate a used tea bag. Erich uses his tea bags twice, and he had left it within reach of beagles.
By far, Cobalt is the worse of the two beagles. For Cobalt trash-surfs. He pulls things out of the trash can and eats them. Doing this has enabled him to eat various types of plastic, although deli bags (especially those that once held roast beef) are his preference. Today he trash surfed and may have gotten chicken bones. We aren't completely sure. I wasn't home, and Erich found trash all over, and it looked like missing chicken bones.
It seems every couple of months one dog or another eats something that they probably shouldn't. I try to be very careful, but Erich sometimes slips. He crunches the trash down instead of taking it out. He leaves tea bags around. Each time one of the beagles eats something, we end up calling our vet (when it's during office hours that is). We are usually in a panic. And our vet, Steph, just tells us 'watch them closely. He (she) should be ok'. Steph is always calm. She doesn't judge us, or yell at us for being bad beagle parents. She tells us things to feed the dog to help them, such as 'give them some whole wheat bread to help them pass the item'. It helps us to know that no matter what our dogs eat, we can call Steph. She cares for our dogs as if they were her own. It gives us peace of mind knowing we can call her.
So many thanks to Steph. Since I haven't been successful in training the man to pick up, it is nice to know she's got our back when our dogs explore the world with their mouths!
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Being a Writer
Growing up, I went through a broad spectrum of career dreams. Some were fleeting, others I persued with passion. I wanted to be a teacher. Like most girls, no doubt. This was perhaps spurred by my love of Little House on the Prairie. My favorite episodes are of Laura as a young woman, when she becomes a teacher. Once I started babysitting, and the little twerps talked back to me, I gave up on teaching. I knew, deep down that I would strangle the monsters. And you can't use physical force any more.
I wanted to be a marine biologist. I was going to save the dolphins. I made my mom buy dolphin safe tuna. I cut up the plastic rings around soda six packs, so the dolphins could not get tangled in them. I went to the Library and read about Jacques Cousteau. Then I realized how much science was involved, and well, science was the one subject in school that I frequently pulled Cs in. I was an A student, until you got to the science part of the report card. And my mom said 'it's ok, I didn't like science either'. I also realized that to be a marine biologist, I would have likely have to spend time on a boat. I didn't think living on Dramamine was a good idea.
The sea-sick issue also thwarted my plans to join the Navy. Yes, I seriously considered joining the Navy. My grandfather served in the Navy, and my dad's oldest brother did as well. I talked to the recruiters when they came to our high school. Somewhere it hit me-to join the Navy I would have to be on a boat. Goodbye, Navy!
I considered being a lawyer. That is one I persued more than most. I was looking at law schools while I was in Jr. high. I actually figured I would go to Union College, and then on to Albany Law School. Even once I was in college, I felt that pull towards Law, and responded by taking courses in Communication Law and Media Law (the textbooks for these classes are among the few I kept, and still have on my shelf). I still occasionally find myself drawn towards Law, and have thought about going to school to become a paralegal.
When I was in Jr. High, I had an English teacher who encouraged creative writing. 8th Grade English with Mr. Webster. He encouraged us to write stories. There were actually assignments. We had a folder to turn in with our drafts. He would edit, give suggestions, and give them back. A lot of people didn't like this, but for me it opened so many doors. I looked forward to the creative writing parts. For as long as I could remember, I had dabbled with stories. Suddenly, it was open to me as an option. I wrote. I wrote through 8th grade, through 9th grade, and kept right on going. My dreams of becoming a lawyer gave way to this desire to become a writer.
At first, the hardest part was opening myself up to criticism. The writing came from my soul, and I felt vulnerable when I would share my stories or poems. I felt as if I were letting others into the deepest parts of my being. Some people were encouraging. My teachers, my parents, some friends. I gained confidence with my writing. In my junior year, I veered off the educational path that had been dictated to me by the school system. I dropped Chemistry so that I could take Creative Writing and Journalism. My guidance counselor acted like I had just told her I was dropping out of school. I was on the Regents track (which was as close to AP as we got in our school), and Regents students took Chemistry in 11th Grade and Physics in 12th Grade. I pointed out to her that I had already completed the required 2 years of science. I countered her argument of 'it's just not done!' with 'I want to be a writer. Chemistry isn't going to help me'.
I have never regretted letting my science knowledge end with Biology. It was still tough to read my writing and let others critique it, but I learned that this is a vital part of writing. I filled notebooks. I joined the school paper and in my Senior Year served as Co-Editor. I was always a bit of a socially awkward person. I wasn't pretty. I wasn't skinny. I was not popular, and I wasn't into partying. I was a tall, smart, bookworm. I preferred sitting in my room reading to being in crowds of people. And while I am proud of my intelligence now; at the time I just felt like a big dork. I felt too tall. Too smart. Too quiet. Too awkward. Writing was my outlet. I tested the waters and had a couple of poems published. At the same time, I took an increasing interest in the nightly news. The summer before my Senior year, I attended a special conference at the University of Pennsylvania. Soon-to-be Seniors from around the country spent three weeks studying Communication. We got to work with the TV Studio on campus. We went to class, studied, and came away with a better idea of our futures. So my dreams of becoming a writer blended with wanting to be on TV. The two really went hand in hand. I knew before I started my first day of my last year of high school what my major would be in college.
Two-thirds of the way through my Senior Year, I found out how powerful the pen can be. I wrote an editorial in the school paper that was unpopular, and the student body made me Public Enemy #1. Things escalated, as they frequently do in the clouded thinking of teenagers, and classmates threatened my life. My mom removed me from school, and I spent the last couple months being home-tutored. It still puts a knot in my stomach to think about it. It took a long time for me to even talk about this outside of my family. (I have only in the past year, 15 years later, resumed contact with a few select classmates) I put my writing away. The pain was too deep, the stakes too high. I would go into television. I did not need to write.
After a couple of years in college, I was talking with my closest friends and let it slip that I 'used to write'. I brought out my notebooks, only to have my writing criticized by my fiance at the time (who went on to become the ex-husband--'nuff said!). The old insecurities returned. My writing was crap. I was fooling myself. The notebooks went back into the box. Whenever I had the desire to write I channeled that energy into something else. I doubted myself. I tried to bury that part of me.
But the writer kept creeping back into my life. Perhaps because I kept getting drawn to people who also dabbled in writing. It would come up in conversation, but I would resist letting them read my work. They kept asking, and once I felt safe enough with them, I would share one or two pieces. I still guarded my notebook of poems very carefully. This time, the response was positive. I was encouraged. Finally I brought out the real test, the book of poems. And the people who read responded with such enthusiam, it helped chase some of the doubt away. In February, 2000; my Grandfather passed away. I sat down and wrote a eulogy. I read it at his memorial service, and left the congregation in tears. The writer started to emerge a little more.
Off and on through the next decade, I would write a little here and there. Deep down, I still felt that I was a writer. I just didn't have the time or the outlet. When I accepted my current position in the fall of 2007, the CEO told me in the interview he would like to see me write a column in the monthly magazine. I started writing regularly about a year ago. It is a hassle, having a deadline. The editor frequently tells me 'I need your article'. If I only had to write, it would be much easier. But writing this column is one of a multitude of tasks that make up my job. It is usually not the most important thing on my mind. Each month when I sit with a blank word document on my screen, I think 'when I said I wanted to be a writer, this isn't what I had in mind'. I write a monthly column for a trade magazine for Financial Professionals. There isn't a lot of room for 'creative' writing. Each month I find a benefit that I think our membership should know about, and I write about it. Pretty cut and dry. So I sometimes get bummed out. I remember the old saying 'Careful what you wish for'.
I have often been accused of finding the good in everything. I guess I can be a bit of a Pollyanna. I don't mean to be. It just happens. I have fibromyalgia. Some days I can barely move. But there are a lot of people dealing with far worse-such as cancer patients. That's just the way I think. So as I was bummed that my writing is a monthly column in a trade magazine, I reminded myself that some people DREAM of getting a monthly column in any publication. Ok, score one for me. This magazine goes to our membership-which is currently 8000. Ok, not a bad circulation. Oh, and that membership is international. So actually, I'm a monthly columnist in an international publication. Wow-that's even better than I ever hoped for!
I frequently have members call or email me to tell me how much they enjoyed the articles. My colleagues always tell me how great they are. Slowly, the doubt has been erased. I think there will always be a little bit of doubt, a little insecurity. I send the articles home to my parents, and my dad has told me he enjoys them. I wasn't sure mom had time to read them, but the other day she told me how great the articles are. My mother managed to erase a large amount of doubt. With just a few words, she restored the confidence that had been beaten down by the world. Once again, my mother was my biggest cheerleader. She was like a superhero saving the day-except she didn't realize it. I simply thanked her. I did not tell her how much that meant to me. It meant the world.
I know this post is long. I was inspired by a friend, also a writer, who received a negative, hurtful comment on her blog. She admitted that it upset her, but she didn't let it stop her. I felt such a connection to that. An envious connection. Because there have been times in my life that I DID let the hurtful comments stop me. Yet here is a woman who is a Vet. She has more degrees than I have, she is always calm and caring when we take the kids to her. She is well-known here in town. At least from my standpoint. When people ask us 'who is your Vet?', as soon as we say her name they know where her office is. And this woman felt the same insecurities as little ole me. I think that is the writer coming through. There will always be a part of us that doubts our work. A part vulnerable to the critics. Because in writing, we are giving a part of ourselves.
And when I read about the hurtful comment on her blog, I was for a brief moment, thankful that I do not yet have any followers. Funny, as a child I never wanted anyone to read my diary, and now I yearn for followers on my blog. I am a writer. Now I need an audience.
I wanted to be a marine biologist. I was going to save the dolphins. I made my mom buy dolphin safe tuna. I cut up the plastic rings around soda six packs, so the dolphins could not get tangled in them. I went to the Library and read about Jacques Cousteau. Then I realized how much science was involved, and well, science was the one subject in school that I frequently pulled Cs in. I was an A student, until you got to the science part of the report card. And my mom said 'it's ok, I didn't like science either'. I also realized that to be a marine biologist, I would have likely have to spend time on a boat. I didn't think living on Dramamine was a good idea.
The sea-sick issue also thwarted my plans to join the Navy. Yes, I seriously considered joining the Navy. My grandfather served in the Navy, and my dad's oldest brother did as well. I talked to the recruiters when they came to our high school. Somewhere it hit me-to join the Navy I would have to be on a boat. Goodbye, Navy!
I considered being a lawyer. That is one I persued more than most. I was looking at law schools while I was in Jr. high. I actually figured I would go to Union College, and then on to Albany Law School. Even once I was in college, I felt that pull towards Law, and responded by taking courses in Communication Law and Media Law (the textbooks for these classes are among the few I kept, and still have on my shelf). I still occasionally find myself drawn towards Law, and have thought about going to school to become a paralegal.
When I was in Jr. High, I had an English teacher who encouraged creative writing. 8th Grade English with Mr. Webster. He encouraged us to write stories. There were actually assignments. We had a folder to turn in with our drafts. He would edit, give suggestions, and give them back. A lot of people didn't like this, but for me it opened so many doors. I looked forward to the creative writing parts. For as long as I could remember, I had dabbled with stories. Suddenly, it was open to me as an option. I wrote. I wrote through 8th grade, through 9th grade, and kept right on going. My dreams of becoming a lawyer gave way to this desire to become a writer.
At first, the hardest part was opening myself up to criticism. The writing came from my soul, and I felt vulnerable when I would share my stories or poems. I felt as if I were letting others into the deepest parts of my being. Some people were encouraging. My teachers, my parents, some friends. I gained confidence with my writing. In my junior year, I veered off the educational path that had been dictated to me by the school system. I dropped Chemistry so that I could take Creative Writing and Journalism. My guidance counselor acted like I had just told her I was dropping out of school. I was on the Regents track (which was as close to AP as we got in our school), and Regents students took Chemistry in 11th Grade and Physics in 12th Grade. I pointed out to her that I had already completed the required 2 years of science. I countered her argument of 'it's just not done!' with 'I want to be a writer. Chemistry isn't going to help me'.
I have never regretted letting my science knowledge end with Biology. It was still tough to read my writing and let others critique it, but I learned that this is a vital part of writing. I filled notebooks. I joined the school paper and in my Senior Year served as Co-Editor. I was always a bit of a socially awkward person. I wasn't pretty. I wasn't skinny. I was not popular, and I wasn't into partying. I was a tall, smart, bookworm. I preferred sitting in my room reading to being in crowds of people. And while I am proud of my intelligence now; at the time I just felt like a big dork. I felt too tall. Too smart. Too quiet. Too awkward. Writing was my outlet. I tested the waters and had a couple of poems published. At the same time, I took an increasing interest in the nightly news. The summer before my Senior year, I attended a special conference at the University of Pennsylvania. Soon-to-be Seniors from around the country spent three weeks studying Communication. We got to work with the TV Studio on campus. We went to class, studied, and came away with a better idea of our futures. So my dreams of becoming a writer blended with wanting to be on TV. The two really went hand in hand. I knew before I started my first day of my last year of high school what my major would be in college.
Two-thirds of the way through my Senior Year, I found out how powerful the pen can be. I wrote an editorial in the school paper that was unpopular, and the student body made me Public Enemy #1. Things escalated, as they frequently do in the clouded thinking of teenagers, and classmates threatened my life. My mom removed me from school, and I spent the last couple months being home-tutored. It still puts a knot in my stomach to think about it. It took a long time for me to even talk about this outside of my family. (I have only in the past year, 15 years later, resumed contact with a few select classmates) I put my writing away. The pain was too deep, the stakes too high. I would go into television. I did not need to write.
After a couple of years in college, I was talking with my closest friends and let it slip that I 'used to write'. I brought out my notebooks, only to have my writing criticized by my fiance at the time (who went on to become the ex-husband--'nuff said!). The old insecurities returned. My writing was crap. I was fooling myself. The notebooks went back into the box. Whenever I had the desire to write I channeled that energy into something else. I doubted myself. I tried to bury that part of me.
But the writer kept creeping back into my life. Perhaps because I kept getting drawn to people who also dabbled in writing. It would come up in conversation, but I would resist letting them read my work. They kept asking, and once I felt safe enough with them, I would share one or two pieces. I still guarded my notebook of poems very carefully. This time, the response was positive. I was encouraged. Finally I brought out the real test, the book of poems. And the people who read responded with such enthusiam, it helped chase some of the doubt away. In February, 2000; my Grandfather passed away. I sat down and wrote a eulogy. I read it at his memorial service, and left the congregation in tears. The writer started to emerge a little more.
Off and on through the next decade, I would write a little here and there. Deep down, I still felt that I was a writer. I just didn't have the time or the outlet. When I accepted my current position in the fall of 2007, the CEO told me in the interview he would like to see me write a column in the monthly magazine. I started writing regularly about a year ago. It is a hassle, having a deadline. The editor frequently tells me 'I need your article'. If I only had to write, it would be much easier. But writing this column is one of a multitude of tasks that make up my job. It is usually not the most important thing on my mind. Each month when I sit with a blank word document on my screen, I think 'when I said I wanted to be a writer, this isn't what I had in mind'. I write a monthly column for a trade magazine for Financial Professionals. There isn't a lot of room for 'creative' writing. Each month I find a benefit that I think our membership should know about, and I write about it. Pretty cut and dry. So I sometimes get bummed out. I remember the old saying 'Careful what you wish for'.
I have often been accused of finding the good in everything. I guess I can be a bit of a Pollyanna. I don't mean to be. It just happens. I have fibromyalgia. Some days I can barely move. But there are a lot of people dealing with far worse-such as cancer patients. That's just the way I think. So as I was bummed that my writing is a monthly column in a trade magazine, I reminded myself that some people DREAM of getting a monthly column in any publication. Ok, score one for me. This magazine goes to our membership-which is currently 8000. Ok, not a bad circulation. Oh, and that membership is international. So actually, I'm a monthly columnist in an international publication. Wow-that's even better than I ever hoped for!
I frequently have members call or email me to tell me how much they enjoyed the articles. My colleagues always tell me how great they are. Slowly, the doubt has been erased. I think there will always be a little bit of doubt, a little insecurity. I send the articles home to my parents, and my dad has told me he enjoys them. I wasn't sure mom had time to read them, but the other day she told me how great the articles are. My mother managed to erase a large amount of doubt. With just a few words, she restored the confidence that had been beaten down by the world. Once again, my mother was my biggest cheerleader. She was like a superhero saving the day-except she didn't realize it. I simply thanked her. I did not tell her how much that meant to me. It meant the world.
I know this post is long. I was inspired by a friend, also a writer, who received a negative, hurtful comment on her blog. She admitted that it upset her, but she didn't let it stop her. I felt such a connection to that. An envious connection. Because there have been times in my life that I DID let the hurtful comments stop me. Yet here is a woman who is a Vet. She has more degrees than I have, she is always calm and caring when we take the kids to her. She is well-known here in town. At least from my standpoint. When people ask us 'who is your Vet?', as soon as we say her name they know where her office is. And this woman felt the same insecurities as little ole me. I think that is the writer coming through. There will always be a part of us that doubts our work. A part vulnerable to the critics. Because in writing, we are giving a part of ourselves.
And when I read about the hurtful comment on her blog, I was for a brief moment, thankful that I do not yet have any followers. Funny, as a child I never wanted anyone to read my diary, and now I yearn for followers on my blog. I am a writer. Now I need an audience.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Stunned
My mom called me around 7pm last night to tell me that her neighbor's house had caught fire. The fire department was still there, and mom was still pretty 'keyed up'. She called a couple hours later, and told me more. I was relieved that the house was not a complete loss. Mostly the damage is inside-the fire started with the oven. The kitchen and dining room are a total loss, and many other rooms have smoke or water damage. But the structure is still standing, all four walls are still up. The news saddened and stunned me. I feel the loss almost as deeply as if it were ours.
Mom & Dad's neighbors are 'Aunt Carol & Uncle Walt' to my sister and I. They moved in to the house in July, 1974. My parents were married in December, 1974, and moved into their house. Aunt Carol & Uncle Walt's oldest son was born in the fall of '74. I came along in June, 1976, my sister in November 1978, then two more boys for Aunt Carol & Uncle Walt. We grew up with their boys. I don't know how we started calling them Aunt & Uncle, or why. Or maybe their son started calling my parents Aunt & Uncle, and we just followed along. But for whatever reason, we call them Aunt & Uncle, even to this day. Sydney calls them Aunt & Uncle too. The boys call my parents Aunt Kathy & Uncle Mark; and I imagine their children will too.
It was hard when we were in high school- Uncle Walt taught (and still does teach, well, until this June) in the middle school that is adjacent to the high school. My sister and I were always catching ourselves, and stumbling over 'Mr. Knightes'. Which was so foreign to us. All our other neighbors were Mr. & Mrs.... Mr. & Mrs. Bartron, Mr. & Mrs. Gerstel. Except for Aunt Hazel & Uncle Sid, who really WERE our Aunt & Uncle of course. (Uncle Sid was my Grandpa Wager's brother. Should you wonder about the place he had in our lives, just think for a minute what my niece's name is: Sydney. Now you know.) Of course, Aunt Carol & Uncle Walt lived next to us longer than the other neighbors. The Bartrons moved in when I was 4. I don't remember when the Gerstels moved in, but I know we played together as kids. But I have a recollection of the woman who lived there before, so maybe they moved in around the time, or after, the Bartrons.
Whenever our friends would hear us refer to them as 'Aunt & Uncle', they puzzled over the connection. When we explained we weren't related, and we just called them 'Aunt & Uncle'; our friends asked 'Why?' Our response was always, 'I don't know, we've always done it'.
So when someone has been your neighbor (and even though I don't live there anymore, I still think of them as 'my' neighbors, because mom's house is still home) all your life, you feel the loss just as they do. But I think we also felt it in a different way, because their house is connected to our family.
Our neighborhood was built on what used to be my Grandfather's family farm. The original homestead is where Aunt Hazel & Uncle Sid lived. It hasn't been in the family for about 10 years or so. Aunt Carol & Uncle Walt's house, and mom & dad's house were built at the same time, sometime around 1900. Simple, two story frame houses, with full cellars and attics. Yes, cellars. Stone walls and dirt floors. I have a picture of the two houses from the nineteen-teens. Porches have been added, and Aunt Carol & Uncle Walt built an addition on theirs about 20 years ago, but other than that, the houses look the same. The houses remained in the family until the mid 1960s, when a couple (whom are actually distant cousins) bought what is now Aunt Carol & Uncle Walt's house from my Grandfather. But it's still sort of in the family. The houses are part of our roots. Our house was occupied by a couple of mom's Aunts before mom & dad were married. Aunt Carol & Uncle Walt's house was my great-grandparents house. When mom remembers going to her grandparents, it is to their house.
My sister and I discussed it over email this morning, wondering how hard it was for mom to stand there and watch the fire. But I don't know that mom thought of it. Maybe later she did. But at the time, she did what she does best. She took care of everyone. She fed the fire department, comforted Aunt Carol, talked with Uncle Walt. I don't know if she felt she was watching a vital part of our history burn. Or if she had flashbacks to the Disaster that devastated Berlin in 1962.
Aunt Carol & Uncle Walt were not home at the time the fire started. They had been walking their dogs. So while they have a lot of rebuilding to do, it could have been so much worse. They are fortunate- the material things can be replaced. Mom said their bird died, but otherwise they are ok. I hope the community will come together to help them. They have given so much to the community in the 36 years they have lived there.
My grandfather used to joke that the houses were built by drunk Dutchmen. If you look closely at the walls- where the walls meet the ceilings, you will notice they are a little crooked. Nothing in the houses is perfectly square, or level. You have to really look, but you will see that the door frames sit at an ever so subtle angle. But apparently those drunk Dutchmen knew what they were doing- the house is still standing. And hopefully the two will continue to stand strong for many years.
Mom & Dad's neighbors are 'Aunt Carol & Uncle Walt' to my sister and I. They moved in to the house in July, 1974. My parents were married in December, 1974, and moved into their house. Aunt Carol & Uncle Walt's oldest son was born in the fall of '74. I came along in June, 1976, my sister in November 1978, then two more boys for Aunt Carol & Uncle Walt. We grew up with their boys. I don't know how we started calling them Aunt & Uncle, or why. Or maybe their son started calling my parents Aunt & Uncle, and we just followed along. But for whatever reason, we call them Aunt & Uncle, even to this day. Sydney calls them Aunt & Uncle too. The boys call my parents Aunt Kathy & Uncle Mark; and I imagine their children will too.
It was hard when we were in high school- Uncle Walt taught (and still does teach, well, until this June) in the middle school that is adjacent to the high school. My sister and I were always catching ourselves, and stumbling over 'Mr. Knightes'. Which was so foreign to us. All our other neighbors were Mr. & Mrs.... Mr. & Mrs. Bartron, Mr. & Mrs. Gerstel. Except for Aunt Hazel & Uncle Sid, who really WERE our Aunt & Uncle of course. (Uncle Sid was my Grandpa Wager's brother. Should you wonder about the place he had in our lives, just think for a minute what my niece's name is: Sydney. Now you know.) Of course, Aunt Carol & Uncle Walt lived next to us longer than the other neighbors. The Bartrons moved in when I was 4. I don't remember when the Gerstels moved in, but I know we played together as kids. But I have a recollection of the woman who lived there before, so maybe they moved in around the time, or after, the Bartrons.
Whenever our friends would hear us refer to them as 'Aunt & Uncle', they puzzled over the connection. When we explained we weren't related, and we just called them 'Aunt & Uncle'; our friends asked 'Why?' Our response was always, 'I don't know, we've always done it'.
So when someone has been your neighbor (and even though I don't live there anymore, I still think of them as 'my' neighbors, because mom's house is still home) all your life, you feel the loss just as they do. But I think we also felt it in a different way, because their house is connected to our family.
Our neighborhood was built on what used to be my Grandfather's family farm. The original homestead is where Aunt Hazel & Uncle Sid lived. It hasn't been in the family for about 10 years or so. Aunt Carol & Uncle Walt's house, and mom & dad's house were built at the same time, sometime around 1900. Simple, two story frame houses, with full cellars and attics. Yes, cellars. Stone walls and dirt floors. I have a picture of the two houses from the nineteen-teens. Porches have been added, and Aunt Carol & Uncle Walt built an addition on theirs about 20 years ago, but other than that, the houses look the same. The houses remained in the family until the mid 1960s, when a couple (whom are actually distant cousins) bought what is now Aunt Carol & Uncle Walt's house from my Grandfather. But it's still sort of in the family. The houses are part of our roots. Our house was occupied by a couple of mom's Aunts before mom & dad were married. Aunt Carol & Uncle Walt's house was my great-grandparents house. When mom remembers going to her grandparents, it is to their house.
My sister and I discussed it over email this morning, wondering how hard it was for mom to stand there and watch the fire. But I don't know that mom thought of it. Maybe later she did. But at the time, she did what she does best. She took care of everyone. She fed the fire department, comforted Aunt Carol, talked with Uncle Walt. I don't know if she felt she was watching a vital part of our history burn. Or if she had flashbacks to the Disaster that devastated Berlin in 1962.
Aunt Carol & Uncle Walt were not home at the time the fire started. They had been walking their dogs. So while they have a lot of rebuilding to do, it could have been so much worse. They are fortunate- the material things can be replaced. Mom said their bird died, but otherwise they are ok. I hope the community will come together to help them. They have given so much to the community in the 36 years they have lived there.
My grandfather used to joke that the houses were built by drunk Dutchmen. If you look closely at the walls- where the walls meet the ceilings, you will notice they are a little crooked. Nothing in the houses is perfectly square, or level. You have to really look, but you will see that the door frames sit at an ever so subtle angle. But apparently those drunk Dutchmen knew what they were doing- the house is still standing. And hopefully the two will continue to stand strong for many years.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Praying the Steps
Today is Good Friday. Our local news carried a story about Catholics 'Praying the Steps' at the Holy Cross Immaculata church in Mount Adams. There are 84 steps leading up to the church, and on Good Friday, Catholics from around the area climb the stairs, saying the Rosary as they go. To me, it seems to be a beautiful tradition. I know I couldn't handle the 84 steps. But it strikes at the heart of my spirituality.
I was raised Catholic. I still consider myself to be Catholic, I just don't practice. I won't get into all the reasons. Primarily I feel that my Christianity is not defined in a building-it is in the way I live. I believe that helping others, being a good 'neighbor' is a better way to show your Christianity than going to church each week.
But the story about Praying the Steps doesn't just touch me because I'm Catholic. It touches a part of my family history too. Most people assume that my whole family is Catholic. They are surprised to find out that only one of my four grandparents is Catholic. It just happens to be my paternal grandfather.
Mom's father was Baptist (which I have found out is also connected to our family history- my 9th great grandfather was one of the founding members of the First Baptist Church of America), mom's mother was Methodist. Grandpa converted to Grandma's faith, and my mother was raised Methodist. Dad's mother is Protestant. I still don't know which branch of the Protestant faith Grandma is. She attends the Taborton Zion United Church of Christ. It was the church her Grandfather founded after coming to the US from Germany. It's a little mountain church where everyone is related to each other. Last year we went to Sunrise service with Grandma. Did I mention the church sits on TOP of a mountain? Now, where I grew up is in the mountains, but there are some areas that are even MORE in the mountains. Those are the truly rural areas- you know, the places where if your house catches fire in the winter, you better just break out the marshmallows: no fire truck is going to get to you. Well, Taborton is one of those towns. On the top of the mountain, lakes and ponds all around. And for some reason, my great-great grandfather chose to settle there. It is referred to as 'The Kipple'. Kipple in German means 'Top of the Mountain'. Today, the road that passes what once was my great-great grandfathers farm is known as 'Kipple Road'.
The forests surrounding Taborton are very dense. Well, they are dense all over Rensselaer County, but they seem particularly dense in Taborton. You look into the forests from the side of the road and you just see darkness. Even on the brightest, hottest, sunniest day, you see darkness. You can smell the pine, and the mold. It's always several degrees cooler in Taborton. Wildlife, such as black bears and moose, are not an uncommon sight. And so, last Easter my parents and I joined my grandmother for Sunrise service. At 6am. Next to one of the many lakes that surround Taborton. On a day that felt more like the middle of winter than early Spring. It was 20* at mom & dad's house when we left that morning. It was probably 0* in Taborton- colder if you figure the wind chill. Because of course, Sunrise service at the top of a mountain would not be complete without a strong Northwest wind. Dad had said that the Sunrise services usually go pretty quickly. Dad obviously hadn't been to one in a while, or the church has a different minister. For an hour we stood there, watching the mist pull back from the lake. The man next door came out and hid eggs throughout his yard. We kept moving, trying to stay warm. There was a bonfire-the guys of the church kept putting wooden pallets on the fire-it died down three times during the service. When the service was over, there was a mad rush to the fellowship hall-who knew icicles could move so fast!
Anyway, back to my original story. I am Catholic because my father is Catholic, and his father is Catholic, and grandpa's father was Catholic. It probably goes back further, but I don't know anything about the family beyond my Great-Grandfather. My dad tells us stories of going to visit his grandparents in Quebec (they lived outside Montreal). He would go to church with his Grandfather. Dad also tells how his Grandfather took him to St. Joseph's Oratory (Shrine). This is a beautiful Shrine that sits on a hill (Mont Royale in French, Mount Royal in English) in Montreal. There are several hundred steps leading up to the Shrine (or you can drive up the hill and park and avoid the steps). The faithful in Montreal pray the Rosary up the steps-starting at the bottom, saying the Rosary on each step to the top. My great-grandfather did this as well. You can go any day and see people praying the steps. The first time I visited the Shrine, I felt such a connection to those people. I could almost see my great-grandfather working his way up the steps.
Before my dad's First Communion, his grandfather made him pray the steps. Dad says it took a long time. I think it was the only time my dad did it, but it left an impression on him. Dad always talked about the Shrine, so the first time I was able to visit, on a school trip in 10th grade; I felt right at home. It is truly a beautiful and very moving place. I remember getting goose bumps walking through it, and for the first time in my life I felt this deep spiritual connection. Every Good Friday, as the local news shows the Faithful Praying the Steps in Mount Adams, I am back in Montreal-with the generations of Catholics in my family, feeling that deep spiritual peace.
I was raised Catholic. I still consider myself to be Catholic, I just don't practice. I won't get into all the reasons. Primarily I feel that my Christianity is not defined in a building-it is in the way I live. I believe that helping others, being a good 'neighbor' is a better way to show your Christianity than going to church each week.
But the story about Praying the Steps doesn't just touch me because I'm Catholic. It touches a part of my family history too. Most people assume that my whole family is Catholic. They are surprised to find out that only one of my four grandparents is Catholic. It just happens to be my paternal grandfather.
Mom's father was Baptist (which I have found out is also connected to our family history- my 9th great grandfather was one of the founding members of the First Baptist Church of America), mom's mother was Methodist. Grandpa converted to Grandma's faith, and my mother was raised Methodist. Dad's mother is Protestant. I still don't know which branch of the Protestant faith Grandma is. She attends the Taborton Zion United Church of Christ. It was the church her Grandfather founded after coming to the US from Germany. It's a little mountain church where everyone is related to each other. Last year we went to Sunrise service with Grandma. Did I mention the church sits on TOP of a mountain? Now, where I grew up is in the mountains, but there are some areas that are even MORE in the mountains. Those are the truly rural areas- you know, the places where if your house catches fire in the winter, you better just break out the marshmallows: no fire truck is going to get to you. Well, Taborton is one of those towns. On the top of the mountain, lakes and ponds all around. And for some reason, my great-great grandfather chose to settle there. It is referred to as 'The Kipple'. Kipple in German means 'Top of the Mountain'. Today, the road that passes what once was my great-great grandfathers farm is known as 'Kipple Road'.
The forests surrounding Taborton are very dense. Well, they are dense all over Rensselaer County, but they seem particularly dense in Taborton. You look into the forests from the side of the road and you just see darkness. Even on the brightest, hottest, sunniest day, you see darkness. You can smell the pine, and the mold. It's always several degrees cooler in Taborton. Wildlife, such as black bears and moose, are not an uncommon sight. And so, last Easter my parents and I joined my grandmother for Sunrise service. At 6am. Next to one of the many lakes that surround Taborton. On a day that felt more like the middle of winter than early Spring. It was 20* at mom & dad's house when we left that morning. It was probably 0* in Taborton- colder if you figure the wind chill. Because of course, Sunrise service at the top of a mountain would not be complete without a strong Northwest wind. Dad had said that the Sunrise services usually go pretty quickly. Dad obviously hadn't been to one in a while, or the church has a different minister. For an hour we stood there, watching the mist pull back from the lake. The man next door came out and hid eggs throughout his yard. We kept moving, trying to stay warm. There was a bonfire-the guys of the church kept putting wooden pallets on the fire-it died down three times during the service. When the service was over, there was a mad rush to the fellowship hall-who knew icicles could move so fast!
Anyway, back to my original story. I am Catholic because my father is Catholic, and his father is Catholic, and grandpa's father was Catholic. It probably goes back further, but I don't know anything about the family beyond my Great-Grandfather. My dad tells us stories of going to visit his grandparents in Quebec (they lived outside Montreal). He would go to church with his Grandfather. Dad also tells how his Grandfather took him to St. Joseph's Oratory (Shrine). This is a beautiful Shrine that sits on a hill (Mont Royale in French, Mount Royal in English) in Montreal. There are several hundred steps leading up to the Shrine (or you can drive up the hill and park and avoid the steps). The faithful in Montreal pray the Rosary up the steps-starting at the bottom, saying the Rosary on each step to the top. My great-grandfather did this as well. You can go any day and see people praying the steps. The first time I visited the Shrine, I felt such a connection to those people. I could almost see my great-grandfather working his way up the steps.
Before my dad's First Communion, his grandfather made him pray the steps. Dad says it took a long time. I think it was the only time my dad did it, but it left an impression on him. Dad always talked about the Shrine, so the first time I was able to visit, on a school trip in 10th grade; I felt right at home. It is truly a beautiful and very moving place. I remember getting goose bumps walking through it, and for the first time in my life I felt this deep spiritual connection. Every Good Friday, as the local news shows the Faithful Praying the Steps in Mount Adams, I am back in Montreal-with the generations of Catholics in my family, feeling that deep spiritual peace.
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