5 a.m.

I have a disease.  It's called the "no matter what time you go to bed you still wake up at 5 a.m." disease.  It's bad enough that during the week I rarely set an alarm, but on the weekend when sleeping in even an hour seems delectable, it just ain't happening.  I still get up and make coffee, but at least I don't have to do anything but crawl back into bed and check email, or read the paper, or goof around with the ipad.  On the weekends I can also take a nap in the afternoon like tots and elderly, and not feel guilty about it.  That's a pleasure in itself.

This morning as I awoke and peeked out into the dark of early morning in December, I found that it was snowing.  It's still snowing 2 hours later; just a light, easy snow that doesn't require the plows and salt but just blankets the rooftops with a nice batting.  The expected high today is around 35 so it may keep up most of the day.  It's a good thing, because I need to do some Christmas shopping (which I've not done at all) and this may put me in the mood.

Christmas is a week away.  I'll be driving to Alabama next week sometime for the holiday, and back to Chicago a day or two afterward to spend the rest of that week in lazy luxury.  I will work on the quilt I've started, and knit the scarf I've started, and finish the book I've started.  The book may be finished, but the others will take more time - especially the quilt.  But until then, I need to get in the spirit.  I put my fake tree up last weekend with all the little ornaments the kids love from their childhood and lot of lights.  I set out my collection of santas and snowmen.  I drank hot chocolate.  I sat and looked at the tree and the santas and tried to work up a feeling of ho ho ho and holly jolly.  Then I thought "I have to look at this for the next two weeks then pack it all back up without sharing it with anyone - what's the point?".

From the time the kids were big enough to care, we would trek out into the woods off a back road with a saw and look for the perfect cedar tree to steal.  We didn't think of it as stealing, but that's really what it was since we didn't know who owned whatever land we were on, and we would have been in trouble had we been caught.  We were poor and couldn't afford to spend money on a nice balsam fir.  I would NOT allow a fake tree into my house, but preferred to enjoy the needles on the floor and the barbs on the hands as we decorated our Christmas tree.  Sometimes the pickings were slim, and we ended up with a Charlie Brown tree that you could see right through.  It really didn't matter - it was the experience that I was after, and the tradition and memories for the kids.

Even after they became young adults venturing out on their own, we still did our best to carry on.  A week or so before the big day, we would gather and go out to cut down a tree.  I did finally resort to paying for one at a tree farm, but there was still the trek and the hunt and the saw.  We borrowed a truck, or stuffed the netted tree into whatever vehicle I had at the time, and made our way back to my house for the party. 

Our tree-trimming festivities consisted of Christmas music, homemade cookies and candies, crackers and cheeses or chips and dips, hot cider or chocolate, and the joy of dressing that tree up just like we had done since they were small.  As we pulled out each ornament - particularly the ones they had made in day care or school, and the little wooden ones we had bought somewhere along the way - each of us would ooo and ahh and reminisce as to which were our favorites and which we had forgotten about, and the stories behind a few of them.  There was the "Lacy's 1st Christmas" crosstitch one that Aunt Juno had made for her.  The jar-ring-picture-frame-on-a-ribbon ones they made in day-care.  The sleighs from popsicle sticks Aunt Darlene had made.  The birds Nana had given us.  And on and on and on.

While this tradition was special as the kids were growing up, and they always happily participated even through the years when kids can become opposed to such things, it came to mean even more after I divorced their dad.  Our split occurred on December 13, a Friday of course (my lucky day), which was too early to put up a live tree in a house with a wood stove that dried everything out quickly.  That year I worried about how we were going to manage, but we did.  There have been a couple of years that one or the other wasn't available to help, but most of the time we managed to be together for the annual event.  It's only been in the last 3 years or so that we've broke tradition, and in 2009 I didn't even have a tree at all.

I think that's why I drove to Target last year and bought a 7-foot plastic tree-in-a-box.  If I couldn't have them here to help with the trimming and sharing of memories, I could at least have them here in spirit as I hung the well-worn ornaments myself.  I look forward to next Christmas, when I'll hopefully be living in Alabama and they can join me once again to ooo and ahh over the memories as we pull them from the box.  Of course, we'll be hanging them on a real tree, with the Nutcracker playing in the background.  I'll have to add a few for family expansion.  And as I get older, and grandkids become plural, I hope that a visit to gramma's to cut and trim a tree will be an event each year.  That would make me eternally happy.

For this year, however, I will do my best to enjoy the tree I have and what it represents to me.  I'll trek out into the lighted trees on the mag mile (without cutting any down), snow gently kissing my face, humming the old songs Nana used to sing, and look forward to being together with my family in a week.  However cold it is, and however alone I am, I have the warmth of their love and the memories of Christmas's past to keep me company.  I trust they have the same.

double dose

There's nothing more beautiful than a double dose of something beautiful.  And there's nothing more frustrating or painful than a double dose of something frustrating or painful.

Sunsets in colors of deep orange and coral and rose can be breathtaking.  You want to breathe it in and hold onto before it fades into night.  When that sunset is reflected so that you get a double dose, it can sometimes be so overwhelming that it's more than you can absorb.  I have seen sunsets reflected on water - lake, pond, river, ocean (actually, gulf) many times in my life.  A new experience for me is a sunset reflected in the glass and steel of multiple buildings, which can also be a magnificent site.  In the city, I see that sometimes from my balcony - when I can't actually view the sunset on the western horizon, but know its beauty from the reflections in buildings near me.  Last Friday, driving home from work, I headed east on the Ike (I290) and saw such a sunset in my rear view.  As I approached downtown, the tall buildings along the Chicago skyline were afire, reflecting the colors of the sunset.  The Willis tower, Trump, and others shown gold and red just for a moment and were more beautiful than I'd ever seen.  One of those moments when I wished I could pull over and capture the sight - but traffic was heavy, and my camera was sitting at home.  I took a snapshot in my head of both views, the rear and forward so I keep it even though I can't share.

For the past few weeks, I've struggled with allergies.  My sinuses drain down my throat and nose, causing constant sniffing and ahem-ing.  It's aggrevating, but Allegra keeps things pretty much under control.  Something new, however, is I seem to be afflicted with an allergic reaction in my eyes.  Not so much in as around, with itching and swelling of the skin above and below my eyes - redness, bagginess, scaliness, and all-around ugliness.  It comes and goes at odd times, and I'm starting to think I've developed an allergy to either a food or environmental irritant.  Two weeks ago, I was on a cruise ship, doing fine (after my luggage finally arrived, but that's another story) until the final evening.  After dinner, the skin around my eyes started burning and itching, and swelling - one little welt was particularly visible.  Thinking back over what I had eaten, the shrimp seemed a likely culprit.  My dad developed a sudden seafood allergy when he was around my age, so it makes sense.  I dosed up with Benedryl and Allegra over the weekend, and by Monday was all better.

Yesterday, I walked the several blocks to my massage place, enjoyed my monthly kneading of knots, and walked back, stopping off for some breakfast.  When I got home, the itching, burning, and swelling started up again.  There was no seafood in the skillet concoction I had eaten, so whether it was food or something in the air, or the oil the massage therapist uses, I can't say.  The skillet contained eggs, potatoes, cheese, peppers and onions.  Nothing that I can really relate to the dinner on the ship.  Dairy?  Olive oil?  Peppers??

My double dose of allergy symptoms is driving me a bit looney, but more importantly, is painful and mysterious.  Seems I'm always coming up with something oddball that warrants a visit to the doctor.  Maybe it's time to see an allergist and find out what it is that I can't eat or do without consequences.  Having enjoyed a fairly allergy-free life so far, other than the usual spring and fall pollens, I consider myself lucky in comparison to those that suffer from birth with dairy, nuts, and other such allergies that will affect them for all of their life.

There are worse double doses - losing loved ones in multiples, being out of work and out of a home, crashing your car and being injured, or causing pain for someone else, which causes pain for yourself.  But there are good double doses too - having your cake and eating it too, reading a good book that has a sequel, enjoying a movie along with someone's company, chocolate-filled chocolate.  Loving and being loved back.  Life regularly hits us with multiple doses of both positive and negative, and our hope is that the positive comes out on top in the end.

a farewell to arms

While the 90's still prevail in Alabama, the past several days (save one) have only seen 80's and 70's here.  The coolness of the evenings and early mornings serve as reminders that Fall is on its way.  The Summer has been short; it didn't really start until June, and here at the end of August, it's almost gone.  It's been eventful nonetheless.

In spite of all the visitors and experiences over the past couple of months, it still seems I've not had a vacation this year.  And when I check the calendar at work I find that, well, I actually haven't.  I had a week "off" when Lennon was born, but worked off and on that week while fighting a virus in between.  Since then I've had a day or two, I think.  Doesn't feel like it and I couldn't tell you when; most of the days I was supposed to be off I've ended up working.  I need a break.

In 3 weeks I'm going to go on my first cruise.  I'm both excited and not.  Excited to be getting out of Chicago without going to Alabama, although I badly miss my family and mainly my adorable precious cute-as-a-bug grandson.  Not excited because I don't know what I'm going to do with 4 days on a boat alone with a bunch of other people who will mostly be not alone I'm sure.  Maybe I'll actually read a book which is something I haven't been able to do in a while.  Maybe I'll forget about work and the job I'm not in love with.  Maybe I won't stress too badly about not talking to or hearing from the family.  Maybe I'll actually relax and refresh and come back happy and serene.

Maybe I won't fall overboard and be eaten by sharks.  Maybe I won't be over-bored.  But really, how long can you sit by a pool or on the beach before you get antsy?  And antsy is what I need to not be.  Antsyless, anti-antsy, antsy free, unantsy.  Maybe I won't come back as keyed up and antsy as I go.  Maybe it will be good.  Of course it will be good.

So, anyway, Summer is leaving and sweater-weather is coming.  Won't be long til that first cold night and that first snow and that first BIG snow and then the holidays and another year.  Soon we'll say a farewell to arms and toes and hello to long sleeves and shoes.  Life keeps rolling along like the waves.  We just ride along with it.  Helps to have a big boat to keep us from getting eaten by sharks.

southsick

Been feeling a bit sick lately.  Not physically ill, but something like homesick.  More like Southsick, or countrysick.  I guess it's not homesick because my home is here, in Chicago, where my stuff is.  I no longer have a home in Alabama except that my family is there, and that's "home" as in where the heart is.

I still love living here, but things have been getting to me in a way they haven't since moving here.  I passed a display of "sweet corn" in the grocery store last week, and almost cried.  I thought of farmers selling Silver Queen from the back of a truck on the side of the highway.  I thought of my dad's garden and biting into a fresh ear of corn grown and picked by him.  Or the rattlesnake green beans, or purple hull peas, or him out there in long sleeves and a hat in mid-July, complaining that somebody better take some of these vegetables or he was going to quit putting in such a big garden (which he never would).

The corn in the store was somehow a representation of what it means to be southern.  It brought up all the things that are easy to miss when you're not there.  I don't miss the humidity, and chuckle when folks here complain that it's sooo hot and humid outside.  I don't miss the mosquitos, or the houseflies, but the lack of those here may have something to do with being in the city and not in the 'burbs.  I do miss junebugs, and grits any time I want them, and real cornbread (although if I try I can find the makings here).  I miss the slowness of things, the quiet evenings when the tree frogs start up.  I miss digging in the dirt and mowing the yard.

I miss being aware of sirens out on the highway rather than being so used to them I don't even hear them anymore.  I miss waking up in the middle of the night to dead silence and dark.  I miss the snowcone truck that played the same slightly out-of-tune melody every evening.  I miss train whistles and the way they bend as they pass.  I miss not hearing every day that someone local was killed by gunshot.  I miss seeing my family whenever I want.

But....then on days like today, I remember why I love being here.  Why I love being in a city where happy surprises occur regularly and I can see and do things that I can't in small-city Alabama.  I can go to a festival or "taste of.." or street market any time if I so choose.  I can walk to the river and watch tourists and kayaks and water taxis cruise up and down.  I can stand on a corner on Michigan Avenue and hear 5 different languages at once.  At least I think they're all different.

I can see a 27-foot statue depicting the famous scene from "The Seven-Year Itch" with Marilyn holding her dress down while standing on a subway grate.  I can find quiet little gardens and fountains tucked away from the hordes of people, or be in the middle of the hordes enjoying a ballgame or concert or just walking the mag mile.  And I can even sit in my house and see amazing examples of architectural genius that date back over a century.

Yes, I'm a little sick for the pleasures of life that I knew for most of my years.  Sometimes I feel a little like the man in The Seven Year Itch - having an affair with the exciting, beautiful neighbor because the well-known was getting a little boring.  And like him, I'll go back, even if I have to ask forgiveness for my waywardness, my infidelity.  I'm not really leaving the South for good, I'm just having a little fling.  The South will be there when I'm ready to return, unchanged and familiar; I just hope it lets me back in.

musings on a saturday night

Been kinda quiet of late.  Mainly working a lot, fretting a lot, and waiting on there to be a Spring here.  It's been an unusually cold and gloomy "spring" which is not a spring at all.  But, last weekend as I wandered a bit, tulips and trees were blooming, birds were singing, and there was a hint of sun peeking through.  It feels as though we may get a break from the gloom, which will lift spirits and smiles and hearts within this wonderful city.

Another place with spirit and heart is the state I call home.  In the year I've been here, I've seen my state in  national media more than I think my entire life.  It started with the gulf oil spill, with tar balls and oil-soaked marine life washing up on my beloved white beaches.  There followed stories of scandals and championship, then poisoned trees.  The terror of April 27th eclipsed all else.  The toll of lives and destruction continues to rise more than a week later.  People at work and in town ask if my family is okay, which warms my heart.  And it's good that I can answer yes, they are all good.  But my extended family, those others who call Alabama home, are not all good.  It's tragic beyond words.

For me, it started as I was leaving work on that Wednesday.  I had heard of storms that morning, and the chance of stronger storms late in the day.  Nothing unusual for Spring in Alabama, so I didn't give it a lot of thought as I immersed myself in work.  It was not until I was driving home that I heard about the  tornadoes.  I started trying to call people, not getting through to anyone, beginning to worry and wonder.  Finally heard from Lacy who told me power was out, then a brief message from Tine that they had been without power for several hours, but they were okay.  I was able to pick up bits and pieces from what spotty Facebook feeds people were still able to post from their phones, but even those started to wane as power still did not return and phones obviously starting dying.

Late that night a text from Jeff saying he had good info that power would be out for several days - 5 or more.  I thought it was an exaggeration, or that the utility was being overly cautious, but no, it was true.  My planned trip home for the weekend was suddenly in jeopardy - with no power, no gas, no food, would it be feasible for me to still go?  Would the airline even be going into an area with mass power outages?  Would I be more of a burden than a help, being another mouth to feed, needing transport, sitting in the dark with everyone else?  Adding to my despair was the lack of communication with Seth and Tine, who I would be staying with if I went.  I wanted so badly to go, to make sure they were okay, to see my 2-week old grandson.  Finally, I decided to cancel the trip - with a very heavy heart.

Sometime over the weekend, phone service was available long enough for Tine to send a picture of Seth and Lennon sleeping together on the sofa, both peaceful and poignant.  I stared at the picture for a long time, taking it in and imagining that I was there seeing it in person.  It was not until Sunday that I talked to Seth - they still had no power, but were getting along with their gas stove and lots of ice.  Lacy and Jeff had left town, opting for a weekend in Chattanooga rather than peer at each other through fading candlelight when they could no longer see to read, so I had been in touch with them.  It helped to talk to Seth and to know that they were holding up, albeit without hot showers or phones or computers or TV or artificial light.  I knew that those days of primitive skills involvement when the kids were younger would help them now.  Finally.

Well, slowly, things started to get back to as normal as they could.  Lacy and Jeff returned to town with coolers full of food and water and ice, and were lucky to have power return Sunday night.  They were then able to help those in need by cooking and distributing food in the hard hit area north of town, which happened to be about a mile from Seth and Tine's house.  The area of Anderson Hills was decimated, and it was way too close to my son and his family for anything near comfort.  They finally saw lights again on Tuesday, almost a week from when things went dark.

One of the first communications that I received from Tine was a picture of Lennon that I can't look at without crying.  It's the most pitiful sad face, with just a hint of tear in his eyes, a look of desperate want, peering at her camera.  The caption read "sad because you're not here".  Oh, break my poor heart!!!!  But I knew they were safe, and knowing that, I could take the heartbreak.  That and knowing that in three weeks I'll have another chance to get there and hold him and delight in his babyness and his daily discoveries of the world around him.

With power to post and text pictures, I'm glad for Tine's daily documentation of Lennon's growth, moods, accomplishments - laughing, raising his head, eyes wider and more attentive.  It's as close as I can be to actually being there.  I know that I will soon be there for real, and in the not too distant future, there for good.  I'll be part of his life and theirs, and Lacy's and Jeff's and the rest of my family once again, not from afar, but from aclose.  I'm happy that I have a wonderful connection with them all, which is so much more than some.  I'm thankful that none of us are mourning the loss of loved ones as so many are.  I'm at ease knowing they have homes and beds and food and necessities and each other.  I'm at peace in knowing that they know how much they are loved.  And I take such comfort in knowing that they love me, appreciate me, and want me in their lives.

That's the best Mother's Day gift of all - family that is truly family.  They are so much a part of me that they are nearly all of me.  But they do give me a little room for me to have a part for myself.

home and home

Being in Alabama for almost 2 weeks, with the warm Spring weather, the blossoms and birds, the mountains and blue skies, was spoiling.  I suddenly wanted to live there again.  Not only because of Lennon, but because it so feels like home to me.  Spring is a wonderful time in the South, despite the pine pollen.  I guess Spring is wonderful anywhere as it is such a renewal and revival of life in every form.

I was so sad to leave, and the sadness followed me all the way back to Chicago.  Reaching that point on I94 where the skyline was visible did something to me though.  And walking into my place and seeing the city lights outside, hearing the city noises, being surrounded by my familiar life and things, I felt I was home.

How can both places feel like home?  How can I "belong" in both small-city Alabama and big-city Illinois?  How can I enjoy both the 90-degree humid oven-like heat and the single-digit snowy cold?  What is it about living that makes it possible to love such extremes?  And feel safe familiarity with both?

I think the question is the same as "is it possible to be in love with two people at the same time?".  And I think the answer to both questions is "yes".  I've always felt it's possible to love more than one person - not family or friends, but to love two men equally, or two women.  Many people would argue that it's not right - you must love one more than the other.  I disagree, though.  There are so many elements to each of us, and people can bring out the best of various elements in us all.  Finding someone who satisfies us in every way is the ultimate hope, but if we're honest, we know that is unlikely.  We give something up in order to have the closest to perfect we can and to be happy with it.  Those that do find perfect perfect are very, very lucky.

I can't say that I love North Alabama and Chicago equally, but I think I could be equally happy living either place.  They each fulfill different elements in me, and in different ways.  Alabama satisfies my need for serenity and natural beauty and familiarity.  Chicago satisfies my need for adventure and discovery and change.  I don't know that there is a place that would do both, but I know I can work to find both anywhere I am.  That's the key to being truly happy wherever we are - finding a way to fulfill ourselves and use the elements at hand to do so.  Not a difficult thing to do if you're willing to put forth a little effort.  And if you're not dependent on someone else to fulfill you.  Still, where my family is will always win out in the competition for "home".

life anew

I'm a gramma!  For real!  Lennon Christian-William Berry made his entrance into the world Thursday, April 7 at 11:16 p.m., after 2 very long and trying days for the mom and dad.  They checked into the hospital Tuesday evening to prep for induced labor, started the process Wednesday morning to no avail, took a break Wednesday night, then started again on Thursday morning.  After a long day of labor, morphine, an epidural and a lot of "push, Christine!!!!", we got to meet Lennon for the first time live and in color.

The good thing was that Tine's mom got there from Germany late Wednesday, so she didn't miss the birth.  The bad thing was that all of us did a lot of waiting, waiting, waiting for two days.  The end result was certainly worth it.  Lennon is beautiful in every way.  Of course, he's my grandson so he can't help it.  :)

Being part of the whole experience was amazing.  I was allowed to remain in the birthing room through it all.  I've been part of 2 births myself, but never a spectator, and it was such an experience.  The nurses worked their butts off to get him into place, and Tine was super - pushing with all her might and hanging in through the whole thing.  Seth was both supportive and in awe; obviously anxious, concerned, and ready to meet his son.  The doctor was there for about 10 minutes just to bring Lennon out and check him over - they have the easy job.  Lennon appeared all pale and slimy, but took those first few breaths and turned pink and perfect.  Hearing those first few squeaks of new life in oxygen were wonderful, and made me realize what a miracle it all is.  He went from the warm, floaty, confined space he knew for 9 months into the bright, harsh, but loving environment we all know.  He didn't seem to be very happy about the light and passing-around he met as he left his comfort zone, but now he has taken to it well.

I'm so proud of and for Seth and Tine and how hard they worked and how much they obviously love this little life that is a mix of them both.  I didn't realize how much Lennon looks like Seth until I found pictures in my storage unit of Seth as a newborn.  They're identical.  I'm sure Lennon will develop into a perfect mixture of his parents, but there is no doubt that he's Seth's right now.  :)

I miss being there with them, but I'll return in 2 weeks for a couple of days.  He will have changed so much by then, and over the coming months when I will only see him a few times.  It is plain, however, that I want to be there and experience everything he goes through and see first-hand his growth and new abilities as he strengthens.  It was hard leaving, but it is what it is.  I know I'll be back by the time he is able to call me gramma.  Or Mama-Lynn, or whatever we decide I will be.

Until then, I'll see him whenever possible, and we will Skype often, and I'll certainly be a part of his life even from afar.  Sweet, precious baby boy - can't wait for a cousin to be in the works.  :)

a year later

Well, my 1-year anniversary is just a month away.  Of course it doesn't seem possible that it was a year ago that I picked up and moved to this great mid-western city.  Never quite understood the mid-west part but maybe this was mid-west before they realized how far it was to the Pacific ocean.  Once early settlers reached the mighty Mississippi, they were HOPING that they were half-way there.

I can tell that Spring is upon us.  It was warm enough yesterday to walk to both my massage appointment (ahhhhh) and my dental appointment (AAAIIEEE) in just a sweat suit.  It's sunny and looks warm outside today, but the weather people say it's going to be much cooler today.

Another herald of Spring is the groups of Spring-breakers I encountered yesterday, the increased traffic at all hours, and, to my chagrin, the motorcycles.  Of all the sounds of the city, this is the only one that grates on me - but it's because people on motorcycles like them loud and fast, and the on-ramp to the expressway just beneath my building is the perfect drag-raceway. 

And speaking of sounds in the night, it happened again last night....sirens that didn't continue past on Orleans, or onto the expressway, or over on Grand, but came right up my street.  This is the 4th time I remember this happening in the past year, and the first 3 times I jumped out of bed to see whether it was my building that they came to visit.  Last night, I was too tired to worry about it.  I knew that someone would be banging on my door if I needed to flee.

The scary things about being awakened in the middle of the night to cries of "fire" or "leave the building" are a. having to grab something decent to put on that is also suitable for whatever weather is happening, b. the thought of fire in general and the danger, the destructiveness of it when it get loose in a building, and c. losing my home and possessions.  Actually not in that order - I would go into the street naked if it meant that my home, and that of the others here, would be safe.

It's very easy to tell when the sirens come down my street.  I live on the last block of the street, which is one-way all the way from the lake, and no one wanders down this part of the street unless they have a reason to be here.  This block is mostly residential, and at the end you must turn one way or the other, or drive through the park and into the river.  There are 4 restaurants on this block, meaning much of the traffic in the evenings is diners.  So, a firetruck or ambulance would not use this part of the street as a route to anywhere but this part of the street.

It's an odd bit of knowledge I've picked up, but if you cross the river on one of the several bridges in the area, and wind your way back roughly across from the park at the end of my street, you'll find a continuance of Ontario that goes all the way to Oak Park.  There's no bridge on Ontario, but it's as though there were.  It's the same with several streets without bridges across the river - they just pick up on the other side anyway.  And they run several miles toward the West.  In Huntsville, a street would have changed names 20 times between the lake and Oak Park.  That's just what they do in Huntsville.  I guess it's part of the grid design of Chicago that is supposed to make navigation in the city easier.  And maybe just in case someone decided to build another bridge at some point, so they wouldn't have to rename part of the street or cause mass confusion because the street suddenly changed it's moniker.

So, anyway, this has been home for almost a year now, and yesterday I signed a lease for another year, so it will continue to be home for a while more.  As much fun as it might be to have a different view, and discover a different part of the city, I like being right here.  I'm not tired of the view, or the rooms I inhabit.  It's convenient, the employees are super, the kids know how to get here, and it's become my home.  I'm glad my landlords agreed to have me stay on.  As expensive as it is, it would cost more to move, and why move when you've got the perfect place already?  

Home, sweet home, Chicago.

showering babies

I was "home" last weekend to help Lacy with a baby shower for Lennon.  She had worked so hard getting things together and planning, I felt bad that I could do little from here other than agree or make suggestions.  To make up for it, I spent most of Friday night through Sunday preparing or participating or post-cleaning, which I was happy to do.  I'm happy for the time it gave me with Lacy, creating decorations and gifts and favors, shopping for more decorations and gifts.  Buying and preparing food, putting it all together Sunday morning and waiting for the fun to begin.

I'm also happy for the time it gave me with Seth and Christine and Lennon (although he's still hiding out, which is good).  Watching them enjoy the games and their friends at the shower, watching them open the many gifts.  The glow of pride and anticipation on their faces, the thankfulness toward the givers of gifts, and the love that was apparent in the room - between friends and between family.  Even a mishap Saturday night couldn't dampen the joy of Sunday.  The shower came off beautifully.

It's both odd and heart-warming to see my son - the one that you would never expect - so excited about the prospect of fatherhood.  It's so apparent that he wants to be a good father, that he welcomes this opportunity, this requirement, to be an adult, to be responsible and do all the right things.  It feels like he has a realistic handle on the brevity of parenthood, and of the changes to come, and more importantly, is prepared for it.  Seth is a quietly strong, but very emotional, person.  I think like me in that respect.  Seth rarely shows emotion, but when he does it's huge.  Like me, he can take a lot, but when he snaps, he SNAPS.  And he is slow to allow feelings to show, but when he reaches the breaking point, good or bad, feelings ooze from every pore.  I've seen him, and held him, while he bawled with hurt and sorrow, and I've seen him steel and hold both happiness and sadness inside, the frozen grin that's almost a grimace on his face that I know means it's just under the surface, and tears (whether of joy or pain) may be just behind his eyes.

Seth has always worried me in this regard, in this way that I know he inherited from me.  It pains me to know that he feels the same emotions and confusion and misdirection that I've felt in my life at times.  The regrets over not doing the right thing, or at least the better thing.  The way we beat ourselves up more than anyone else beats us.  It's because of this that know he'll be a good father.  It's a chance at redemption.  A chance to undo life until now.  A way to put those experiences behind him while keeping them in mind as he raises a son who he surely would prefer to walk a straighter path.

I see Seth being a gentle and patient dad, but firm in his rules and strict in his guidance.  I guess that's the kind of parent we would all like to be, and strive to be, but don't always succeed.  As long as he works toward that goal, and can put the needs of this beautiful child before his own for the next few years, he'll do just fine.  Seth has certainly had enough adventure of one kind in his life, now it's time to experience an adventure of quite another kind.  And this is one that he can carry through the rest of his life, and know the feeling of proudly saying "that's MY son".

maybe i'm crazy....

Last weekend I was in Huntsville, where it was warm enough not to need a jacket most of the time - around 60-70 and mostly sunny.  It was refreshing, and I enjoyed the warmer weather and the blooming buttercups and forsythia and seeing the buds on the trees.  Then I came back to Chicago, where it's been a chilly week, but not downright cold.  I've found that when the sun is out, 30 here feels quite nice as long as the wind isn't howling.

It makes sense that I would be yearning for the Spring-like weather I'm accustomed to this time of year in the South.  It makes sense that I would have had my fill of gray skies and below-freezing temperatures.  It doesn't make sense that, as I sit here on a Saturday morning watching snow flurries drift and blow and fly around as though they're having fun, I would think it's a beautiful day.

Maybe it's the novelty of snow; the years I've spent wishing it would snow, the miracle of teensy ice crystals falling from the sky and covering everything with a blanket of pure white, the beauty of big fluffy chunks drifting down silently, like cotton from the heavens.  Maybe I'm crazy, but I don't mind that I'm seeing snow today instead of the 70-degree weather I would be enjoying if I were in Alabama.  I'm almost sad that Spring is around the corner, and there will be no more snow until next winter.  Maybe there's an Eskimo somewhere in my family tree, but as much as I love sun and blooms and birds singing and smelling that first cut of green grass, I love snow.

Yes, there's been plenty of the white stuff down home this year - the year that I'm not there to enjoy it.  And yes, it will be 10 more years before it happens again, unless we have an anomaly like the early 90's when it snowed 8" and 2 years later snowed almost a foot.  Or the other way around - at that depth, a bunch of snow is a bunch of snow.  But as it hadn't snowed more than an inch or two in the past 10 years in Huntsville, I was looking forward to living in a place where snow is a certainty.  And I've not been disappointed in the amount that Chicago-land has seen since November.  I just think I could do with one more good one.  I would go down to the park by the river and make a snow angel.  And a snow man.  And bring a bowl back home for snow cream.  Because those are the things I've not done this winter, even with the 20" snow last month.

Of course, like Dustin said on Facebook, if I had made a snow angel then, they might not have found me until summer.  :)

the things we remember.....

I was swapping emails with my cousin, Michele, recently.  She mentioned my mom - Nana to all in her family - and a visit to her years ago, before she completely lost touch with who we were.  Nana had dementia; a particularly slow decline of memory and function.  One very amazing detail, however, is that she remembered songs.  Songs that were from her childhood or early adulthood.  Every word, every note, and even more amazing, she would sing harmony.  Nana couldn't remember to get dressed, or eat, or the people in her life - things you would assume were important - but she remembered songs and how to sing them.

It got me to thinking about what I would remember, if anything, if someday I'm in her shoes (once I remember to put them on).  Is there anything in my life that is so deeply ingrained in my head and my heart that it will last beyond all else.  It hurts me to imagine not knowing Seth or Lacy, or my brothers, but it could happen.  I don't want to remember work, or my marriage particularly (maybe the good parts), or how unhappy I was at times in my early life - most of my early life actually.

If there is anything I would remember, it would probably be those things that I shouldn't remember now, but somehow do.  Jabberwocky, a poem from Alice in Wonderland that I used as my "talent" in the Jr. Miss Pageant (meaning I had no talent), and other poems I still can recite.  All the old Christmas songs, like "Up On The Rooftop" and "Jolly Old St Nicholas"; those songs Nana sung every Christmas to whatever small children happened to be around that year.   And one other gift from Nana, and old poem called "Little Orphant Annie".  I don't know how many times I heard it while growing up.  It can't have been that many, but it stuck.  Especially the last part, which has an eerie beauty to it in it's description of an old-time country evening:

Little orphant Annie says that when the blaze is blue
And the lampwick sputters, and the wind goes "wooo-wooo"
And you hear the crickets quit, and the moon is gray
And the lightnin' bugs in dew is all squenched away
You better mind your parents and your teachers fond and dear
And cherish them what loves you , and dry the orphants' tear
And help the poor and needy ones that clusters all about
Or the goblins'll get YOU if you don't watch out!!

I did a little research to see if I could find this poem and it's origins.  I was quite surprised.  The poem was written in 1885, and was actually the inspiration for both the comic strip and the "Raggedy Ann" doll.  The author was from Indiana, and the poem has quite a history, which can be found in Wikipedia along with the full poem.

This poem and others represent the things, other than my family, that I would keep with me if I could choose.  You can bet that my grandchildren will hear it, along with several others and, yes, all the old Christmas carols that drive my kids crazy.  That is one piece of my mom, Nana, that will last for generations.  That is one piece that I can hold on to myself, as long as my brain will let me.

the best potato pancakes

I recently had yet another birthday.  Not complaining at all - I love birthdays.  Having a birthday validates my belief that yes, I am still here.

This birthday was special for many reasons.  My first in Chicago, my first as a granma, another half-decade milestone.  The most special was my big birthday gift.

My gift from Lacy and Jeff was that Lacy came to Chicago alone, and we had our first real time together since my move.  Even on my trips to Alabama, we've not had much time together to just hang out.  Our usual hours-long trips to Costco and Target and Marshalls and Hobby Lobby or other fun money-grabbing places have been missing, and we've both missed them big much.  We had a fabulous time doing nothing but wandering around and shopping.    In the afternoon, we visited our favorite neighborhood bar and proceeded to allow the bartenders (who were made privy to my age by Lacy singing Sammy Hagar) to treat us with more than is advisable to drink when you're not done shopping for the day.  Let's just say it led to a return trip to Sports Authority the following morning to return a bunch o' stuff.  We went to dinner at Cafe Lago, which is a tiny family-owned Italian restaurant just a few blocks away that was suggested by my aunt and uncle (them what know the city well).  I got kisses from the owner-in-charge, and it snowed on us during the walk home.

All of that aside, it was a special day in and of itself just by being a Saturday in the city with my baby girl.

One wish I had for my birthday was to have the best potato pancakes ever for breakfast.  On my first adult visit-for-fun trip to Chicago, a friend and I decided to find a "Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives" place to eat.  We came upon Glenn's Diner, known for it's seafood, but also for it's breakfast and cereal selection.  (Yes, cereal - you just have to see it).  I fell in love with the rich, creamy, yummy potato pancakes they serve with everything.  They are almost too rich to eat.  I don't think Lacy was as impressed as I with the creamy conglomeration of potatoes, scallions, and who-knows-what-else.  They are certainly nothing like the potato patties I grew up on, made from leftover mashed potatoes, egg, and milk.  I think it's well worth the trip up to Glenn's just to taste this humble side dish.

Since the birthday breakfast, I've been pondering on just what they do put in those pancakes.  I decided I would try and come close to their recipe, which I'm sure I won't do, but I think I've come up with a pretty good idea for some fairly bitchin' pancakes of my own.  I'm going to shred some Idaho potatoes, mix with some egg, chopped scallions (or green onions, since that's all they had at the Jewel-Osco), salt, pepper, and some evaporated milk, which won't be as rich as real cream.  Drop a big spoonful into some oil and butter, and see what comes out.  I can't see any way to go wrong with fried potatoes, especially mixed with something to stick them together.  I love hashbrowns, and this is just a way to add a little flavor and filling.

Right or wrong, I'll follow up with what the result was.  It's sure to be far from Glenn's, but it will be right down the alley of "Lynn's".  hahahahaha!

a trip to the city

Recently, I was thinking about my first trip to Chicago.  Actually I think it was my 2nd trip as I have a vague memory of visiting my Aunt Sis and Uncle Joe when I was a wee tot - I'm not sure.  Seems they lived in or near the city in a small apartment.  I'm sure they will chime in to verify.

Anyway, my first trip that I truly remember was when I was 12.  I rode the train with my grandmother from Chattanooga all the way to Chicago Heights, where Sis and Joe picked us up.  They lived just southeast of Chicago proper - around Gary if memory serves.  I was excited about my first (and only) cross-country train trip, but I don't remember much about it other than a lot of countryside.

Sis and Joe had a nice ranch house in a nice ranch-house kind of neighborhood.  They had a neighbor who's daughter was a Playboy bunny - Chicago being the home of the Playboy club, that seemed quite a big deal.  I have a couple of vivid memories of this trip - one is that my cousin Jackie had a "Creepy Crawler" machine.  Now, if you've ever heard Jeff Foxworthy's take on the toys he had as a kid, such as the wood-burning kit and lawn darts, the Creepy Crawler machine should be right up there on the list of "what the hell were they thinking".  This was a metal mold that you squirted goo into, plugged it in and waited while it cooked the goo at about 1000 degrees into rubbery squiggley bugs and worms.  It was fun!  And there is no way you could get away with giving a child one of those today without being charged with child abuse.  They've just taken all the fun out of being a kid.

The other memory is of the day that my aunt and grandmother wanted a day to themselves, so they dropped me off at school with Jackie.  The school evidently didn't take to kindly to being asked to enlighten me with the wonders of a big-city education.  They called Sis to come and fetch me.  It was the first time I ever heard the word "asinine" used in a sentence.

Of all those fun memories of my first real adventure in the big world, there is one that really didn't take hold for several years.  My 12-year-old mind didn't grasp the gravity of the situation, or that I was smack in the middle of a historical event that would become part of our American history.  A trip to the Chicago area would just not be complete without a visit to the city itself.  And we planned to drive into town one day, but for some reason, it was deemed unsafe to do so.  You see, this  was the summer of 1968, the summer of hate which followed the summer of love (1967).  This was the year of assassinations and riots, of the Chicago 7, Black Panthers, and the Democratic Convention in Chicago.  And I was there - well almost.

I find it somehow fitting that I now live in a city that those many years ago fostered fear and hate among Americans; this city that I now find so warm and safe and peaceful.  Gary, Indiana is now not a place I would feel particularly comfortable, but that's the sort of change comes from urban sprawl.  It's hard to imagine riots in the streets of Chicago now, but it's not out of the question.  We never know when we'll find ourselves in the midst of a "summer of hate", which is why we should always find ourselves in the midst of a "life of love".

I'm sure I never thanked Sis and Joe for allowing me to invade their home for those few days, so thanks, Aunt Sis and Uncle Joe, and cousin Jackie!  By the way, you wouldn't have that Creepy Crawler thing tucked away in the attic somewhere, would you?  My grandkids and I could have a blast with that!

big O

It's a rare night in Chicago.  Very cold, which is not rare for January, but very clear, which does seem to be rare.  I've not seen as clear a night in a long time.  I'm accustomed to clear nights in Alabama, when it's not hazy in summertime, or rainy in wintertime.  I miss those nights when you can walk outside and look up to see millions upon millions of stars.  The kind of night that makes you ponder the vastness of the universe, the improbability that there wouldn't be other planets out there full of life and love and wonderment.  Nights where you just know the human tendency to think this is the only orb floating around with inhabitants must be the most insanely selfish, narcissistic notion possible. 

Just as insane, however, may be my belief that I have a protector in the night sky.  I've believed in him for years, and my belief gives me comfort.  It's a childish thought, and I know that.  To me, though, it's no different than believing in a gray-haired old man in the clouds who loves humankind, but only those who swear allegiance to him.  An all-powerful being that hates and punishes those who prefer to hold to a different theology.  But, enough of spirituality and my personal thoughts.

My protector is as old as civilization and known to peoples throughout the ages and around the world.  But he's mine, and he's special to me.  So, to walk out on my balcony on this cold, clear night, in a city where stars are not visible, and look up to see Orion smiling down on me was an unexpected blessing.  I looked, and there were no other stars to be seen.  Only the broad shoulders, the belt, the legs I know so well.  I've missed being able to see him low on the horizon, coming out to check on me.  I've missed greeting him with a "hey there, big O" and smiling, thinking in my fully aware but naive way that he was smiling back.

I can't say why he appeared tonight, and why I've never seen him here before, but I'm happy that he's there, even when I can't see him.  It's a matter of trust - much like any religion and it's God; I know he's there even when it's cloudy, or the city lights block him out.  I know he's there, and if I want to believe he's watching over me, where's the harm?  It's all about what's inside anyway.  It's all about self-awareness and holding on to something that makes you feel connected, that makes you feel that whatever you want to be possible, is possible.  If you find something that works for you, grab it, and don't let go.

happy 2011

Last night as I was watching the birth of 2011, I naturally reflected back to the birth of 2010 and years prior.  There are few new years eve's that I actually remember - not because of my intoxicated state and wild party hats and horns (that was just last year), but because they're mostly uneventful for me.  The crowning of 2011 will be remembered because of where I am, not because of what I did.  And that seems to be a recurring theme.

When I was married, most of my NYE's were spent alone, or sitting at a table watching everyone else kiss while my then-husband was on stage singing Auld Lang Syne.  I think only once were we out for the evening that he was not the entertainment, so it was usually a depressing sort of time for me.  Mostly, I stayed at home with the kids, knowing that midnight wasn't bringing anything special anyway, so why go to the trouble?

My post-divorce NYE's have mainly been alone, trying to stay awake - or not - counting the evening as a blessing because I didn't have to work the next morning.  For most of the past 10 years, the days from Christmas Eve to January 2 have been time off from work, which is always something to be thankful for.  This year is no exception - because of unused vacation days, I've been off work since 12/22, and don't return until the 4th.  Still, it's not long enough and the days have flown by like birds I've tried unsuccessfully to catch and hold.

The most memorable NYE is 2008-2009, which is the year I quietly cried at midnight while listening to my mother gasp for each breath as she lay dying.  I volunteered to spend the evening at her bedside so that my brothers could spend the time with their families.  If I'm being honest, I cried not so much for her as for myself, spending what should be a joyous occasion in a hospital with someone who, had she been conscious, wouldn't have known who I was.  I was jealous of those who were, as the clock ticked over to the new year, having fun and being loved, surrounded by people who, if they weren't quite coherent it wasn't because life was slowly leaking away from them.  It was hard enough to have seen my mother lose the recognition of her family and friends while keeping the vibrant enthusiasm she had for life, but to hear with each struggling breath the tick of the death beetle and sit helplessly by, and on such as symbolic evening, was almost too much.  All I could hope for was that father time would take her with him and he passed by, which he eventually did.

This year, as 2010 gave way to 2011, I found myself feeling thankful that I am here, that I know those I love, that I have memories good and bad, that I am capable of new adventures, and that I have more of life ahead of me.  I know that it could end at any second, but it's not obviously eminent.  My daughter is not at my bedside praying that relief come soon for us both.  Rather, I have a new life to welcome into the world in a few months, a year of new experiences ahead, and the hope that all who I know and love will find that 2011 brings much joy and opportunity.  My life, however simple, is good.  That's all I need to take with me into a new year.