IslandRoar

Spin Cycle: Valentine's Day

Senior year of high school my BFF and I planned a romantic Valentine's dinner for our boyfriends.

We held the event at BFF's house because her mother would be out with her own boyfriend. And frankly, my parents were hovering pains-in-the-neck who hated when I used the kitchen, and would rather die than do anything that might encourage my (in their opinion) out-of-control relationship with my boyfriend.

BFF and I didn't want to waste lots of time cooking, if you know what I mean. No, seriously, we were coming straight from play rehearsal and elected to use any spare moments in preparing ourselves rather than the food. We were, after all, 17.

The main course was pizza. We cut the dough in the shape of a huge heart. Adorable, I know. Homemade apple pie for dessert. A lot harder to make that crust heart-shaped, but we tried. 

When the pie was ready we displayed it on a heart-shaped platter with a very carefully chosen assortment of candy hearts arranged around it, their tiny, endearing words intended  as one long, suggestive love note. Which of course we read out loud to them in tandem when the time came to serve dessert.

We were nothing if not age-appropriately sentimental.

The lights were low, candles lit, and a fire in the fireplace. There was no alcohol, since we had no idea when BFF's mother was due home.

I know my boyfriend and I exchanged gifts, and I'd love to say I remember what they were, but I don't. What I do remember is the knot in my stomach when he asked why wasn't I wearing his class ring, a ring I'd had in my possession for a year and half, and one that, only days before, I'd discovered I'd misplaced.

I managed to bluff my way out that night, and avoid confessing that I had no idea where the damned ring was.

I believe I may have been saved by BFF's mom returning home and commencing immediately to blow out candles and turn on lights, glaring at the four of us like we were frolicking naked in a hot tub rather than reading sappy love notes written with candy hearts.

The odd addendum to all this is that BFF had no memory of this night whatsoever when I tried to remind her of it recently. How Twilight Zone is that?

Now she's got to come up with some equally spectacular thing we once did that I have no memory of.

Hear that, BFF? The clock is ticking...

 

For more Valentine's Spins, go visit Sprite's Keeper. And give her my love.

 

 

New Year's Eve

New Year's Eve celebrations were tailor made for night owls like me. And some of mine have been rather memorable.

But this year I spent it completely alone. It was kind of weird.

It's not that there's always been a party. But if I was stuck without plans, at least one or two of my three kids were sure to be home, celebrating with or without their friends, running in at midnight to embrace and steal a sip of my champagne.

Not this year. First-Born Son and Daughter #1 were gone for the night with friends, Daughter #2 off at a New Year's sleepover.

And me? Well, no champagne this year. Instead I had a hot date with Netflix and a chocolate mousse brownie. Then I lay in bed and watched the ball drop in Times Square.

I wondered, did my parents feel this way when, one year, my New Year's Eve plans exceeded their own? Perhaps.

Yet it's different when there's two of you. You laugh at or with one another, and settle in for another boring night at home. Together.

It's not that I don't have friends. But they were off-island or with family. Or spending that boring night at home with their spouses.

I hesitate to even write all this down. I don't want anybody feeling sorry for me. Even though I might possibly feel just a wee bit sorry for myself.

Maybe not sorry, actually. Maybe just disappointed. I expect more. I want more. Dick Clark  himself would be hard-pressed to call this New year's Eve "Rockin'."

I'm not really worried about this becoming a habit, however. I like my late nights and social gathrings too much to settle for that.

And seriously, a New Year's Eve like this one is pretty much guaranteed to come along only once in a blue moon, right?

 

Transitioning...

I kept the key to my old NJ house on my key chain for eight years after I moved to Martha's Vineyard.

I've said it before: I'm not good with transitions.

Oh, I'm a big girl now. I manage. I just need a little time for internal processing.

There is artwork on various walls in my house that my kids made in school years ago. I like knowing it's there.

Since last June I've kept a decoration from Daughter #1's high school graduation party on the mantel. After she left for college I enjoyed looking at it even more. It reminded me of a safer past, when she was still living at home, secure under my watchful eye.

I finally banished it before she arrived for Thanksgiving. But only because I knew she would mock me.

2010 is upon us and every TV channel seems to be hosting a retrospective, looking back on this, the first decade of a still sparkling new millennium.

Is it really ten years since we partied "like it's 1999?" I still possess my very tacky and beloved 2000 glasses from that celebration. Can it already be time to ring in a new decade?

When your kids have one-and-a-half feet out the door and you're at this midpoint in life, some days every breath you take seems to be a transition of some sort. Emotionally. Mentally. Physically.

I'm trying to give myself a break. Requiring a few extra moments to ruminate before moving on isn't always a bad thing.

On the window sill above my kitchen sink is a small heart-shaped vase. In it are the very dried remains of the last few asters I snipped from my garden in October before the frost.

Their presence is a gesture, a tangible reminder of what, after a long gray winter, will inevitably return.

I may just keep them there until I cut my first bunch of daffodils. Or perhaps I'll toss them tomorrow.

But today, I like knowing they're there.

 

Enjoy your New Year's celebrations everyone! See you here in 2010.

 

 

"Mother Mary"

When my kids were younger and we lived in New Jersey, our church organized a Christmas pageant each Christmas Eve for the children's mass. An older child read the Christmas Gospel while an assortment of small shephards and angels, Wise Men and innkeepers, made their way down the aisle to the altar.

By the time First-Born Son was in third grade he was one of the older kids. He'd only stuck it out this long because he aspired to be Joseph.

There was one short "rehearsal" two days before the pageant, during which the parts were announced and costumes sorted out. To keep the whole thing fair, parents were allowed no input as to what part their child might receive.

I sat with the other moms and dads, trying not to pump my fist and exclaim "Yes!" when First-Born Son scored the role of Joseph.

The director then announced which little girl would be blessed with the part of Mary. The lucky child looked to be about seven. Her mother beamed with pride but the girl looked downright alarmed.

"No," she said. "I can't do it."

"Are you sure?" the director asked kindly.

The little girl nodded.

"Wait," her mother sputtered frantically. "Let me just talk to her."

But it was too late. The director consulted her list and announced another name.

"Daughter #1," she said. "Would you like to be Mary?"

Daughter #1 stood next to her brother, much too far away for me to nudge her and say, "Of course you would."

She was only five. I'd had no idea she was even in the running for Mary. There'd been no warning, no time for me to prep her to eagerly pounce on this role of a lifetime.

I held my breath, frozen, and tried to interpret her stoic little face. But her body language gave not a clue.

I needn't have feared. Already Daughter #1's competitive spirit had kicked into gear. She wasn't about to let this golden opportunity pass her by.

"What do you think?" the director prodded. She looked back down at her list. But without so much as a glance in my direction, D #1 gave one quick emphatic nod.

Discreetly I collected their costumes and shooed them out the door. I think some neurotic part of me feared that if the director realized her Mary and Joseph were actually sister and brother, she might rescind the offer.

Over my dead body.

Christmas Eve arrived. Mary and Joseph walked solemnly down the aisle and sat on either side of their baby-doll Jesus as he lay in the manger.

From our seats in the congregation, my mother and I exchanged wicked grins of delight. I was so proud.

Never had something so wrong seemed so very, very right.

 

 

Winter Solstice

 
  

It's 12 years this month that The Ex and I split.

Yes, I asked him to leave in December. Nice timing, huh? But really, there's never a good time for these things, so December it was.

I hadn't thought about the darkness. How it descends the first three weeks of December and hovers like a mo' fo'.

My kids were 3, 6, and 10. Dinnertime was the hardest. For some reason, planning what to make, getting it ready and on the table, then sliding into the cleanup, homework, bath and bedtime ritual, seemed, for a long while, hopelessly overwhelming.

I had to find ways to let in the light.

I began collecting recipes, planning menus. Playing music at dinner. The kids took turns picking the CD's. One night might be West Side Story, the next, Britney Spears.

We'd raise the volume while everyone helped clear the table, even three year-old Daughter #2. Most nights we wound up dancing. I'd grab a kid and jitterbug. Or tango. Daughter #1 would tap. It was amazingly therapeutic.

Still, the darkness hovered.

I stole an idea from some woman's magazine on celebrating the winter solstice, the shortest, darkest day of the year. I planned carefully.

Each older child was allowed to invite one friend. We lit a fire and ate dinner (homemade pizzas they topped themselves) by candlelight.

Everyone had to pick a poem from one of our many books of children's poetry. Preferably one about winter or the dark or the light. But any one would do. Each child read their poem at the table by the light of the candle flames. I read Daughter #2's. Then one I wrote myself.

I'm not sure if they got it. But they listened to me, to each other, respectfully. Suddenly kids were begging to read "one more" poem. Then another.

"We celebrate because today we've made it through the darkest day of the year," I told them. "Every day after this, the sun will move a little bit closer, and there will be a little more light. The days will grow longer and longer. Right up until the first day of summer."

It became a tradition. Each year: a friend, candles, poetry. I worried there might be some grumbling in high school. Instead, 16 year-old boys shrugged, decided to stay for dinner, and pored through books, looking for a poem.

Some of those other traditions that pulled me through survive to this day. Whenever all three kids are home, they still take turns picking our dinner music. And we frequently find ourselves dancing during cleanup.

And yes, it's still amazingly therapeutic.

 

Spin Cycle: Holiday Baking

When the kids were little I wanted to pass on the tradition of making Christmas cookies. They loved mixing the ingredients and decorating with colored sprinkles.

Neighbors gifted us with their holiday treats and we'd pack up some of our cookies to return the favor.

Over the years I tried new recipes. If they were a success we added them to the list of regulars. I gave cookies to neighbors and friends, people at work, the UPS man and the guy at the post office. I boxed them up and sent them to relatives.

Somewhere along the line I became a machine. A possessed, compulsive, cookie-making machine.

There are at least 10 types of cookies that must be baked to avoid loud squeals of dismay from the three adult-sized children in my life. Not including the buttermilk brownies, ginger muffins, cream cheese brownie bites, and chocolate cream pie.

I enjoy all this baking. Really. I do. And my kids are aware that, if they want to partake of their favorites, they need to pitch in with the process. Daughter #2 is a champion whipping up dough. Daughter #1 is a decorating queen. First-Born Son, these days, is mainly a taste-tester. Sexist, I know.

This year I am trying to restrain myself. A little. Maybe I don't need to populate the entire world with cookies. Maybe a few close friends and family are enough.

It's so easy to take a good thing and turn it into a weapon of self-torture. But with age has come wisdom.

If my cookie making starts to drive me a little crazy, that's kind of defeating the whole purpose, right?

My family and friends deserve to enjoy not just my baking this holiday season, but a merry, more relaxed me. Wouldn't you agree?

For more Spins on Holiday Baking that may actually include some recipes go visit Sprite's Keeper.

 

Flying Solo

This weekend I'm going to the one big formal holiday party I'm invited to each year.

By myself.

You don't get invited to many social events when you're divorced. I'm not trying to induce any pity here. It's just a fact.

I have some very good friends, and if they're having a pot-luck or a barbecue they'll be sure to include me. But when people decide to go out to dinner or have a drink at a restaurant or see a movie, it's generally a couples thing.

Two years ago when I was dating someone for a relatively long period of time I had many more invitations. Which is ironic, because I'm much more in need of a social life when I''m not dating and I'm by myself.

Nobody means to be cruel. I'm sure they don't think twice about it. It's one of society's best kept little secrets.

But this one party I am invited to each year requires flashing your invitation at the door to get in. I was lucky enough to land a spot on this mysterious "list" several years ago while I was working with one of the several people who host the affair (herself a single divorced woman). They key to remaining on the guest list, apparently, is that you must attend the party.

So I have. And, every year but one, I've attended it alone.

The first time I did this I thought I would throw up.

Go to a fancy party alone? The idea of merely walking in the door made me want to run home, grab some Haagen-Dazs, and break out the Netflix. It's not that I don't love parties. I do. But I'd never attended this kind of affair solo.

Two of my married friends, who themselves coveted a spot on the guest list, took me under their wing. One loaned me a vintage black wool halter dress that had belonged to her mother-in-law in the 60's. The other sent over several beautiful pieces of costume jewelry for me to choose from.

It may seem neurotic to think people turn and look when you enter such a soiree alone. But believe me, they do.

I headed straight for the bar. It was like being back in college, that feeling that I was capable of bridging any social barrier if I had a beer in my hand. Except now it was cabernet.

Martha's Vineyard is a small place, especially in winter. There were a lot of people there I knew. Everyone was dressed to the nines, a sight to behold here any time of year, take my word for it.

There was makeup, heels, men in actual suits and ties, tuxedos and gowns even. It felt a little like we were all Cinderella, transformed somehow from our every day selves by magic to attend the ball.

I wasn't prepared for the first comment on my flying solo.

"You're here alone?" an acquaintance boldly exclaimed. Then she patted me on the arm enthusiastically. "Good for you!"

I wish I could say she was the only one.

To be honest, some years it would be easier to stay home. But it's kind of become a challenge I feel I must rise to year after year.

I always end up having a good time. And I always leave feeling a little stronger, a little more whole in my self.

And, of course, I'm always happy to realize I've clinched my spot on the guest list for at least one more year.

 

Santa Did What?

I decorated the house for Christmas last week.

I was pretty proud of myself. Usually I wind up storing away whole rooms worth of photos, vases, and multiple other assorted knickknacks, in the quest to spread Christmas cheer throughout the first floor of my house.

I get this inclination from my mother. Every holiday season growing up, each square inch of our house screamed Ho-Ho-Ho. To be fair, it was the 70's; a lot of things were extreme, especially in the decorating department.

But thinking back, our house looked like Santa threw up in it. Seriously. That is, if Santa's throw-up contained tinsel and a vast assortment of shiny and/or red and green holiday kitsch.

The sad part is I loved it. And as soon as I had independent space of my own, I tried my merry best to emulate it: my college dorm room, first apartment, and later, my house.

By the time I came to my senses several years ago, it was too late. My children, near-grown though they may be, are attached to the decorations like Rudolph to his nose.

My casual assertions of, "I think we'll scale back this year," have been met with strong reaction.

"No, you can't! It's tradition. You'll destroy the very foundation upon which our childhood security and future happiness rests."

Okay, maybe they don't say those exact words, but the implication is clear.

This year however, two of them are away at college. They'll return shortly before Christmas, happy merely to be home and basking in the warm glow of my motherly love and affection.

At least, that's what I'm counting on. See, I decorated while the only remaining child, Daughter #2, was at school. And I cleverly managed to fill a whole box with things I no longer care to display.

The best part is, she hasn't noticed a thing. I've got my fingers crossed her siblings will be equally oblivious (Daughter #2, if you're reading this, pay no attention to these silly words. I would never deceive my own children. And besides, you know everything I write here is a complete lie).

So what do I plan on doing with that box of discarded holiday cheer? Why, pass it on to my own offspring of course.

I wouldn't want to deprive them of one day experiencing first hand the joy of Santa's throwing up Christmas tradition right in their very own homes.

 

Spin Cycle: Wish List

 

What do I wish for? Ha! A better question might be what don't I wish for?

I know admitting I wish for anything is probably mucho politically incorrect. So let me say right up front: I love my family and I'm grateful to be blessed with my wonderful life, blah blah blah...

Now that that's out of the way, I have to say it'd be really nice to replace the crappy carpeting in my house with hardwood floors. What were the people who built this place thinking! And on that same note, tile for the kitchen and the bathroom, because apparently they considered that a luxury as well.

While I'm on a roll, let me add a hot tub and a sex life (I don't believe the two have to be mutually exclusive), and a car that runs so that people won't actually laugh at me or want to scream obscenities about me murdering the environment when I drive by.

And how about a MacBook, a Kindle, and an ass you could bounce a quarter off of (they exist, I know they do. Ask Twenty Four; she sees them every day in Money Town).

Let me not forget a successful writing career, generous stock dividends, and children who are cheerful, always polite, and eternally grateful.

Wow, I'm exhausted. Who knew being shallow was this consuming?

Of course, I'd have to tag onto the end: no more wars or hate or poverty, and public acceptance by all world leaders that women really are the superior sex. No wish list would be complete without those.

Anything else?

No, actually, I think that'll do.

 

For more inspired and infinitely more generous wish lists, go see Sprite's Keeper. I really wish you would.

 

Spin Cycle: Holiday Newsletters

 

Let me preface this by saying that I have, on occasion, sent out holiday newsletters and I may again some day in the far off future. I receive a couple each year and I'm always eager to find out what people are up to. But let's face it, some newsletters read more like an ostentatious listing of Can You Top This rather than a warm friendly note of catch-up.

This then, is my tongue-in-cheek version of how one such holiday newsletter might read. I know none of you would EVER send out anything even remotely like this...

 

To all our wonderful friends and family,

Can you believe another year has rolled by? If not for the photos of little Chloe's Yale graduation (magna cum laude of course,) and the new addition to our summer "cottage" finally being complete (see photos on other side), it wouldn't seem possible.

In this time of financial hardship for so many, we're blessed that Tim has received not one but two promotions. His Christmas bonus will just about cover next year's college tuition for the twins. Hughie, that little braniac, got into Harvard and is cruising toward clinching class valedictorian. But poor Louie is another story. He was wait-listed at Princeton and it looks like he may have to settle for either Brown or Columbia.

Baby Stewie is now president of his middle school class and captain of both his soccer and basketball teams, as well as first chair cello in the orchestra. He's raising funds for a class trip to Every-Country-in-Europe and he'd really appreciate it if you could purchase some candy or wrapping paper to show him you care (brochure enclosed).

Tim's work keeps him so busy that he's only been able to compete in three triathlons this year. His new BMW is small consolation. And Peg is her usual hectic self, running the PTA and the Junior League. But she still manages to volunteer at the hospital AND do her weekly Meals-on-Wheels deliveries. Her new organic beauty-care product-line has been a huge success (website below). You should definitely check it out!

Well, we hope everyone's had a terrific year. We're sorry we didn't get a chance to see you all, but with our Family Volunteer Vacation to rebuild New Orleans in February, and our two short weeks cruising the Virgin Islands in April, time just seems to fly by. Maybe next year...

If you're ever up this way please give us a call. Barring scheduling conflicts, we can meet for coffee or brunch at your hotel. Or maybe a drink at the airport before you leave. That will give us a chance to really catch you up on our lives!

Sincerely, The Mimi-Mee Family

 

For more heartfelt and less jaded Spins on holiday newsletters, check out Sprite's Keeper.

 

Spin Cycle: Being Thankful

Every year at the holidays my Grandma would sit at the head of the table and gaze fondly out over her very full plate of dinner to the faces of her loved ones spread out before her on either side of the table.

She'd be cajoled into making the first toast and she always said the same thing. "I'm just so happy to have my family gathered around me."

At this, her four grown children would start to laugh. "Oh Mother, here you go again."

They would wave their hands dismissively, the broad smiles on their faces giving away how happy they really were to hear Grandma's predictably mushy words.

These last years, my parents generally fly to Arizona on Thanksgiving to my sister's. With no family nearby, I, like many others, spend the holiday with friends.

They are my neighbors. My Vineyard family. They watch our pets when we go on vacation. They bring us food when we're sick. Our seven children think of one another as cousins.

We have Thanksgiving at their house and then Christmas at our's. We've been doing this for years.

On Thursday they'll make the turkey. The Ex brings his mashed potatoes. I arrive laden in desserts. Pumpkin pie, apple crisp with vanilla ice cream, holiday cookies. Sometimes there are miscellaneous friends or family members in attendance. Every year is a little different but the core remains the same.

It will be the first time since August that all three of my children are gathered together at one table. I will look out over our bountiful spread to these faces I so love and, as always, I'll think of my Grandma.

I didn't get it all those years ago. I thought she was being overly sentimental. But I get it now.

Oh yeah, I'm right there with you Grandma.

 

For more Spins, go visit Sprite's Keeper. Jen always gives us something to be thankful for, no?

 

 

Mischief Night

 
Spin Cycle: Halloween

Do they call the night before Halloween "Mischief Night" where you live?

Back in New Jersey, Mischief Night was big. People left their porch lights on and listened for bands of roving kids in the dark, looking to smash pumpkins and armed with toilet paper, shaving cream, or eggs. Police cars cruised the streets.

Growing up in northern New Jersey, our town actually called it "Cabbage Night." And no, I have no idea why. One theory was that the name stemmed from farming days when kids would trash the fields and throw around the cabbages. But who knows?

My mother took Cabbage Night very seriously. We were not allowed out of the house, and she would sit in the dark at the front windows of our house, guarding it from potential marauders.

My sister and I would be up in our rooms seething, furious that we couldn't hit the streets with at least a roll of toilet paper. But then one year it was rumored boys were roaming around spraying Nair on girls' heads instead of shaving cream, causing them to lose their hair. Cabbage Night participants were urged by the authorities to stay home or, if they must venture out, to at least cover their hair with a hat.

Although we personally never knew anyone this happened to, the mere suggestion of losing our hair was enough to stop our complaining for at least several years.

Mischief Night is pretty nonexistent on the Vineyard. I don't know if this is just the island or all of New England. Any shenanigans out here tend to occur on Halloween night.

Trick or Treating is usually over before 9 pm, but the police stay on alert for possible paint ball incidents or teenagers plotting a dramatic "rumble in the park," both of which have occurred (but were quickly subdued) since I moved here nine Halloweens ago.

What's the protocol in your neck of the woods? Any shaving cream or toilet paper streamers decorating the trees in your past?

For more Halloween Spins, check out the treats over at Sprite's Keeper.

Trick or Treat

Halloween may be the one night of the year I wish I still lived in New Jersey.

It's not that it isn't a big deal on the Vineyard. It is. Shops are open for the little ones to Trick or Treat during the day, and there are Halloween parties everywhere.

Our favorite was always at the Ag Hall where families get to take a hayride in a horse-drawn wagon, down the pitch black road and through the old West Tisbury cemetery. There, police officers and firefighters wait, dressed in spooky costumes, ready to jump out from behind the tombstones and chase the wagon as everyone on board screams in horrified delight.

People who live in Tisbury decorate their homes, eagerly awaiting the throngs of kids who hit "town" at dusk to Trick or Treat. Parents walk around with their kids right on through middle school and often in costume themselves.

I was a little nervous our first year as I watched my kids disappearing with the others into house after house. That's a major no-no where I come from. But here people have haunted houses set up inside, or baskets full of candy waiting for the kids to choose from. Older folks keep buckets of change by the door, reminding the kids to whip out their Unicef boxes.

But all that happens in town. Out where I live, the houses are far apart and well off the road. There aren't any Trick or Treaters. And, although many kids, including all of mine, Trick or treat all the way through high school here, I haven't been a participant for the past two years.

In New Jersey, a bunch of us met with our kids shortly after school and Trick or Treated in our suburban neighborhood. Then we'd head home in the dark, light up the jack-o-lanterns, and enjoy the next phase of the night: answering the door and handing out the candy.

I miss that. Now I sit home and wait to pick up my daughter and her friends, and watch them spread their loot out on the floor to count it. If I'm lucky, she'll toss me a mini Milky Way or Snickers bar.

Is Halloween a big deal where you live? What's your favorite part?

Here's hoping you have your share of Tricks AND Treats!

Spin Cycle: Tradition

 

This is a story about a man and his flashlight.

When I was growing up, my father's flashlight was legendary. Every night he put the house to bed, turning out the lights and locking the doors. Then he would switch on his flashlight to check on me and my sister.

Mostly we were asleep, but I have memories of lying there, with my eyes squinted shut in the darkness, as the beam of his flashlight played across the room. It made us feel secure and loved; nothing could go wrong while my father was on duty.

For a time, my sister and I shared a room with bunk beds. One night I tossed my prized stuffed doll up at her on the top bunk. As she dangled it back down the side at me, we both pulled on it and an arm tore off.

I was devastated. I lay there, forcing my eyes to stay open, waiting for my father to make his rounds and check on us before he went to bed. Finally the door knob turned and the light hit me, awake in my bunk. In tears, I held out the doll and its amputated limb.

My mother had that arm reattached by the time I woke up the next morning.

One of our holiday traditions, and one that I've continued with my own kids, was for my father to read us The Night Before Christmas every Christmas Eve. Except that he did it by flashlight, while we lay in bed in the dark. He did the same thing the night before Easter, with our big book Here Comes Peter Cottontail.

He was the parent in charge of bad dreams. When I awoke, trembling, and called out, my father would appear, his flashlight lighting the way. He never seemed tired or impatient as he sat on the bed, talking to me in the flickering darkness until I felt safe enough to go back to sleep. It was a side of him I seldom saw during daylight hours.

Me, I don't use flashlights very often. I have a couple around for blackouts, yet I'm more of a feel-my-way-around-in-the-dark-kind of girl.

But when Daughter #2 and I were down in Florida staying with my parents last year, and I saw my father still using one every night as he closes up the house, the memories came flooding back. My daughter did not understand how I could be sentimental over a flashlight.

But I knew, without a doubt, that I would sleep safe and sound the whole time I was there.

 

Now go on over to Sprite's Keeper to check out some other Spins on Tradition.

Live and Learn

 

Live and Learn, one of the oldest expressions in the proverbial book of life, no?

But have you ever learned something that changed how you've viewed a specific experience for almost a decade?

The last autumn we lived in New Jersey, my son was invited to a friend's bar mitzvah. It wasn't a really good friend, but we'd known him for a few years from scouts. I'd only met his parents once. They were older and had immigrated years ago from Russia. First-Born Son always described them as "a little weird."

I knew the bar mitzvah gift of choice was cash, but I wasn't sure how much to write the check for. I consulted a friend of mine who's Jewish. This friend had grown up essentially without any religion, but when she married her Jewish husband, she was drawn to the rich history and tradition of his faith, and she converted.

I told her I thought $25 was too little, but $50 seemed a lot. "How about $35?" I compromised. "I don't want to insult anybody."

"That's good," she told me. "You won't insult anyone."

So F-B Son goes to the bar mitzvah and has a great time. Life is good.

Then, a month later, F-B Son has his friends over for his 13th birthday. Mostly, they bring gifts.  But the bar mitzvah-boy brings a check, signed by his mother, for $36.

What the hell? I give $35 and she turns around and has to give one dollar more? What's that about?

Again I consult my friend, but she's as confused as I am. And, for the last nine years, I've assumed I made some major cultural faux pas and insulted this woman enough to make her feel the need to return my money to me, plus one dollar.

Until last week.

I was flipping through a new book at the library (yes, I was supposed to be working; don't tell anyone). The book was Bad Mother by Ayelet Waldman, and in the introduction she explains that in Hebrew, every letter has a number value.

And the letters that spell life, or chai, equal 18. So Jewish monetary gifts are often given in multiples of 18, to symbolize life.

Thus F-B Son's check for $36. This Russian Jewish woman had not been insulted. She had been giving my son a gift steeped in tradition.

And I hadn't had a clue.

Live and learn.

Spin Cycle: Birthdays and Anniversaries

I did not have birthday parties when I was a kid. My mother always said that, since my birthday was in August, it was pointless to have a party because everybody was "on vacation." I didn't question this until I got a little older and noticed that we were the only family on my block who ever vacationed in August. Oh well.

The only exceptions to this were: when I was nine, and got to bring three friends to see 101 Dalmatians, then sit on the curb and eat ice cream at Dairy Queen; and when I turned 13 and had three friends sleep over. We went rollerskating and then played Strip Poker in my living room where our sleeping bags were laid out.

And, if I recall correctly, my sister spied on us and threatened to tell my parents about the Strip Poker, and I had to promise her my first-born child, or punch her really hard, or something like that, to keep her quiet. It's all a little fuzzy.

But I was never bitter about the lack of birthday parties. I mean, it wasn't like I didn't have food or a roof over my head, right? And, although there were no parties, there were presents, so I wasn't about to complain.

But deep down I secretly longed for a surprise party. It just seems like people really have to love you an awful lot to go to all that trouble. I'd given a few surprise parties in my life, but I'd never been lucky enough to be on the receiving end.

Until three years ago, on my 45th birthday. I thought I was going out to have lobster ravioli at my favorite island restaurant with my kids. My daughters and I had just gotten home from the Fair, and my son greeted us in the driveway.

"Come quick," he said. "There are baby ducks in the pool. They're so cute. Hurry!"

I know; you can't believe I fell for the old "baby ducks in the pool" routine. But when we lived in New Jersey, each summer this mama duck laid her eggs in the bushes at our swim club. Then she'd parade her little tribe up to the pool and they'd take their first swim in the lap lane. My kids thought this was the cutest thing. We looked forward to it every year.

So you see why I fell for it. I followed my son around to the backyard, where my pool is surrounded by a tall, ugly, gray wooden fence. And when I barreled through the gate, everyone shocked the hell out of me, yelling "Surprise!"

My wonderful friend and neighbor Karen, who knew of my secret longing for just such a party, had planned the whole thing. There was food and Mai Tai's and a cake.

And yes, I am happy and relieved to say there were presents. Because even though I know you're not supposed to care about the gifts, I am just shallow enough and immature enough, that I still do. They don't have to be big or expensive or fancy. They just have to Be.

It was the best birthday. Ever. Although I have to admit, I was a little bummed there weren't any baby ducks.


Now go read some more Spins on Birthdays or Anniversaries at Sprite's Keeper. If you're lucky, maybe one of them has some baby ducks.

Number Patterns

Happy Birthday To Me

I turned 48 last week.

I'm not really into math, but I do have a thing for cool patterns with numbers. Especially when it comes to ages.

The twin double-digit ages (11, 22, 33, 44, etc) are fun in a bittersweet sort of way. Even if we live to be 100, there are still only nine of them.

How about if you could live to a triplet triple-digit age, like 111? Only, I think, if I could be aware enough to recognize the occasion. And healthy enough to eat cake.

I didn't realize until recently that 48 is the last age in another pattern: the second digit is twice the first. Only 12, 24, 36, and 48 meet this pattern.

But , if all goes well and I live to a ripe old age, I can still look forward to a couple of ages with the opposite pattern: where the first digit is twice the second, as in 21, 42, 63, and 84.

Ages marking the start of a new decade are always pretty loaded. Everyone talks about the trauma of turning 30, 40, 50, or 60. But I've actually embraced those I've experienced so far, except, that is, for 20. Somehow, no longer being a teenager was far more upsetting to me at the time than turning 30 was or turning 50 could possibly ever be.

Okay, so by now you're either bored out of your mind or you think I'm sort of obsessive-compulsive about numbers. Maybe a little.

Do any of you ever pick up on patterns in numbers, in ages or anything else? What ages have been markers in your lives? Are there any you faced with dread?

Remember the Clairol commercial years ago that said, "You're not getting older; you're getting better?" Some days I feel it's true.

And other days? Well, then I just feel my age.


I'll be away three days this week, off-island bringing Daughter #1 to college. I'll still be posting, but I'm not sure what the internet situation will be where I'm staying.  So if you don't hear from me, I'm still around and I'll be back on Friday. Wish me luck...

Firecracker, Firecracker...

Boom, Boom, Boom!

I've always loved fireworks. The best fireworks on the Vineyard are in Oak Bluffs every August, but the 4th of July fireworks in Edgartown each year are pretty good too.

This year my family was scattered in all directions for the 4th, and for the first time in a long time, I did not see any fireworks.

When the kids were little and we lived in New Jersey, every year we would go see the fireworks in Cranford. Folks walked around selling glow sticks and necklaces, there were booths with popcorn and ices for sale, and the lawn was always wall to wall blankets covered with people of all ages.

First-Born Son loved the fireworks but he hated the noise. Little did we know he was the first in line to exhibit what must be a gene-related fireworks-noise phobia, present in all my offspring. My ex soothed his hysteria by sticking a huge pair of padded earphones on his head.

I guess he looked a little silly. People couldn't help staring at him, running around in his red white and blue OshKosh overalls, waving his glow stick wildly, oblivious to the contraption on his head. But at least he was able to enjoy the fireworks without fear.

Then Daughter #1 came along. That first year she was an infant and nursed her way through the fireworks without fanfare, but year two she started to scream at the first bang. First-Born Son was only four, and there was no way we were yanking those headphones off him.

So D #1 and I were banished to the car. There I turned up the radio and danced her feet on the ceiling of the car in the attempt to distract her from the booming. I like to think somewhere in her brain she maintains a sweet memory of that night; I know it was a keeper for me.

By the next year, F-B Son was feeling like a big enough boy to gallantly pass along the headphones to D #1. And all was well.

Eventually, Daughter #2 arrived and grew old enough to exhibit the firework-freak-out gene. But D #1 was only four herself, and not ready to give up the sacred headphones. That year my ex took his turn in the car.

When she was two-and-a-half, we discovered D #2 had a congenital hearing loss. That precluded her need for the headphones on the 4th. Although she could still hear the fireworks, we realized if we simply turned off her hearing aids and left them in her ears, that worked just as well.

Looking back, I wonder if it's weird that we made the decision to plug up our children's ears, rather than forego the fireworks. But at the time the noise seemed to be the issue, and they appeared to sincerely delight in the visual display.

Nowadays we can all enjoy our fireworks minus the ear accoutrements. But I was a little sad this year. D #2 went off to view them with her father and some friends on the beach, and F-B Son was out and about with his pals. I actually sat on the couch in my PJ's, reading and listening to the far off booming. I may have felt a bit nostalgic, but I have to admit it was pretty rare and relaxing.

D #1 got home late from her babysitting job. The two little boys had been asleep in their beds during the fireworks, she reported. She had anxiously hovered outside their bedroom door, absolutely certain they would awaken and be terrified by the noise. But, wonder of wonders, they slept through the whole thing.

Clearly, I explained to her, they do NOT have the gene.