One summer day, many moons ago, my son, one of his besties, and two of my nephews saved the earth from invading All Terrain Armored Transport combat walkers. I am not a Star Wars geek…I just did a google search for Star Wars big white walking things. I could not tell you who the good guys are…and have no clue if the walkers were helping or harming. The only thing I do know is…this adventure happened.
The photo (enhanced by my Photoshop guru husband) is solely for those in the non-believing world. To the four kids on the beach, it is unnecessary proof of something they already knew…they lived it.
My son was born with the ability to make believe with the best of the make believers. He spent much of his childhood battling pirates, knights, and the dark side. He created complex stories and songs before he could clearly communicate with others…he didn’t mind, he would happily hang out in his head for hours at a time. A beautiful place.
He and his buddy could let go of this world and embrace the fantastic landscapes in their minds…where imagined creatures were friends, always treated as equals. Even more impressive was their ability to introduce these magical worlds to the little guys…inviting them to a place that so few can go.
I am feeling down, I want to see my son. I wish I had the ability to meet him on Tatooine and get a drink at the Cantina*. Maybe we will do that this weekend. One can dream.
*I googled Star Wars bar with Princess Leia in the bikini (don’t go there, there is a lot of drama about that bikini)…I then tried Star Wars bar…that search worked.
My heart is racing, everyone is watching. I run across the gym towards the person screaming really helpful advice…GO FASTER. I arrive, slap their hand, retreat to the back of the line…and wait for the next round of humiliation. Races, dodgeball, volleyball, oh my gosh, not my strength. When you are 9 you have not yet learned that you don’t need to be good at everything.
One competitive “sport” I am good at…getting tickets to events. I am a Broadway girl, I watch what is coming, read reviews, and like to think I know when to buy. Actually that is not true. I had no desire to watch a musical history lesson, Alexander who…sigh…I learned the hard way on that one.
Because of my emotional investment in live theater…I cherish the ability to see favorite shows more than once. My friend took me to HAIR for my birthday, two shorties, last row of the orchestra, happily sitting on the back of our seats. Not missing a beat, on the train ride home, I scoured for the perfect tickets for my crew. First row aisle for two, and a bit further back for any who might be embarrassed by the nudity…divide and conquer. Our daughter, in her flower power shirt and ridiculously long pigtails, interacted with the cast throughout the show…doing what she does best, celebrating life.
In 2001, my sister-in-law told us to see the movie Hedwig and the Angry Inch, “the little boy dancing on the bed IS Jacob”. When we finally got to view the rental, we laughed until we cried. At that time in our lives, post bath time was show time…Jacob singing King of the Road or performing some other completely over the top musical number. Feetsie pjs, thick lisp, heart felt belting, the bed his stage…a dramatic finale…spin, bounce, and collapse.
When I found out Neil Patrick Harris was going to star in Hedwig on Broadway I became obsessed. Our kids were grown, they knew the story and music well…we were going. Rumor was that tickets for the NPH run would be gone before noon. Sale day arrived, alarms set, credit cards ready…it was a living hell. I watched in horror as the theater filled up day after day. In need (want) of specific seats, I decided to once again, to divide and conquer…which meant two different transactions. I could feel the pulse behind my eyes…wait, what smells so bad…oh my gosh, it’s me. Focus woman, GO FASTER! Scroll, enter, send…now repeat for ticket purchase number two. I got them, I did it. The joy, the relief, the pride.
Pride will always come back to bite you in the ass. When sharing my epic adventure at dinner…to the completely unemotional and unimpressed members of my family…they asked the logical question, when are we going. I took out the tickets and realized that in the stressful flurry…I had purchased tickets for two different days. So much for a family experience. So much for acing it. So much for pride. So much for anyone noticing the feat I accomplished, which was a feat…even with the little bump in the plans.
Yesterday I once again experienced the panic of online ticket purchases. Vaccines became available for teachers, aides in schools, and those over 75…three of my people fit those descriptions. I researched, scoured social media, and had a buddy to share info with…I was ready. Very late the night before appointments were to go live, I noticed that people were already getting appointments. I created accounts for my people and filled in questionnaires…scroll, enter, send…oh my gosh Katharine, GO FASTER, this time it actually matters.
Three appointments scored in the South Bronx…not perfect, but what is? Early the next morning we found out there were appointments closer to home…so we redid it all including cancelling the South Bronx. Next, sending the information to friends and family…never be greedy with information, always take care of your peeps.
Exhausted after staying up way past my bedtime for vaccine grab round one, and waking up extra early for the redo…I was fried. I am not sure tickets to any Broadway show will ever be worth experiencing that stress again. The icing on the day-o-stress cake…after witnessed people panicking at the lack of available appointments…my Olivia called me “Mom, I just want to say thank you. You always look out for us and do what ever you can to get us what we need. Thanks for that.”
Last week I read an article about the blizzard of ’96, and given the other events happening…it was a nice diversion, a reason to remember. In 1996 I was pregnant with my first child, I had just bought a business, and I was working beyond crazy hours. The mile walk to work with what ended up being a 9.8 pound baby in my uterus was my “me time”. At my height, I was almost as wide as I was tall. Looking straight on, one might not be able to tell…but if I turned sideways, I could hear gasps or laughing, sometimes both.
I loved being pregnant and having my babies all to myself…but that winter, navigating the “snow alleys” on city street corners became a game of chess. The 4-6 foot high, one way “paths” between the street and sidewalk meant people had to walk single file…no room for negotiations. Aggressive New Yorkers would race to reach the middle first, making everyone coming towards them turn around. The problem was, with my backpack, big faux fur swing coat, and an extra large baby bump…I literally could not turnaround. Time and time again, Mr I Think I Am So Important Guy racing towards me swinging his briefcase like an exclamation point would stop in his tracks as I whipped opened my coat screaming STOP! I CANNOT TURN AROUND! They always stopped.
The first night of the blizzard of ’96 the mayor closed the city…the next day there would be little to no transportation and only essential workers should report work, it was a mandatory snow day. A time before everyone had home offices and the existence of pdfs…I was planning on a snuggle day with my guy…swoon. Sadly, my client had a different plan, excited about the thermal fax machine she purchased over the holidays, she was looking forwardto working from home. She asked me to go into the office and fax her the most recent pages of a book I was designing. Sigh.
Early the next morning I waited and waited for the crosstown bus…my green coat turned heavy and white, and my Paddington hat (big red flower and all) was a dome of snow. I was becoming very grumpy. What was wrong with this woman? She knew I was extremely pregnant, she knew the city was closed. And just as I got a bit teary about having to walk…a phantom bus arrived…and across 23rd Street we slid. I got off at 5th Avenue and adjusted my internal compass, the snow was blinding, I found the Flatiron building but Madison Square Park was gone. Looking north I could see a few people skiing towards me. There were no sidewalks so I walked right up the center of 5th. The quiet, the quiet was like nothing I had ever experienced. It was literally just the sound of snow, untouched white snow. It was magical.
At the office I did what needed to get done and quickly headed out for my walk home. There would be plenty of time for cozy, and as a new business owner I had done the right thing. A beautiful experience…and because it was before we photographed every waking moment…it is only in my head, where it only gets better with time.
Stirring coffee, the sound of the spoon from my childhood home clinking the mug…Dad. The only difference between the two cups, decades apart, the taste. His…instant coffee, two heaping teaspoons of sugar, and a splash of milk…brown sugar water. Mine, dark and rich, the more caffeine the better.
Searching for a photograph…scrolling endless scrolling. Never finding the image I was looking for, but coming across one from when my daughter was obsessed with rolling coins…her piles, her finds of random small objects, Monopoly pieces and subway tokens…blasts from the past. I too loved rolling coins. The feel of oils and dirt from so many strangers, counting, stacking, recounting. Working them into the paper tubes, folding the openings carefully to avoid coin explosions. The weight…rolls and rolls of metal soon to be exchanged for light paper money. Swoon.
Dad…the smell of coffee and shaving cream, the stern voice of the newscaster, the swish swish of his tie as he centered and pulled it tight…mornings. Returning home, looking through the mail, to the kitchen for a kiss with mom, putting loose change from his pockets into the brown glass jar before hanging the suit for another day. It was a one way jar, money only went in…until the day he made a deal with us kids (our family was big on deals). If we rolled the coins, we would use the money for ice cream on an upcoming vacation. We rolled $173.00 worth of coins…and we got ice cream twice…because spending $173.00 on ice cream is ridiculous no matter what deals have been made.
My dad was born in 1929, he did not waste. He would happily buy an extra house to rent out for profit, spring for a really good steak, or throw a huge party for friends with top of the line liquor…but he did not “throw away money”. Ever.
This morning I saw the blue box-o-dad. Oh the memories…the immediacy, the mortician, laughing to the point of tears. Quick decisions, being engulfed in sadness while really wanting to avoid annoying my dad, it was crazy. My mom talking with him the entire time, Hon, what do you think? Hon, what should we do? We knew spending “big bucks” on a coffin used only for cremation was not ok. Asking to see the least expensive option, we were shown a casket that only Liberace….or a toddler…would choose. Shiny purple satin…with white lace…clearly a marketing ploy to embarrass you into spending more money. After recovering from the mental picture of my dad in thatlavender bit of spectacular…we picked an unadorned pine box. Next, with poise and professionalism, the salesman of all things death, showed us box after box for the ashes…gaudy, glitzy…expensive, doing his best Carol Merril from Let’s Make a Deal. Mom got another message from above, Greg should make the box. So we said, thank you Mr Funeral Man, but we will just take the bag-o-dad option and move on. I think that was what sent the poor guy over the edge…he came back with a slate blue plywood box “a transport box”. As we walked out into the Florida sunset, we high fived the the pink sky, knowing we had done it exactly as my dad wanted, simple, sophisticated, and we didn’t “break the bank”.
Dad, sigh. This time of year, pink clouds often greet me each morning and close out each day…I blow a kiss up to you and carry on. Life is good.
Coins, game pieces, hardware, dice, buttons, crushed souvenir pennies, safety pins, apartment tags, rocks, subway tokens, play tickets, i-spy fun.
Last year at this time my daughter was working as a production assistant at the New Years Eve Spectacular in Times Square. Unpacking hats, moving pallets of boxes from one block to the next, guarding lines leading to pop stars taking selfies with fans…a little NYE elf in her I love to celebrate everything glory. Olivia began asking to go to Times Square on NYE as soon as she could talk…and year after year, her completely selfish parents (who had no desire to experience that living hell) told her to make a plan to tackle that wish on her own…and as soon as she was old enough…she did. After experiencing the ball drop and confetti surround her in the center of the madness (video below)…and achieving a life goal…she arrived home and declared “2020 is already THE BEST YEAR EVER”. Ummmmm.
I already feel a bit bad for 2021…we are expecting way too much of it before it even starts. It’s being declared the comeback year, a miracle, the year of back to normal. Wanting something so very bad almost always leads to disappointment. One of my learns from 2020 has been that not expecting much from holidays…has led to really awesome holidays. I am officially expecting nothing.
In 2021 famous people will die…Mick Jagger is almost 80, Sophia Loren is 87, it is not a curse that old people die. We will have storms and our snowblowers will break, normal. I hate to point this out…but the government is not going to start working just because it is 2021…politicians cannot make decisions, they refuse to work together, and most really do not care about the people they represent…this too is nothing new.
For people who believe in science and the reality of this virus…2021 will not be the year of going back to concerts, lingering dinners in restaurants, live theater, parties, family gatherings for the holidays. We will continue Zooming, protecting the people we love, and respecting the health care workers who are beyond overburdened. It will take a long time for the vaccine to be administered to those choosing to take it. People will continue to ignore facts and innocent people will continue to die. All of this is super sad, but maybe if we know what to expect, it won’t sting so much.
I am counting on 2021 being another year of growth, where I appreciate the quiet that comes with not having much work, learn new crafts, and tackle difficult recipes. A year where I embrace cleaning my own home and cooking nightly dinners instead of relying on others. Where I live in the moment…and listen more than I speak. FaceBook memories from years past will remind me not to take moments with those I love for granted…and that hugs are the best, the very very best. I promise to cherish each and every phone call, FaceTime, and distant game night with my family…because nothing is guaranteed.
That is it…that is the secret, no matter the year…nothing is guaranteed, nothing is forever, and you can’t count on something happening just because it always has. Go in to 2021 with your eyes open, knowing that things will never be perfect, and normal is in the eyes of the beholder.
Wishing you peace.
New Years Eve 2019…watching this madness from my couch…knowing my 5 foot daughter is down there somewhere.
Some people would take a selfie…others want everyone to experience the goodness. Swoon. NYE 2019, Times Square, video by Olivia Nemec.
I was raised in Douglaston. My sister grew up on Long Island. My brother is from Queens. The funny thing is, we all lived in the same house. I was in my early twenties when I realized that we had different answers to the question “Where are you from?”…and technically we were all telling the truth. If you asked any of us now, I am pretty sure we would all have the same answer, we are from Queens. It is in our blood.
In Queens many worlds are interwoven. Whether one attended a NYC public or Catholic private high school…we all still hung out together on weekends. Street corners, forts made in swamps, row house basements, or spectacular homes where large screen tvs were projectors with red, green, and blue glowing lights transferring the images to the mounted screen on the wall…all were equally perfect places to gather. Transportation might be a skateboard, dad’s car, buses, subways, or the LIRR. One could pay the train fare, or skip it by hiding in the bathroom, saved funds used to buy a much needed album on St. Mark’s Place. One minute we might be shopping in vintage stores on lower Broadway…feeding my rhinestone necklace and 1950’s housewife dress obsession…the next running back to the car, hoping nobody had created a new “home” in the box in front of the illegally parked orange VW bus we traveled in, and if they had, strategically climbing over it through the sliding doors, for our escape back to tree-lined streets a block from the bay full of beautiful sailboats. When from Queens, you could switch it up on a dime.
A Queens girl can smell scam…and is able to turn the tables before the scammer figures out they have become the victim. Oh my, the poor junk remover boys in my driveway earlier today learned that the hard way. The company reached out to me… we had a deal, for x amount I would get xyz…but when the young innocent gave me the “on premises quote” of well over triple the agreed number, I just smiled. After repeating back his new quote, explaining he was trying to scam the wrong person, reworking the numbers with him…I ended up being charged $150 less than what I had offered to pay him 5 minutes earlier. I also gave him a lovely tip, complimented his shoelaces (they matched the company’s brand palette), and thanked him for sweeping up my driveway.
Girls from Queens know how to walk. A few days before our wedding we were meeting friends from Iowa at Wo Hop for dinner. As I weaved through the masses towards the restaurant, I noticed our best man looked a bit concerned. It seems he (an Iowan) had never seen a woman in NYC walking mode. At 5 feet I was the master of the bitch face…as all women had to be. Men could cat call, but depending on my mood their words and whistles might be returned with a death stare, a middle finger, a laugh, or completely ignored. As I reached the restaurant my demeanor changed…I became animated and full of life, I shared my glorious news, my boss had surprised me with a raise and a bonus, I was marrying the best guy ever…there was not a human on earth happier than I was. Our best man had witnessed the classic Queens transformation, scary to joyous…in less than a second. Swoon.
Someone just contacted me about doing an interview for a publication…they are writing about people who blog. She introduced herself as a fellow Queens girl. I am sure we will get along just fine. I am loving me my Queens feels…it feels like I am home.
To all my girls from Queens…love ya.
Masters of the don’t mess with me face. At 5 feet and 4’10″… it was a must.
What do you see in this picture? Two people in love? Some pretty odd Christmas stockings? A groovy fireplace mantle? A time when people dressed for Christmas Eve…and did it really really well? A still from Mad Men?
I see my parents…my parents in their “picture pose”, him in profile (showing off his “good nose” according to my mom), and her looking right into the camera (because she did not want to highlight her Armenian nose). My dad completely adoring my mom. He did that. He was the swooniest swooner when it came to her. Every human should feel that loved.
My dad died early Christmas Day, before sunrise, before presents, probably as Santa was doing his rounds. It was long ago. When your dad has died…long ago does not mean it has stopped burning. It does not mean you miss less, it just means you don’t miss every second, or even every day, but you still miss…and memories can make you crash, or cry, or both.
This is the season of family, of big meals, of gathering…all the things my father loved most. It is the time when Oh Holy Night can bring me to tears. The season of finding it hard to breathe as Silent Night is played at the candlelight service…as the candle flame is passed I think of my dad who was not really a church goer, but who loved the candlelight service…watching his wife sing, surrounded by his family, he would say “now that’s pretty” as the church lit up in the glow of the candles. The very same comment… every…single…year. Memories.
Wishing you all the best holiday you can muster in these crazy times. Hoping you can swoon over someone, your partner, your kids, a relative, a friend, a stranger who needs you. I realize that being adored is probably everybody’s dream…but I think my dad had it right. He got so much joy from being the swooner.
Five chickens and a pencil walk into a bar… just kidding. I am literally the worst at telling jokes. They go something like this. Why did the chicken cross the road, wait, was it a chicken, I am not sure if it was a chicken or a hen, oh it doesn’t matter, there was a bird of some sort who wanted to get to the other side, wait. Forget it.
Believing in magic and dreaming the unthinkable…that is what five chickens and a pencil is about. I don’t understand people who say they don’t want their kids to believe in the Tooth Fairy, Santa, the Easter Bunny. Why? Life is long, there is plenty of time for reality.
Parents with more than one kid realize about four seconds into kid number two that no two children are alike. No better way to see differences than Christmas lists. My Olivia, always smiling and happy that the holiday festivities were finally underway would spend a lot of time discussing the situation, but mommy why do we write a letter, but mommy how does he get the letter, but mommy I don’t know how to write lollipop, but mommy I want Elmo Saves Christmas on, but mommy why it can’t be Christmas every day. Jacob was all business, a short plea for forgiveness of any sins, a reminder of his good deeds, then a dive into the wants.
When he was about 8 he finished in record time. Sneaking a look I saw that he asked for five rubber chickens, you know the skinny ones that look like they should be hanging in a Chinese butcher’s window. Waca waca waca, hilarious gag props…for his vaudeville act on the playground. The problem was, there was nothing else on the list, he was testing me. Jacob had asked for a rubber chicken a few weeks earlier, my response was what on earth do you need a rubber chicken for, of course I am not buying a rubber chicken, save up your own money if you need a chicken. Now he had me. In our house Santa always delivered at least one thing on the list. (I realize now how privileged that is…but it is what it is). If he only had rubber chickens on his list and Santa refused to deliver them… then Santa was mom. Ugg. I was both beyond proud of his little devious mind and completely annoyed…annoyed enough to go on a quest.
Before “shopping local” was a thing, people just shopped local. It was quite human and the connections could be either joyous or leave you shaken. Try-n-Buy, our local toy store was the place of dreams, perky sales people helped you find the perfect gift then wrapped them in bows…swoon. So I called the store and got the one sales person with a chip on her shoulder (I had a knack for this) and asked if they carried rubber joke chickens. After giving some theatrical descriptions she totally understood what I wanted, and quickly replied NO. So I told her of my suspicions and that I really wanted to win this Santa test. She put me on hold and on her return said, We got him, I can order them, they will be here next week. Huge swoon for small town living, local stores, and grumpy sales people who get joy from defeating young children in mental warfare.
My husband is not really a preparing for Christmas kind of guy but by Christmas Eve he is all about joining the fun…Kat, let’s put the chickens in a pot on the stove and leave a clue in his stocking. Oh man, an empty stocking, most people would say it was too harsh. But being a child who watched her cousins look for their Easter baskets for DAYS to finally find them under the floorboards (I kid you not), this seemed like a perfectly normal idea to me. Christmas morning Jacob flies down the stairs to find an empty stocking, he was shell shocked. Greg quickly told him to look inside. The note, the clue, the find… a whole stocking of Santa goodness including…five rubber chickens…the energy in the room can not be described. It was that moment of sheer perfection. Magic. There is no better feeling in the world than seeing your children happy.
In a recent NY to CA phone marathon I asked if Jacob remembered the chickens…I love hearing their versions of our family folklore. Yes, for sure he remembered, he told me it was a test, but that he also really really did want the chickens. It seems his elementary school gym teacher had his own version of dodge ball. It involved a curtain hung between the two lines of kids so you could not really aim at a specific target…oh, and there were not hard, textured, red balls that left welts on your body…there were rubber chickens. He said rubber chickens flying over the curtain was one of the funniest sights, chicken after chicken, kids laughing, fun. Can you imagine…dodge ball that did not leave you in pain. Brilliant.
A few years after the rubber chicken incident Jacob looked me in the eye and said Mom, do you believe in Santa? I responded Jacob, I love believing in Santa. He completely got it, and replied, Me too. A tender moment, a moment where I did not feel like I had failed the parenting test I was given, a memory.
One hard part of having twenty-something kids is there is little magic left. There is fun… never in a million years did they expect Hamilton tickets from Santa…but they also immediately hugged their parents for the gift. The joy of having neighbors with young kids is we get to see the holidays through their eyes. We got a peek at the Santa letters this year, and immediately my mind started spinning. One asked for a five foot tall pencil…is this a test or is there a back story? With permission from their parents, this prop maker and her illustrator husband, will be sending an early, very authentic looking parcel from the North Pole. Our elf on the shelf and a foot long joke pencil will be “delivered” as a precursor to the big day…and bigger pencil. Hopefully it will bring some joy, some thinking the unthinkable…some magic.
Wishing you the permission to believe in what ever you want to believe in…because believing is good. Swoon.
Before being packaged. Chicken photo in those boxes of photos tucked in the attic. Maybe they deserve to come out.
I went through one of my favorite boxes today…full of cherished memories and bits of goodness from those I love. Their brilliance, their personalities, their talents…their recipes.
Master recipes…after tasing food that is so good, you must get the exact details from the cook. Proven and tested. Hand-written, copies of copies, scratched down notes taken over the phone, personalities on display. Folded and refolded, dripped on, burnt, these bits of history are the stories of our lives…the tastes, smells, warmth. To be shared with our own kids, and hopefully their kids. Swoon.
My dad was a complex man…happy to be quietly reading one minute and throwing a huge party the next. A recovering alcoholic, he was know for his amazing margaritas (always in a chilled glass), never letting on if he was sad he could no longer have one himself. I had just moved into my first NYC apartment, my roommate and I were going to throw a holiday party. Old school…dress up, cocktails, cheese cubes and salami. We bought our late 80s off the shoulder little dresses on sale and were completely floored at the cost of “grown-up” alcohol. In a pinch I called my dad for advice, he replied with the magic word…sangria…get some cheap wine and you are good to go. The recipe showed up in the mail, his handwriting, his cryptic and confusing notes, his love for a good party. 30+ years later, this index card is one of my most cherished gifts from my dad…a stained piece of card stock where a bit of him lives on.
My mom cooks like a real cook, she follows no rules except for the knowledge she has gained from feeling and doing. Everything she makes is delicious. Getting recipes from her can be a bit dangerous. They go sort of like this…Take one of my big serving spoons of oil and put it in a good pan, add a little bit of flour, then a nice amount of salt and pepper…but only if you think it needs it. Kit Kat, just stir til it looks right. What I have found is the best way to learn her recipes is to: one…cook with her, and two…to have her to write out the recipes numerous times, then piece them together. Mom’s recipes arrive in the form of post cards, notes on old shopping lists, typed on an IBM typewriter circa 1972, or in rambling phone messages…they allow me to visit inside her head, which is a treat in itself.
My mother-in-law bakes…like makes beyond delicious pie crust from scratch with crisco from a can and happily makes two thousand, four hundred, and sixty two different Christmas cookies each year…the woman is a machine. Growing up as one of 9 on a South Dakota farm, her chore was baking…where she earned her 10,000 hours of Malcom Gladwell practice time. The first Christmas I spent with Greg’s family in Iowa was different from my NY holidays…no stuffed grape leaves, learning that green salad might involve jello, and the nightly display of his mom’s homemade cookie genius on the molded holiday themed serving trays. One can not under estimate the power of really good cookies. I am a pretty decent baker, this woman puts me to shame.
My friend Maria has no clue how talented she is, she is just one of those people who bring magic to everything she touches. Her mom was French, so she grew up cooking with butter, salt, and oil. When she was the chef at a private elementary school, she regularly received thank you notes from parents who were so excited that their kids were now eating vegetables. Maria’s haricot verts recipe is beyond…it is a staple in our home and served at all family dinners. My nieces and nephews call them Auntie Kat String Beans…but I give full credit to Maria. When I read the recipe her emphasis on BUTTER and seasoning with out fear is like a pep talk. I am sure it was written as our kids played in the other room, as we drank coffee after a family sleepover…with very little sleep. Love emitted through newsprint.
I just had the best afternoon. The beauty of having little work means I have time to go down the rabbit hole of memories…to think about those who have changed my life, to appreciate the beauty of a box filled with greasy papers.
There is always a silver lining.
Let me know if you want copies of any of the goodness above.
Do you remember that commercial? Carly Simon singing, the ketchup pouring so slowly…the glands behind my jaw used to tingle just watching it…because who doesn’t love that salty and sugar-laden goodness accompanying their fries?
Remember the joy of waiting…waiting for the ketchup to come out of a glass bottle, for the sound of mail plopping down on the foyer floor, for the song of the moment to play on the radio, for new school clothes, for an empty cab. Remember the excitement at school the day A Year Without a Santa Claus, Rudolph or A Charlie Brown Christmas were airing…and the joy on the playground the day after, singing Heat Miser on a loop?
Anticipating Christmas.
Politically correct commercial interruption here. I grew up celebrating Christmas. I now like to celebrate Winter Solstice because it recognizes all celebrations of light and Hanukkah because my nephews celebrate it…and as my daughter announced at my brother’s engagement to a Jewish woman, “Great, now we are Jewish too!”. I don’t mean to exclude anyone with this Swoon, I am just a Christmas girl who does not get mad if you wish me Happy Holidays.
Anticipating Christmas. It is my joy. It makes me smile. It is such a huge part of my life. It is about as swoony as a swoon can be. It would be a great blog name. Anticipating Christmas. Which reminds me of…
Many moons ago my sister-in-law worked for Martha Stewart. Young, hip, a crafter like no other… she would call me for ideas to use in MS Kids magazine. I had kids, she did not, so I became a useful resource. Once she asked me for tips on organizing Christmas, which I happily supplied, an article was written, and on her advice I secured the blog name “Organizing Christmas”. I had two kids, a business, and I over volunteered…there was no time for blogging so it never happened. Times changed, kids left, a pandemic arrived… and Swooning began. It is important to be flexible.
Anticipating Christmas.
When I was in 4th grade my mom went back to work. My dad quit his job and decided the future was in healthy food and frozen yogurt…a bit odd for a man who lived on Entenmann’s cakes. My mom, brought up in an Armenian household, knew how to cook healthy…so she went from being a stay at home mom…to being the cook at the new family restaurant. Preparing couscous, lentil soup, stuffed grape leaves, and chickpea salads for those looking to keep their figures—namely the actors and prostitutes of 42nd Street. Our world changed. We had a babysitter, we no longer had nightly multi-course dinners, and we shopped at discount stores. What didn’t change: Christmas.
Christmas was all about family, decorating, music, tv specials, Lionel trains, cookies, pageants and parties; it was joyous. Having a working mom did not change any of it. Crazy traditions like the yearly line up of the three kids…standing in front of the fresh 10-foot tall tree tied to the banister leading up stairs…raising our hands and repeating after mom “Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye if I lie, I promise to jump out my bedroom window if the tree is on fire and the stairs are blocked.” The yearly check in our stockings…for amounts like $1.62, because our dad, always a numbers guy, felt it necessary to spend exactly the same amount of money on each of us…to the penny. Swoon.
I would say I cannot wait for Christmas, but the truth is…I love waiting for Christmas. It is all about the wait. I have been decorating since the day after Thanksgiving. Christmas music blaring, room by room the goodness appears, the memories are relived. Gingerbread houses made, cookies packed, advent calendars opened. I am happy, even in 2020. Determined to bring our Christmas traditions to my Jacob in California, two huge boxes were shipped out yesterday, presents, party poppers, and Nanny-made baked goods. He will not be able to plop down on my lap as I sit on the couch and our daily good morning hugs will have to wait. Those bits of delicious are now on top of my anticipation list…and will be that much sweeter when we are finally together again.
Merry Everything. Enjoy the wait.
Christmas 1970 or so, before the tree was in front of the stairs. The pink tutu and green slippers (right) went on right over the feetsie pjs…swoon.
Swooning 