There is age with grace, but no such thing as "aging gracefully." It's an ugly process. In fact, I'm going down kicking and screaming!
Parts of my body are not where they should be. I wore two-piece bathing suits till I was fifty. Now I dread having to purchase anything to wear near the water. I must take a pile of swimsuits two sizes larger than my dress size to the changing room. They must have underwires in the bra. Speaking of the bra, if I tie the halter strings so tight around my neck as to actually lift my boobs, I am gasping for air. My butt hangs down below the suit and I must take it (the suit, not my butt) to a seamstress to have tighter elastic sewn in. My belly "pooch" will only disappear if I purchase a swimsuit with a blouse-like top. Yes, I know 10,000 steps/day will rid me of the pooch (what's in there, anyway?), and no, I do not intend to add an eighth day of exercise to my already overbooked routine!
I began noticing in photos that my right eye was only half open. So I figured the opthomologist would be able to measure the eyelids and lift the right one - a simple procedure, according to my friends. Dr. Wesley measured and informed me my eyelids were exactly the same and had not drooped. What had drooped was my forehead! That procedure is surgical and would cost a minimum of $5,000. And oh yes, the plastic surgeon could not assure me of raising the brow more than one-quarter of an inch!
I have acquired new parts growing on my body. I have odd-shaped lumps under my arches and on tops of my toes. A podiatrist informed me that they are benign cysts, created by the friction of certain shoes. And then there is the matter of the bunions. They are round balls sticking upward and outward from each large toe. My sister and I both inherited my father's feet. He used to insert a rubber wedge between his big toe and the next when he went to bed. I simply ignore them, but for vanity's sake, the bunions cannot go unfettered! I must choose enclosed fronts on my shoes or bands across the balls. The days of hubby giving me a foot massage are over, and who can blame him?
My hands have developed raised blue veins, and the bones protrude in-between. My granddaughter refers to the squirming veins as "blue worms." The same plastic surgeon informed me that I could inject each hand with fat to hide the veins (wonder what part of my body the fat would come from?). The cost would be a mere $5,000 per hand.
Parts of me have gone missing. Such as hair that is falling out. But I guess I shouldn't worry, since I am gaining it on my chin and above my upper lip!
I was born without three permanent teeth. I am lucky that is all that was missing! The holes where they were supposed to appear didn't matter when I was still eating baby food. Eventually, however, the teeth that did appear moved over into the holes, necessitating braces. Twenty years later, I needed bridges. And now, implants. Why bother, if dentures are next??
Choosing the proper foods and portions at this age is like being in boot camp. Especially with high cholesterol. Charley and I count our blessings that we do not have high blood pressure, heart disease, kidney disease, tuberculosis, diabetes, multilple sclerosis, hepatitis, shingles, Crohn's disease, Parkinson's, colitis, osteoporosis, hemorrhoids, rheumatoid arthritis, AIDS, or cancer. We are continually digesting complex carbohydrates (fruits and veggies, meaning a salad at EVERY lunch)), 100% whole grains, fish, and poultry. I begin drooling when I think of a medium rare hunk of steak! Peanut butter, cakes, pies, ice cream, frozen yogurt, candy, do not even enter our home. Cheesy or creamy sauces and pizza never enter our mouths. We snack on Reduced Fat Wheat Thins, hummus, granola bars, and fruit. One wine or beer is our limit before switching to water, juice, or soda. I still have the "pooch."
There is the matter of hearing loss. Charley claims I cannot hear him and I tell him the reason I can't hear him is because he has a pipe in his mouth, is mumbling, and is in another room. I claim he cannot hear me, even if I am in the same room. When I have to repeat everything, I simply get louder. Eventually, I am shouting. "You don't have to shout!" he tells me, all huffy. I ask him to get a hearing test, and he asks me to get my ears cleaned out.
Hot flashes are the worst part. Charley fondly proclaims that I have had them for twenty years, which is close to the truth. What would men do if they were overcome throughout the day (in dress shirt and tie) with a prickly rash, and waves of sweat? In our Florida apartment we arrive at a compromise: I keep the temperature low, and Charley wears a light sweatshirt. He is used to my pulling the covers up to my chin to protect against the blast of cold air hitting my side of the bed. He is also used to my subsequent thrashing to get those covers off about ten minutes later. His body is like a furnace if I cuddle against him, so I reach over with only an arm. Immediately I begin to feel a burning lightning bolt shoot through my limb. I count that as a good thing!
I saw an ad in THE SUN SENTINEL Sunday paper for a choice of nightgown or pajamas designed to help women "who suffer pain, night sweats, and other discomforts" to get restful, comfortable sleep. The nightwear comes in a handful of styles and colors and the cost ranges from $29.95-$69.95. I was actually considering looking at the manufacturer's website until I read further. The journalist tried the pajamas and felt the same old YOU-KNOW-WHATS! But maybe if I looked good, I'd acquire some grace???
About Me
- minorleaguemom
- Delray Beach, FL, Westport, MA, United States
- Undergraduate degree, Colby College; MA in English, Columbia Teacher's College; former high school English teacher in three states; former owner of interior design co. with MA from R.I. School of Design. Barking Cat Books published my first book in 2009 titled, MINOR LEAGUE MOM: A MOTHER'S JOURNEY THROUGH THE RED SOX FARM TEAMS. My humorous manuscript titled ELDERLY PARENTS WITH ALL THEIR MARBLES: A SURVIVAL GUIDE FOR THE KIDS was published in June, 2014. In 2015 A SURVIVAL GUIDE won a gold medal in the self-help category at the Florida Authors & Publishers Association conference. In 2018 Barking Cat Books published my SURVIVING YOUR DREAM VACATION: 75 RULES TO KEEP YOUR COMPANION TALKING TO YOU ON THE ROAD. See website By CLICKING HERE.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Living in a Pocket
When Charley and I bought this condo in Florida, he went to Delray Beach Library to get a card. "Sorry," the woman behind the desk told him. "We can't give you a card because you don't live in Delray Beach. You live in a pocket."
"But I can show you my driver's license!" Charley responded. "It clearly says my address is Delray Beach."
"It says Delray Beach, and that is probably where your mail is processed. But your number on Route A1A is in a pocket that's not part of any town," the woman maintained.
Being Irish, Charley persisted. "I'd like to see the head librarian." When he started to create a scene, I headed for the car. In a short while, he approached the car waving a library card. Clearly he had intimidated her. I was afraid to show my face in there. Instead, I made lists for him to pick up for me.
When we got back to our condo, Charley questioned the manager of our complex. Tom Hill had been there since the buildings went up in the early 80's, and he still provides all our answers!
"Tom, I've never heard of anyone living in a pocket before. What the hell does that mean?"
"It means that our building and everything for half a mile south of us along A1A are in an unincorporated pocket. We're not part of any town. Thirty percent of the land mass of Florida is in unincorporated pockets."
"What do we do about taxes and services?"
"You pay your taxes to the county and all emergency services have to come from a county station. It's way out west in Boynton Beach and it takes a while."
"So we live in a pocket, pay taxes to the county, have no library, and could croak before the paramedics arrive? Whose water are we drinking and who's the lucky recipient of our sewage?"
"Boynton Beach." Tom was a hands-on manager, but a man of few words. He dispensed information on a need-to-know basis.
"How do we claw our way out of the pocket?"
"You have to be invited to be annexed by a surrounding town."
"What if we don't want to be annexed by that town but by another one?"
"The pocket has to vote and the town that's annexing has to vote."
The karma in the state of Florida was bad enough after the "hanging chad" incident that elected G.W. In its infinite wisdom, the legislature recently mandated that unincorporated pockets would have to be absorbed by surrounding towns. In 2007, the Florida Coalition for Preservation mounted an offensive to prevent the overdevelopment of Briny Breezes mobile home park. They were successful. Next, the Coalition worked to persuade the town of Gulf Stream to annex our pocket. Gulf Stream is an incorporated town on Route A1A between our pocket and Delray Beach. Our pocket would benefit, if annexed, with a lower tax base than Boynton Beach to the north; a strict zoning code for future building along the ocean, preventing the skyscrapers in Boynton Beach that sit vacant; and round-the-clock police with closer fire/rescue.
After a year of campaigning, we have this month become part of Gulf Stream. Now we have a different problem. Should we change all our legal documents (passport, wills, health care, etc.) to the new address? Mail delivery from Delray Beach and our zip code will remain the same. If we stand in the DMV for four-five hours (no exaggeration!) to change our driver's license to Gulf Stream, when we get to the front of the line the clerk will say, "Show me proof that you live in Gulfstream, not Delray Beach." What are we supposed to show? I think Charley and I will take two cars!
"But I can show you my driver's license!" Charley responded. "It clearly says my address is Delray Beach."
"It says Delray Beach, and that is probably where your mail is processed. But your number on Route A1A is in a pocket that's not part of any town," the woman maintained.
Being Irish, Charley persisted. "I'd like to see the head librarian." When he started to create a scene, I headed for the car. In a short while, he approached the car waving a library card. Clearly he had intimidated her. I was afraid to show my face in there. Instead, I made lists for him to pick up for me.
When we got back to our condo, Charley questioned the manager of our complex. Tom Hill had been there since the buildings went up in the early 80's, and he still provides all our answers!
"Tom, I've never heard of anyone living in a pocket before. What the hell does that mean?"
"It means that our building and everything for half a mile south of us along A1A are in an unincorporated pocket. We're not part of any town. Thirty percent of the land mass of Florida is in unincorporated pockets."
"What do we do about taxes and services?"
"You pay your taxes to the county and all emergency services have to come from a county station. It's way out west in Boynton Beach and it takes a while."
"So we live in a pocket, pay taxes to the county, have no library, and could croak before the paramedics arrive? Whose water are we drinking and who's the lucky recipient of our sewage?"
"Boynton Beach." Tom was a hands-on manager, but a man of few words. He dispensed information on a need-to-know basis.
"How do we claw our way out of the pocket?"
"You have to be invited to be annexed by a surrounding town."
"What if we don't want to be annexed by that town but by another one?"
"The pocket has to vote and the town that's annexing has to vote."
The karma in the state of Florida was bad enough after the "hanging chad" incident that elected G.W. In its infinite wisdom, the legislature recently mandated that unincorporated pockets would have to be absorbed by surrounding towns. In 2007, the Florida Coalition for Preservation mounted an offensive to prevent the overdevelopment of Briny Breezes mobile home park. They were successful. Next, the Coalition worked to persuade the town of Gulf Stream to annex our pocket. Gulf Stream is an incorporated town on Route A1A between our pocket and Delray Beach. Our pocket would benefit, if annexed, with a lower tax base than Boynton Beach to the north; a strict zoning code for future building along the ocean, preventing the skyscrapers in Boynton Beach that sit vacant; and round-the-clock police with closer fire/rescue.
After a year of campaigning, we have this month become part of Gulf Stream. Now we have a different problem. Should we change all our legal documents (passport, wills, health care, etc.) to the new address? Mail delivery from Delray Beach and our zip code will remain the same. If we stand in the DMV for four-five hours (no exaggeration!) to change our driver's license to Gulf Stream, when we get to the front of the line the clerk will say, "Show me proof that you live in Gulfstream, not Delray Beach." What are we supposed to show? I think Charley and I will take two cars!
Friday, March 4, 2011
Pam the Android
I have been amusing myself lately writing about the eccentricities of my parents, Ev and Walt. They were healthy in mind and body into their nineties and lived independently near us in Florida. The chapters I have been working on will become part of my manuscript titled something like, A HANDBOOK TO OUTLAST YOUR ELDERLY PARENTS.
Most recently I have been describing the ritual my mother performed every night before going to bed. She would first change into a tee shirt and then flannel pajamas, in case she got cold under the a.c. Then my father would rub BenGay on her back under her tee, where she suffered from a bulging disc. The smell would permeate the house for days! By the time she entered the bathroom, my father, already in his flannel pajamas, had removed his hearing aids (if he'd worn them!), inserted a rubber wedge between his big toe and the next one, and was snoring on his back with his mouth open.
Once in the bathroom, my mother would sit to let her noontime Metamucil wafer perform its advertised function. This would often be a slow, unhurried process, accompanied by a crossword puzzle book. Thereafter, she would brush her teeth, smear Oil of Olay over her face, and wind a few strands of auburn hair under bobby pins. No need to set the alarm. There was no reason to get up at any particular time! Bottles of vitamins on the kitchen counter awaited morning consumption next to a cereal bowl, cup and spoon reserved for instant Maxwell House, and a plate for toast.
I have become "My Mother, Myself!" But my bedtime ritual produces a different image. Charley and I enter the bedroom together. He has earlier brushed his teeth and flossed, while I was scrubbing the pots and pans in the kitchen. He takes off his clothes, throws on an old tee shirt with his shorts, and sets the alarm. I am lucky if I have even put away my shoes, earrings, and watch, while he turns out his bedside lamp. I finish changing into my pajamas by the light in the bathroom. I used to wear sexy lace babydolls, but that was twenty years ago. I graduated to full-length lacy nightgowns, but that was ten years ago. Now I wear flannel pajamas as a courtesy to my legs, that twitch or cramp after lengthy tennis matches.
In the bathroom, I rub ointment on my rotator cuff. I take my vitamins at night - better absorption, the doctor said. I reach for my three containers of "C," "D," and a multi, then my soy supplement, my cholesterol pill, my calcium, my fish oil. I hear Charley's rhythmic deep breathing coming from the bed. I hate how he can fall asleep so fast! How do men do that? I still have nine steps before I hit the mattress.
I must use water to transform yellow fiber powder into a thick, cold liquid that I can barely swallow. A rinse of antiseptic follows brushing and flossing - I don't know why I bother with the antiseptic, since the only person who might smell my breath is sound asleep! But the dentist told me to.
Next I insert a clear plastic appliance in my mouth that will keep my jaw from grinding at night and ridges from forming in my teeth. I wash my makeup off with an exfoliant for my clogged pores and carefully wipe eye liner off with astringent pads. I smear green goop that promises miracles under my eyes, around my mouth, and across my forehead. A topcoat of polish goes on my nails. God, that stuff stinks! Almost finished!
I reach into the bottom of the closet and grab the contoured foam pillow that I will position between my legs, if my dislocated disc acts up. I turn out the bathroom light and creep to my nightstand in the dark. There, I grab two wrist braces for my carpal tunnel - one for each hand. The android is ready for bed!
Charley feels my weight tilt the mattress and rolls over to give me a good-night kiss, a token to our yesterdays. "I guess we won't be having spontaneous sex tonight," he mumbles.
Most recently I have been describing the ritual my mother performed every night before going to bed. She would first change into a tee shirt and then flannel pajamas, in case she got cold under the a.c. Then my father would rub BenGay on her back under her tee, where she suffered from a bulging disc. The smell would permeate the house for days! By the time she entered the bathroom, my father, already in his flannel pajamas, had removed his hearing aids (if he'd worn them!), inserted a rubber wedge between his big toe and the next one, and was snoring on his back with his mouth open.
Once in the bathroom, my mother would sit to let her noontime Metamucil wafer perform its advertised function. This would often be a slow, unhurried process, accompanied by a crossword puzzle book. Thereafter, she would brush her teeth, smear Oil of Olay over her face, and wind a few strands of auburn hair under bobby pins. No need to set the alarm. There was no reason to get up at any particular time! Bottles of vitamins on the kitchen counter awaited morning consumption next to a cereal bowl, cup and spoon reserved for instant Maxwell House, and a plate for toast.
I have become "My Mother, Myself!" But my bedtime ritual produces a different image. Charley and I enter the bedroom together. He has earlier brushed his teeth and flossed, while I was scrubbing the pots and pans in the kitchen. He takes off his clothes, throws on an old tee shirt with his shorts, and sets the alarm. I am lucky if I have even put away my shoes, earrings, and watch, while he turns out his bedside lamp. I finish changing into my pajamas by the light in the bathroom. I used to wear sexy lace babydolls, but that was twenty years ago. I graduated to full-length lacy nightgowns, but that was ten years ago. Now I wear flannel pajamas as a courtesy to my legs, that twitch or cramp after lengthy tennis matches.
In the bathroom, I rub ointment on my rotator cuff. I take my vitamins at night - better absorption, the doctor said. I reach for my three containers of "C," "D," and a multi, then my soy supplement, my cholesterol pill, my calcium, my fish oil. I hear Charley's rhythmic deep breathing coming from the bed. I hate how he can fall asleep so fast! How do men do that? I still have nine steps before I hit the mattress.
I must use water to transform yellow fiber powder into a thick, cold liquid that I can barely swallow. A rinse of antiseptic follows brushing and flossing - I don't know why I bother with the antiseptic, since the only person who might smell my breath is sound asleep! But the dentist told me to.
Next I insert a clear plastic appliance in my mouth that will keep my jaw from grinding at night and ridges from forming in my teeth. I wash my makeup off with an exfoliant for my clogged pores and carefully wipe eye liner off with astringent pads. I smear green goop that promises miracles under my eyes, around my mouth, and across my forehead. A topcoat of polish goes on my nails. God, that stuff stinks! Almost finished!
I reach into the bottom of the closet and grab the contoured foam pillow that I will position between my legs, if my dislocated disc acts up. I turn out the bathroom light and creep to my nightstand in the dark. There, I grab two wrist braces for my carpal tunnel - one for each hand. The android is ready for bed!
Charley feels my weight tilt the mattress and rolls over to give me a good-night kiss, a token to our yesterdays. "I guess we won't be having spontaneous sex tonight," he mumbles.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Life's Timeouts
I'm supposed to be working on my manuscript. Instead, I have been distracted recently, while having fun in gorgeous Florida weather!
---We flew to N.J. for the baptism of twin grandsons and the birthday of their three-year-old sister.
---Right after we returned, our two granddaughters from Massachusetts arrived in Delray Beach with their Mom for a visit.
---I played tennis three times, worked out at the fitness center three times, and walked four miles.
---I spent time emailing and snail-mailing former high school classmates about the upcoming reunion in Connecticut in October.
---I attended a lecture and a writer's critique group.
All of these things are on my "bucket list," so I don't know why I feel guilty about not writing. But I do!
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Writing Dilemma
The manuscript I have been working on is approximately two-thirds complete. It is a memoir describing a daughter's caregiving during the final three months of each of my parents' previously healthy, independent lives in Florida. It is also a chronicle of the hilarious eccentricities of the elderly. By interspersing my memory bank of laughable moments with scenes from the hospital, rehab unit, and nursing homes, I am trying to recreate a scene that is too familiar to many.
My parents were in no way extraordinary. They did not abuse; they were not alcoholics or schizophrenics; they did not suffer from bi-polar disease or obesssive compulsion. They were loving, involved parents and devoted partners. However, my relationship with them shifted when they became dependent on me as their caregiver. Mine is the story of millions of sons and daughters who must balance their own very full lives with the daily concerns for their parents' survival and their own self-preservation. By creating a memory bank, I was able to deal with my parents' struggles and my own.
Here's the problem: this manuscript is not marketable. There are thousands of published works out there about caregiving of the elderly, as well as Alzheimer's Disease. A memoir, if it is to attract a publisher, must tell a very unique story. Should I go in another direction with this, or continue as planned?
If I decided to write this purely as a family history, I would finish the manuscript as originally planned and let the kids and grandkidc have a copy someday. But I am constantly asked for advice from friends who are undergoing the same stresses and concerns with their parents. I have concluded that balancing elderly care and a life of one's own is truly a common experience among the 50-and-60generation, simply because our parents are living longer.
So here's what I have decided to do. I am going to finish the original manuscript, although it is slow going, and then redirect it. The new working title will be something like, A HANDBOOK TO OUTLAST YOUR ELDERLY PARENTS. The HANDBOOK will provide tongue-in-cheek lessons based on the bizarre, laughable, memorable antics of my ninety-year-old parents. It will also provide tongue-in-cheek lessons based on my navigation through hospital surgeries, rehab facilities, nursing homes, health care agencies, parental alienation, and family rivalries. A HANDBOOK will provide levity while dealing with a demanding, stressful world that is neither black nor white, a world of laughter and tears. Suggestions???
My parents were in no way extraordinary. They did not abuse; they were not alcoholics or schizophrenics; they did not suffer from bi-polar disease or obesssive compulsion. They were loving, involved parents and devoted partners. However, my relationship with them shifted when they became dependent on me as their caregiver. Mine is the story of millions of sons and daughters who must balance their own very full lives with the daily concerns for their parents' survival and their own self-preservation. By creating a memory bank, I was able to deal with my parents' struggles and my own.
Here's the problem: this manuscript is not marketable. There are thousands of published works out there about caregiving of the elderly, as well as Alzheimer's Disease. A memoir, if it is to attract a publisher, must tell a very unique story. Should I go in another direction with this, or continue as planned?
If I decided to write this purely as a family history, I would finish the manuscript as originally planned and let the kids and grandkidc have a copy someday. But I am constantly asked for advice from friends who are undergoing the same stresses and concerns with their parents. I have concluded that balancing elderly care and a life of one's own is truly a common experience among the 50-and-60generation, simply because our parents are living longer.
So here's what I have decided to do. I am going to finish the original manuscript, although it is slow going, and then redirect it. The new working title will be something like, A HANDBOOK TO OUTLAST YOUR ELDERLY PARENTS. The HANDBOOK will provide tongue-in-cheek lessons based on the bizarre, laughable, memorable antics of my ninety-year-old parents. It will also provide tongue-in-cheek lessons based on my navigation through hospital surgeries, rehab facilities, nursing homes, health care agencies, parental alienation, and family rivalries. A HANDBOOK will provide levity while dealing with a demanding, stressful world that is neither black nor white, a world of laughter and tears. Suggestions???
Friday, January 21, 2011
My "Bucket List"
I enjoyed the movie, "The Bucket List." It is a little far-fetched to think most of us could create a "carte-blanche" list of wishes and then proceed to check them off. But the premise seems good, especially the older I get (!).
Time is flying. Each day seems to get shorter and shorter. Although I accomplish numerous things and am lucky if I get eight hours sleep each day, I haven't spent time writing as often as I'd like lately. I have put people at the top of my "bucket list." Too many friends are sick or have left us. I'd rather spend my time with old friends and new, as well as relatives. I still work on my manuscript each day, just not to the extent I'd like. Nevertheless, I plan to finish.
Since we are retired, my husband enjoys his own activities. We still laugh a lot and enjoy each other's company, after forty-five years. We love movies, restaurants, books, tennis, some golf, and travel (though we no longer play tennis together - we're each too competitive!). We are fortunate to spend every anniversary at a favorite hotel on the Italian island of Ischia. My "bucket list" includes more time with Charley.
High on my "bucket list" are things to do with our five grandchildren. Although the twins are only six months, I hope to develop a memory bank with them at our Massachusetts beach, as we have with our three granddaughters. There is so much to tell them and show them and explore with all five of them! I learn from every encounter, whether it's a dance recital or collecting periwinkles or feeding baby cereal. I'd like for all of us to take a trip together or rent a place together. If that isn't feasible, maybe I could travel with one or two at a time?
Which brings me to the places around the world I'd like to visit. Charley and I have pretty much decided which areas don't interest either of us, but there are still so many to explore: Vancouver and British Columbia, Turkey, islands of Greece, Basque region of Spain, Australia and New Zealand, Fiji, Africa on safari. Some of these don't interest Charley, but that's ok. It's my "bucket list!"
Time is flying. Each day seems to get shorter and shorter. Although I accomplish numerous things and am lucky if I get eight hours sleep each day, I haven't spent time writing as often as I'd like lately. I have put people at the top of my "bucket list." Too many friends are sick or have left us. I'd rather spend my time with old friends and new, as well as relatives. I still work on my manuscript each day, just not to the extent I'd like. Nevertheless, I plan to finish.
Since we are retired, my husband enjoys his own activities. We still laugh a lot and enjoy each other's company, after forty-five years. We love movies, restaurants, books, tennis, some golf, and travel (though we no longer play tennis together - we're each too competitive!). We are fortunate to spend every anniversary at a favorite hotel on the Italian island of Ischia. My "bucket list" includes more time with Charley.
High on my "bucket list" are things to do with our five grandchildren. Although the twins are only six months, I hope to develop a memory bank with them at our Massachusetts beach, as we have with our three granddaughters. There is so much to tell them and show them and explore with all five of them! I learn from every encounter, whether it's a dance recital or collecting periwinkles or feeding baby cereal. I'd like for all of us to take a trip together or rent a place together. If that isn't feasible, maybe I could travel with one or two at a time?
Which brings me to the places around the world I'd like to visit. Charley and I have pretty much decided which areas don't interest either of us, but there are still so many to explore: Vancouver and British Columbia, Turkey, islands of Greece, Basque region of Spain, Australia and New Zealand, Fiji, Africa on safari. Some of these don't interest Charley, but that's ok. It's my "bucket list!"
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Favorite Christmas Memories
We all have some favorite memories of Christmas. Each year seems to add a unique perspective or a new family member. What are yours?
Here are a few memorable ones of mine.
Age 12
As much as I'd like to say that my favorite Christmas growing up revolved around a family gathering, trip, or even a funny mishap, it's not so. It was the Christmas I was twelve and received my first set of 78 LP's! A whole new world opened up - a world in which I could practice dance moves for the Friday night mixers. There was the Platters' "Earth Angel," Fats Domino's "My Blue Heaven," Al Hibbler's "Unchained Melody," Little Richard's "Tutti Frutti," as well as "See You Later Alligator," "Mr. Sandman," and Elvis, of course. Over and over I played each record, never budging from the spot in the living room where I practiced the jitterbug. I had struck gold! I gave up on the singing, though.
A Christmas Eve with Young Sons
While our two sons were growing up, we had a Christmas Eve routine. We would spend time at the home of one of our boys' best friends, Derek Laffey, in Cumberland, R.I. Stepping into the Laffey's home was like stepping into the pages of Architectural Digest. Kiva and Ed welcomed all of our family, including my parents, as part of their own. After that visit we travelled to the coast of Massachusetts to spend the rest of the evening with my husband's family. Since Charley was the oldest of seven children, there were six siblings' families (with ten grandchildren) all opening gifts. It was chaos. Papers flew everywhere and kids grabbed and rode everything, especially if the toy belonged to a cousin! Each family put its gifts in trash bags and kept them separated. On the Christmas I most remember, we arrived home at 1 a.m. with a bag of trash instead of gifts!
My Parents' Visits
After my parents moved to Florida, they would fly up to join Charley, Tim, Todd, and me at our home in Massachusestts for the holiday. Eventually the walls of our house bulged with fiancees, wives, and in-laws. Now we have added the grandchildren.
My parents were troopers, following us on our Christmas Eve trek, as well as to local parties. As they entered their eighties, we hosted the parties at our home so they wouldn't have to leave the house or stay up too late.
However, in 1996, a blizzard wound its way up the coast. It hit Philadelphia first, where my parents were catching their second flight for Providence. They sat aboard their plane on the tarmac while U.S. Air decided whether to proceed. Meanwhile, Charley and I waited in Providence, until the airport closed. U.S. Air officials there claimed my parents' flight might still be coming. All one had to do was look outside to see a complete whiteout! We headed home after midnight in six inches of snow.
Around that time, my parents finally deplaned in Philadelphia. They slept on benches in the airport. The food court had closed, so they had nothing to eat.
The next day, they arrived in Providence bleary-eyed and shaken. "Never again!" they told us. "Please don't ask us to fly up here again, especially in the winter!" They went right to bed at our house, missed Christmas Eve, and after Mom opened her new fur jacket on Christmas morning and posed for a photo in the snow, they went back to bed. They slept a total of seventeen hours.
2010
Charley and I reside in Florida, and it has been several years since we have hosted the family for Christmas in Massachusetts. We have, however, travelled to our sons' homes. And we have slept on airport benches - only it was in Atlanta.
This year, we arrived safely in New Jersey and were able to enjoy not only our twin grandsons born in July, but also their almost-three-year-old sister, and our other two granddaughters visiting from Massachusetts. It was a memorable Christmas, with everyone together. To top it off, we got snowed in with a blizzard for two days! Two more wonderful days sitting by the fire, feeding the twins, playing dress-up, eating pretend concoctions from the pretend kitchen Santa brought. After seven days together, it was time to rebook a flight home and grab some ZZZ's!
Here are a few memorable ones of mine.
Age 12
As much as I'd like to say that my favorite Christmas growing up revolved around a family gathering, trip, or even a funny mishap, it's not so. It was the Christmas I was twelve and received my first set of 78 LP's! A whole new world opened up - a world in which I could practice dance moves for the Friday night mixers. There was the Platters' "Earth Angel," Fats Domino's "My Blue Heaven," Al Hibbler's "Unchained Melody," Little Richard's "Tutti Frutti," as well as "See You Later Alligator," "Mr. Sandman," and Elvis, of course. Over and over I played each record, never budging from the spot in the living room where I practiced the jitterbug. I had struck gold! I gave up on the singing, though.
A Christmas Eve with Young Sons
While our two sons were growing up, we had a Christmas Eve routine. We would spend time at the home of one of our boys' best friends, Derek Laffey, in Cumberland, R.I. Stepping into the Laffey's home was like stepping into the pages of Architectural Digest. Kiva and Ed welcomed all of our family, including my parents, as part of their own. After that visit we travelled to the coast of Massachusetts to spend the rest of the evening with my husband's family. Since Charley was the oldest of seven children, there were six siblings' families (with ten grandchildren) all opening gifts. It was chaos. Papers flew everywhere and kids grabbed and rode everything, especially if the toy belonged to a cousin! Each family put its gifts in trash bags and kept them separated. On the Christmas I most remember, we arrived home at 1 a.m. with a bag of trash instead of gifts!
My Parents' Visits
After my parents moved to Florida, they would fly up to join Charley, Tim, Todd, and me at our home in Massachusestts for the holiday. Eventually the walls of our house bulged with fiancees, wives, and in-laws. Now we have added the grandchildren.
My parents were troopers, following us on our Christmas Eve trek, as well as to local parties. As they entered their eighties, we hosted the parties at our home so they wouldn't have to leave the house or stay up too late.
However, in 1996, a blizzard wound its way up the coast. It hit Philadelphia first, where my parents were catching their second flight for Providence. They sat aboard their plane on the tarmac while U.S. Air decided whether to proceed. Meanwhile, Charley and I waited in Providence, until the airport closed. U.S. Air officials there claimed my parents' flight might still be coming. All one had to do was look outside to see a complete whiteout! We headed home after midnight in six inches of snow.
Around that time, my parents finally deplaned in Philadelphia. They slept on benches in the airport. The food court had closed, so they had nothing to eat.
The next day, they arrived in Providence bleary-eyed and shaken. "Never again!" they told us. "Please don't ask us to fly up here again, especially in the winter!" They went right to bed at our house, missed Christmas Eve, and after Mom opened her new fur jacket on Christmas morning and posed for a photo in the snow, they went back to bed. They slept a total of seventeen hours.
2010
Charley and I reside in Florida, and it has been several years since we have hosted the family for Christmas in Massachusetts. We have, however, travelled to our sons' homes. And we have slept on airport benches - only it was in Atlanta.
This year, we arrived safely in New Jersey and were able to enjoy not only our twin grandsons born in July, but also their almost-three-year-old sister, and our other two granddaughters visiting from Massachusetts. It was a memorable Christmas, with everyone together. To top it off, we got snowed in with a blizzard for two days! Two more wonderful days sitting by the fire, feeding the twins, playing dress-up, eating pretend concoctions from the pretend kitchen Santa brought. After seven days together, it was time to rebook a flight home and grab some ZZZ's!
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