Withdrawal

". . . nothing made him happier, nothing made him feel safer and more at ease with the world, than having one of his children under his roof once again."  (from The Arrivals by Meg Mitchell Moore)

I've been feeling a bit glum this week.  At first I chalked it up to the February blues, but honestly, I don't really mind winter all that much, except for the shoveling, which hasn't been too bad this year.  There's nothing really amiss in my little world:  My semester is off to a good start, the kids are doing well, and Steve is enjoying a much-needed February break.  So why was I feeling a little out of sorts, a little off my game?  Slowly, it dawned on me--I'm in withdrawal.  My youngest was home for the weekend and now she's back at school.  And I miss her.  I miss her car in the driveway, her face at the dinner table, and her body asleep in her bed upstairs.  I miss the way her sweet, funny presence lights up the house.  I also miss the way I feel when she is home.  Meg Mitchell Moore describes it perfectly in the quote above--when one of my kids is home, I feel "happier, safer, and more at ease with the world."  So even though I'm slowly getting used to this new stage in my life, the transition after a visit is rough.  And I suspect it always will be.

Cherry Pie

Every year when February rolls around, I get a craving for cherry pie.  The reason?  Thanks to the good old McGuffey Reader's inclusion of biographer Mason Locke Weems' anecdote about six-year-old George Washington damaging his father's cherry tree with his little hatchet and then owning up to his misdeed ("I cannot tell a lie, father, you know I cannot tell a lie!"), my mom associated cherries with George Washington and baked a cherry pie every February to celebrate his birthday. Whether the story is true or not makes no difference to me--what matters is that it led to an extra cherry pie each year, and cherry was my favorite kind of pie; in fact, it was my favorite dessert, period.  The only other time we had it was when I requested it as my "good report card" treat, which I did, regularly, but my three siblings all chose apple dumplings, so we ate apple dumplings a lot more often than cherry pie.  The kind of cherry pie I'm talking about is made with tart cherries, not with canned cherry pie filling.  And my mom's cherry pies always had a lattice top made with strips of pie crust cut with a little zig-zag pastry wheel.  Unfortunately, my fondness for cherry pie didn't rub off on any of my kids.  In fact, for most of their growing-up years, my kids weren't pie eaters at all.  So lots of Februaries came and went with no cherry pie for me (unless my mom happened to be visiting!).  I am happy to report, however, that all three of my kids like pie now.  And although my daughter's favorite pie is apple, she also likes cherry.  And she's home this weekend.  And it's President's Day Eve.  So tonight we are having cherry pie, by George!

Valentine Memories

When I was in first grade, I got a big, purple, lacy valentine from red-headed, freckle-faced Eddie Humphrey.  It's been more than forty years since I've seen Eddie, but I've never forgotten him or that valentine.  Throughout elementary school, I remember turning shoe boxes into fancy valentine boxes by covering them with construction paper and doilies and cutting a slit in the top.  And I remember my mom making red Jello hearts surrounded by a frill of whipped cream.  When my kids were in elementary school, I remember them carefully filling out store-bought valentines for their classmates and working on homemade valentines for family.  I remember making heart-shaped pizza, jello hearts, and pink-frosted valentine cut-out cookies for them for dinner.  Just last year, I remember going to Buffalo to watch Em's basketball team play Daemen in a February 14th conference game.  The one thing I don't remember is going out for dinner with my husband on Valentine's Day.  Since my memory is poor, I asked Steve about it last night, and he got this puzzled look on his face and said, "I don't think we ever did, did we?"  I'm not sure why--February 14th couldn't have fallen on a school night every year for the past thirty years.  Maybe we were always either too busy, too tired, or too poor?  Well, we're changing that tonight--no heart-shaped pizza, no Jello hearts, no basketball games; instead, even though it's a school night, my sweetheart and I are throwing caution to the wind and going out for dinner on Valentine's Day!

Phone Calls

Today would have been my dad's eighty-first birthday.  Back in the old days when my kids were young and my dad was alive and well and retired with lots of time on his hands, he often used to call in the middle of the day.  I'd be in the midst of washing the dishes or playing with the kids or unloading groceries or doing any one of the many other activities that competed for my time and attention during those busy days of parenting, and the phone would ring.  I'd drop what I was doing and hurry to answer it.  "Hi, Babe," he'd say, "I didn't really want anything."  I'd try to keep the impatience out of my voice, but I'd think to myself, If you didn't really want anything, then why are you calling?  We'd chat for a few minutes while I'd make use of the long phone cord to finish folding the laundry or to make lunch, only half paying attention to the conversation, knowing he'd be calling again in a day or two, or even later that night.  I acted like I had all the time in the world left.  It's been more than ten years since I talked to my dad on the phone, and now that my own kids are grown and gone, I understand exactly why he called even when he didn't really want anything: he called because he missed me, because his house was empty and quiet, because he was lonely.   And I know exactly how comforting it is to hear your child's voice on the other end of the phone.  Talking to our kids reminds us who we are and who we were.  I wish I had understood that back in the old days.  I would have called my dad more often, and when he called me, even when he didn't really want anything, I would have stopped what I was doing and really listened to him.  I have no idea what heaven will be like, but I'm hoping for an eternity of golden afternoons to spend with my dad, talking about everything and nothing.

Super Bowl Sunday

It's a quiet Super Bowl Sunday here--just Steve and me and some chicken wing dip.  It reminds me of a night eight years ago when I wrote the following entry in my notebook:

She and her two teenage boys had been looking forward to playoff weekend all week.  But a basketball game that had been cancelled earlier in the season had been rescheduled for Saturday evening, taking her younger son out of town.  Then at the last minute, a friend invited her older son to go skiing.  "Do you mind, Mom?" he asked her.  What could she say?  After wishing for skis of his own for two year, he'd finally gotten new skis (and used boots) for his birthday in November but until now hadn't had a chance to use them.  It was an invitation for the first ski trip of the season.  How could she say what she was thinking, "Yes, I mind.  Don't go skiing.  Don't grow up.  Don't leave me."  Instead she smiled and said, "You should go.  We can watch tomorrow's games together." She could see the relief on his face  as he hurried to get ready.  A little while later she watched him load his skis into the family van and drive away.  Her twelve-year-old daughter was at a friend's birthday party until 8:30, and her husband never cared much about watching football, so she watched alone.  Even though she'd grown up in Steeler country, and this was a big game for the Steelers and their rookie quarterback Ben Roethlisberger, she realized, suddenly, that what she liked the most about watching football was watching it with her boys.

The Steelers ended up winning that game (but lost to the Patriots the next weekend), and my boys and I ended up watching the next day's (and the next week's) playoff games together.  In fact, we've watched a lot of football games together since that night.  But also since that night, my boys have grown up and moved out, as I knew one day they would.  So tonight when I'm watching the Super Bowl alone, I'll be missing them.  But I'll be glad that they taught me to watch football, and I'll be glad they are happily watching the game with friends, and I'll be glad for all the good memories I have to keep me warm on this snowy Super Bowl Sunday.

  

Christmas Is Coming

Maybe it started with the candy strings: strips of green felt with twenty-four pieces of candy tied on with red yarn.  Beginning December first, my sister and brothers and I untied a candy cane or red gumdrop or Hershey Kiss every night after dinner, as we counted down the days to Christmas. Or maybe it was the way my mom read one chapter of The Adventures of Santa Claus every night in December and helped us memorize Luke 2, verse by verse.  Or maybe it was her approach to decorating for Christmas--every day while we were at school, she would choose one thing from the big cardboard Christmas box to put up while we were at school; we'd come home to find the manger scene on the coffee table, a cardboard Santa face on the fridge, jingle bells on the door, or the lantern candle in the middle of the dining room table.  Whatever the reason, for as long as I can remember, I have liked the anticipation of Christmas as much as or maybe even more than Christmas Day itself.  When I was a kid, I pored over the Sears Wish Book during the long, slow early days of December, carefully circling the toys I wanted most.  Like most kids, I had trouble sleeping on Christmas eve and loved those pre-dawn hours of Christmas morning before it all began.  I shivered in anticipation as I peeked down the hallway and spied my lumpy red knee sock pinned to the fireplace screen in the shadowy darkness.  When I grew up and had kids of my own, December days were anything but long and slow.  It seemed as though every minute was crammed full of shopping and baking, teaching and grading, piano classes and church play practices, concerts and ball games.  Instead of counting down the days to Christmas, I was racing the clock trying to finish everything in time. By the time my kids reached the jingle bells on the ends of their candy strings, I was usually out of breath and low on energy.  But even amidst all the hustle and bustle, a little refrain played over and over in my head: Christmas is coming, Christmas is coming! And every year Christmas eve would cast its spell on me--I'd be just as caught up in the wonder and magic of it as I'd been when I was ten. It felt like the whole world was holding its breath, waiting, anticipating, hoping.  When my kids left for college one by one, the pace started to slow down a bit.  Suddenly, I found myself counting down the days again.  This year, it'll be December 22nd before all their cars pile up in the driveway.  Only on the 24th will all three kids be sleeping in their old beds upstairs.  I'll be the last one up, filling stockings and setting the table for Christmas brunch.  As I'm turning off the Christmas lights, I'll pause for a moment before our manger scene, lit from behind by a single electric candle, and once again I'll feel the magic of Christmas, the promise of what is to come, the thrill of hope.

Almost Done

My husband Steve is almost done with his radiation treatments.  I asked him last night if he wanted to do something to celebrate after his last treatment.  He wasn't sure.  The main thing he wants is to get back to normal.  About three weeks ago, he started having nerve spasms, an unusual and very painful side effect from the radiation.  He can't drive and has had to take a medical leave from teaching.  We're hoping and praying the radiation will have done its job and destroyed all the cancer cells by the time his treatments end, and we're trusting that the nerve spasms will subside completely as his body settles down.  As the end approaches, I've been thinking about how good and bad is so often wrapped up together.  This has been hard, for sure, but even on the worst days, we have been reminded of our many blessings.  First of all, there hasn't been one snowy drive to Jamestown during the past two months; those of you from the area know for this time of year, that in itself is a small miracle and a big answer to prayer.  Second, Steve and I have been loved and cared for during these past several months in ways that brings tears to my eyes as I write.  There have been calls and texts and facebook messages from friends and family members (our dear moms, brothers and sisters, brothers-in-law and sisters-in-law, even nephews and nieces). We've gotten encouraging words in grocery stores, hallways, classrooms, and living rooms.  We've received cards and notes from church folks, from colleagues, and from old friends.  An Edible Arrangement appeared mysteriously on our front porch one dark night; books and candy and gift cards for music and food came in the mail on days we needed them the most.  Our own sweet kids have called more, come home more, and checked in more often than usual.  It has meant more to us than all of you will probably ever know.  Finally, I think going through this has drawn Steve and me together in ways we couldn't have imagined otherwise.  All of this makes me think of the Bible verse about how God can take something bad and use it for good.  This alone is celebration enough, but if Steve's up for it on Tuesday, we might go out for dinner, too!

Three to go!