Strolling and Rolling

I was up before sunrise on Saturday.  TBG was, too.  I ran to the bagel store and then put on the last layer of warm clothing and I was off to the Christina-Taylor Green Memorial Linear Park at Canada del Oro Wash for the second annual community get-together sponsored by BEYOND!  There were events all over town commemorating those we lost and moving out and beyond the tragedy into the world around us.

Gabe Zimmerman is remembered by his family and friends with a tribute to the natural world.  As one of the Prince Milers repeated all morning, "there is a lot of nature here," at Christina's park.  Some of it has expanded with the irrigation provided by  Pima County Natural Resources, Parks and Recreation

Just look at the top of that barrel cactus, filled with water on top, skinny and dessicated below.

 Some of it was here before the park, 

but can be appreciated from the rest areas along the way.

It's not graffiti; it's chalk art.

There were many tents and dance troops and Jazzercize classes at the main event downtown at Armory Park, where an anonymous donor created free admission to the Children's Museum for the day.  There was a hike at Gabe's trailhead, led by his mother.  I couldn't be sad about being unable to hike his trail; I was busy sponsoring GRIN's Stroll and Roll at the other end of town.

 There were kids everywhere.

There were proud chalk artists 

and the world's largest therapy dog.

But mostly, there was love.

Tennis Mom AZ, who comments here often, brought her family to share the love.
They drove all the way from Mesa, just to say HI!

and to draw a magnificent tribute on the pathway.

That's what it was all about.

As someone else wrote:

You helped me to heal, and I thank you.

Tomorrow's post will be chalk art from the event.

Two years ago tonight no one knew my name.

How quickly things change.

How hard it is to adjust.

Two Years ago Today

Two years ago today, as you are reading this, I was spending the day with Greg Iles. I went to yoga, just as I did every Friday morning, and then I came home, took a shower, and got into comfy clothes. I poured myself the first of many glasses of sparkling water, and curled up on the couch, on a bed, on some lounge furniture outside in the sunshine, and I read. I started on page one, lunched on yogurt in the 200's, and took myself out for pancakes at 10pm with 80 pages left to read. I met some lovely people at IHOP and went to sleep content.

The next morning, I was shot and Christina-Taylor was dead.

In no more time than it took to type that sentence, a sunny civics lesson turned into a nightmare. I was in the thick of a where were you when you heard about it? event, and I didn't even know it. I was anesthetized and surgerized and transfused, but I was not aware of anything beyond my narcotized self. My family tells me that I asked for Christina every time I opened my eyes, and that they told me the truth every time. I remember opening my eyes and thinking that I should ask about Christina because they would be expecting me to ask about Christina but I didn't really need to ask because I knew for certain what had happened to her.

I was there. Of that, I was aware.

I was thrilled to watch Christina watching Gabby and then I was lying on the cold cement, holding a dying child's hand. There was no interregnum, no pregnant pause, no uneven splice to the scene. One moment it was joy. One moment it was not.

Of all the pieces of this puzzle, the suddenness and the finality are the hardest to grasp. That they came one upon the other doesn't help. That they involved gunfire just adds to the impossibility of it all; I'd never been in the presence of a handgun or a bullet before that day. I was certain that the rent air and the Batman-like-POW!-SPROING!-ZZZZZ whizzing past me came from a gun, though I don't remember seeing either the shooter or the weapon.

I went from imagining handshakes and introductions to watching my Congresswoman slide down against the flags of her country and her state. I went from grasping small fingers in delight to tugging on that hand, begging it and the rest of her to stay with me for just a little while longer... telling her that I loved her.... that I was going to bring her home to her Mom.... hollering, “Damn it, don't you leave me here alone on this cold sidewalk, young lady.”

In an instant, everything changed. Nothing will ever be the same.

There are some pieces which bring me joy. Those of us who were there that Saturday morning are a lovely bunch, if we do say so ourselves. We are engaged and warm and wish we'd never had to meet but are totally thrilled to be in one anothers' lives. We're an extended family, with kids and great-aunts and grandparents galore. We've shared a singularity. There is so much we don't need to explain to one another. There's the right amount of sympathy and strength in our every encounter. It's a community unlike any other.... except, perhaps, in Aurora, or Newtown, or Columbine, or Virginia Tech.

There are some pieces which move me to action, now that I've found a place for most of my fears and dreads. Limiting access to weaponry to those who can pass a smell test of some sort or other, bringing data retrieval systems into the 21^st century so lists can be monitored with ease and accuracy, creating community facilities where the de-institutionalized mentally ill and their families can find medication and counseling and a sense of community without stigma are things to which I'll be devoting some time and attention.

There are some pieces which still surprise me: that the story still has legs, twenty-four months down the road; that strangers still hug me in the produce aisle; that businesses are delighted to donate to my worthy cause; that I am a celebrity. I've gotten used to the intrusiveness, balancing my discomfort against the benefits I can reap.

I stand on a platform held up by the souls of those lost and damaged on January 8^th . That's an awesome responsibility, and is the easy answer when someone wants to know how I manage to go on. I am here and capable while so many are not; it would be disgraceful to do nothing with the life I have before me.

The harder answer, the one to the question I asked two years ago,

I know that it is possible to watch the light go out of another person's eyes.  I do not know if it is possible to live with that knowledge. 

  remains elusive. My plan remains the same:

I do know that I will try.

from What I Know, written January 16, 2011

For those of you in Tucson and its environs, I invite you to join TBG me as Cornell Cares at the 2^nd Annual STROLL AND ROLL tomorrow, Saturday January 5^th. The event takes place at the Christina-Taylor Green Memorial Linear Park on Shannon, west of Ina from 8am – 11am.

Part of the community-wide BEYOND! commemoration events, the Stroll and Roll is a chance to get outside and get moving and connect with your friends and neighbors. Each One Take One is our motto; grab a neighbor, a colleague, a friend and bring your sneakers, skates, bikes and trikes and wheelchairs and walkers to this flat, 1.6 mile (3.2 miles out and back) paved trail.

Go as far as you want for as long as you want. There will be crafts and sidewalk chalk and a Donate-and-Pull giveaway box.... and hopscotch and hugging circles along the path, just for fun! Come by and say “HI !”

Parenting

BlogHer's Facebook post sent me to an article on parenting adult children. My friends are asking for support as they say NO to their tweens and teens. A reporter asked me if I blamed the shooter's parents.  For a woman with an empty nest I've been thinking a lot about raising kids lately.  It's not an easy topic.

If I had it to do over again..... give me a minute while I bask in the joy of the chance to right the wrongs and correct the missteps.... if I could try again I'd do less for them.  I'd leave more bumps in the road and not try to solve their problems to spare them pain.  That's not a terrible regret, but it's there.

We each have our own do-over lists, I'm sure, whether we concentrate on  the parenting we received or the parenting we doled out... or both.  I brought my  "I will never do THAT when I'm a mom" list to my child rearing and laughed when I heard G'ma coming out of my mouth.  I can say that I was aware when I was aping inappropriate behaviors and that I tried to stop myself before I was too far gone.

In the year I was examining the concept of patience as a New Year's Resolution; I learned to be patient with myself, too. I'd never done this before; I couldn't be perfect right away. Everything was so new, and kept on getting newer.  The problems didn't go away as much as they morphed into a new incarnation of the same old thing.

The decisions come upon you when you are least prepared.  Expect the unexpected and you'll be on the right track, trusting your instincts when all else fails can help you set your sails in the right direction, but seeking the perfect solution will get you nowhere, fast. Those are the lessons I'd share, if anyone asked.

I remember sitting on Little Cuter's bed, she pouring her heart out, I wondering what I could say that would be useful/helpful/meaningful.  I could comfort; she was always willing to receive a back rub to help her relax. I could listen; when she was on a roll there was no stopping her.  I was stymied at creating a teachable moment, at turning a trauma into a triumph of the will, at making lemonade out of this particular lemon.

She was in first grade.

I became increasingly incompetent as the years went on, or so I felt.  As they share their childhood memories with me, I become aware of the phrases that stuck, of the reactions that had an impact.  Big Cuter, sharing his thoughts on privacy and the interwebs, reminded his father that "Mom once said I should never do anything I didn't want printed on the front page of the New York Times.  I remembered that, so I live my life on-line and I don't worry."  Mom got that line from her father; it was a good thing he was lurking in my head when I shared that bit of wisdom with my son.  I didn't think it up myself; I'm not that good.

Most of my best lines have come from others.  Seret and TBG come at acceptance from the same place:

She: It is what it is. Smile and move on

He:  Once you've said yes, smile and move on.

I second guess everything.  Having these two in my life steers me closer to moving forward than anything else I've encountered, and both phrases rattled around in my head as I moved through parenting the Cuters.  Knowing that I am not omnipotent, looking forward instead of reliving the moment - those were lessons I hope made their way from my brain to my childrens' hearts.

I don't suppose that I'll know what they really heard until I watch them parent their own kids.  For now, I'm offering free advice to my friends who are in the throes of it, and biding my time.  I'm feeling free to judge those I feel are lacking and those who are surpassing expectations.  I'm sharing the love and getting lots back in return.

I'm not sure all my answers are the right ones, but they fit comfortably within my soul.

 

 

Sunny Days

The sun came up this morning and I was glad to see it.  The clouds were beautiful this week, but the gloom was starting to wear me down. I've become sunshine-addicted, a total weather wimp.  Without a big blue sky overhead, I feel deprived.  Have I been unworthy, oh, Weather Goddess?  Have I been unappreciative of the wonderfulness that is the desert Southwest in January?  Did yesterday's longing for San Francisco's clear skies push Tucson's clouds closer and darker over my house?

I'm sorry.  I'm really really really sorry.  I'll try to be more grateful in the future.

The more I think about it, the more I come to believe that I am the luckiest woman on the planet.  Three bullets went through me and none of my vital organs were injured.  Actually, it's probably more accurate to say that none of my organs, vital or otherwise, were injured, except for my skin.  Bones, tendons, joints, nerves and ligaments all came in for a beating, it's true.  But, reattaching and reconnecting and rehabbing will make them heal.  There's nothing scary about it.  It just takes work.  If I keep at it, if I pay attention to the instructions my team of experts aims in my direction, if I work through the discomfort, nothing else will go wrong.  I may not recover as quickly or as fully as I would like, but I won't take a step backwards if I stick to the program.

Gabrielle Giffords continues to inspire me to keep a smile on my face and steel in my spine. My mental images of her share the same, sunny backdrop.  Gabby on her motorcycle,  Gabby and Mark posing for their wedding portrait, Gabby walking through the desert with three silver belt buckled, scuffed booted, moustachioed County sheriffs towering over her - she's glowing in the reflection of the heavens' delight in her presence.

Did I really type that?  Where, oh, where, is the snarky New York heathen who used to reside within this perforated skin?  What has happened to my ability to belittle the sentimental, to call it mawkish and over-wrought? Though MTF may mourn her passing, I'm enjoying being surprised by what she left behind after the bullets stopped flying.  When I find myself waxing eloquent on the gods' enjoyment of that which is Gabby, I have to smile.  I'm not just channeling an ancient worshiper of Artemis, I'm understanding just how she felt.

There's a connection between the land and the sky and the psyche here that I've not found anywhere else.  I've been attached to a specific place, a space that brings me joy, but the edges have never been quite as sharp as they are here, right now.  Snow-capped rocky mountains and flora with the strangest shapes G'ma has ever seen and clouds perched atop peaks, stuck in the biggest sky since Little Cuter and I drove across Wyoming - these are the backdrop to a quick trip to the store for milk and eggs.  They are impossible to ignore.  They define the space.  They force me to think and consider and compare and contrast.  I feel small and powerful all at the same time.

As I've been ruminating on why I lived when so many didn't, on why my deficits can be conquered when so many can't, on how I came to be so lucky, I've had bright blue skies behind me.  The topic skirts around the darkness that lurks at the edges of the story and the light helps to brighten my thoughts.  When the clouds roll in and the rain blurs my view of the mountains outside my window, it's all too easy to fall back towards the abyss.

I am so grateful to the sunny skies.  I will try not to take them for granted any more.

More Hugs

That's my resolution for 2013, and I'm sticking to it.  

Just saying it out loud makes me smile.  Putting it into action makes me smile.  Thinking about it makes me smile.  I've not even begun the new year and I'm happy already.  I think this one may be a keeper. 

In the past, I have considered the concept of patience and I have embraced radiant health.  The former moderated my waiting-in-line behavior, the latter gave me a year without illness or injury.  The next year, in a perforated state, I was forced to do more than consider a concept and avoid the flu - I was the picture of enforced inactivity, stuck in a holding pattern with nothing to do except visualize my bones knitting together. I'm not sure they count as resolutions when there is no choice involved.

I re-read the last post of 2011; I've certainly come a long way.  I am not mired in the past, though I am still dealing with the consequences.  I am less labile, more focused, ever more pleased with the direction my path has taken.  I am ready to create more love; I've spent the last year harvesting so much of it that it seems only fair.

I've taken my cue from Ms Levine's kindergarten class.  They wrote stories about kindness which they read and then presented to me.  Their reward for all that work was the chance to give me a hug.  I sat on a little kid's chair as, one by one, five and six year old authors opined on love and caring and being kind before they turned, some shyly, some with great enthusiasm, all with real emotion, and put their arms around me.

I've said it before and I'll say it again - it is impossible to be sad when little ones are hugging you.  

As the anniversary of my intersection with bullets approaches, I find myself becoming a bit twitchy.  I'm more comfortable with the memories, and parts... some awful parts.... are coming back to me.  A year ago, I might have spent some time down the rabbit hole.  This year, I'm finding myself out and about, soliciting donations for GRIN, walking with Amster's brood, filling the holes that used to suck me down and in with hugs... and standing on top of those hugs to reach a breath of fresh air.

Sometimes, the hugs aren't physically delivered.  Sometimes, they come packaged in a door held open with a smile, or a boisterous Thank You! from a Salvation Army Santa.  I'm concentrating on giving them more than getting them, counting on the Beatles to be right about the rewards coming my way.  

Hugs are non-judgmental.  Hugs are asexual.  Hugs are a spontaneous reflection of joy or compassion or anything in between.  They are all about sending the love, and they don't require a thank you note.  They can be used to take the edge off a prickly situation, and can convey what words, at times, cannot.

Mostly, though, they feel good.  

I'm sending the first of many New Year's Hugs to you and yours, denizens, with sincere wishes for a wonderful year ahead.  After all, the sun came up this morning, and we were all here to see it. By definition, it's a good day!

And In The End....

It's finally cold enough to wear my bright yellow polar fleece vest.  The days may be getting longer, but it's still dark much earlier than I'd like.  The full moon woke us up, shining through the shades, and neither one of us was enthusiastic about leaving the warm covers to change the angle of the blinds.  

There's no snow, Elizibeth wore flip-flops on our hike today, and I walked comfortably and barefoot out to soak in the spa and consider the advisablility of planting gerberer daisies in the containers out back.  It's not the end of December as I knew it, but it's what I've got, so I'm going with the flow.

There is no traffic on the roads.  The parking lot at the trailhead had plenty of spots when we arrived at 10:15am.  Lines are non-existent in the grocery store and the mall lot is full only near the entrances to the movies.  I'm not sure where everyone has gone.  

It's winter in Tucson.

*****

There are hours to go before we fall off the fiscal cliff.  This is less imaginary than the Mayan-end-of-the-world-scenarios and yet only the talking heads seem to notice that it's going on. 

I take the temperature of the populace at the manicure palace and on line in the market.  The Mayans were the topic of conversation before during and after the end of the world; nobody's talking about how they'll manage when their take-home pay is drastically reduced.  

That, in and of itself, feels like the end of the world to me.

*****

The good news is that I hiked part of the Sweetwater Trail this morning.

The bad news is that I hiked part of the Sweetwater Trail this morning.

Every piece of connective tissue with even the most remote association to ambulation is announcing its presence with authority throughout my nervous system. I walked consciously, using my toes and ankles, holding myself up and out of my hip joint, taking big, bold steps and lifting my knees over uncertain terrain. My arms were swinging, my neck was long, my shoulders were secure.  I am paying for that precision now.  

It's a good kind of ache, a muscular, well-used exhaustion.  I'm trying to ignore the fact that it took a little over a mile and 100' of elevation change to do me in.

*****

All the laundry is done.  The groceries and wine are laid in.  Dessert fixings are waiting to surprise TBG as we spend New Year's Eve just the way we like it - at home, alone, with backgammon and gin rummy and a movie or two on the telly.  

Tomorrow is about resolutions and the future.  Tonight, I'm leading into the new year with the Beatles, the last lyric on their last album:

And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make..

Happy New Year's Eve, denizens!

Winter in the Desert

We've been sleeping with the bedroom window open.  Most places, you do that in the spring and the summer, but here, when the temps reach the 90's by April, winter is the only time that fresh air feels good in the middle of the night.

It's hard to feel Christmas-y when the temperature is in the 70's; all my winter sweaters are vacuum packed away, waiting for a trip to the kids in Chicago.  I was lucky enough to have cool weather on the 25th; I could wear my new sweater to JannyLou's for dinner and not feel that I was pushing the season.  Of course, I didn't need a jacket to walk next door, either.

Winter's our second rainy season, plumping up the succulents and the cacti.  For those of us who have placed containers strategically beneath the downspouts, there will be no need to drag out the watering can this week.

The downside of this free watering is the mess on the side of the pots.

The rain comes in fast and furious

  pushing the blue sky away ahead of the front.

The sun tries to maintain a presence

but the clouds are immutable.

And then, as quickly as it begins, it's over.

In the time it took me to write a post, to lose the post to a weather-induced-internet-outage which precluded saving my work, and to rewrite something you could read (stifling my groans along the way), we went from raindrops to the makings of a beautiful sunset.

There are many things you can say about the desert.

Boring is not one of them.

Nannie's Christmas

Her birthday was December 26th.  No wonder her son, whose birthday is January 2nd, and she didn't care that much about celebrating the event.  The big deal had already happened. For each of them, I think, that was the way it ought to be.

She was a presence, my mother-in-law.  A great athlete in her youth, and her son's youth, by the time I met her she was on her cancer/heart/macular degeneration way toward the end.  I never ran the bases in Awful Arabs vs Terrible Turks family baseball games in the backyard, but I heard tales of her smacking the ball far enough for the littlest one, who grew up to be my Big Guy, to make it all the way home.

Home was what she made.  G'ma kept us fed and clothed and I always knew I was loved, but home for me was overlaid with a patina of angst, of worry, of waiting for the next shoe to fall.  According to TBG, home for him was safety and comfort and laughter.  It was his mom.

He remembers her sitting at the breakfast room table, laughing at a ribald joke told by her big brother, who'd stop by to see how she was doing in the late afternoon.  He remembers her sangfroid when he was caught smoking cigars beneath Teddy Mortimer's stairwell.  He remembers her whistling louder than any mom should ever be able to whistle, calling the kids and the dog home for dinner.

I remember Christmas.

I'd been to their home before, but Christmas was different.  I watched.  I paid attention.  I took mental notes. All the things my family cherish here are directly descended from that first Christmas, my very first Christmas.

I never missed it growing up, a fact that surprises TBG to this day.  My friends were Jewish, my neighborhood was Jewish, and I had my menorah to light up eight separate nights.  I didn't think I was missing anything.  But, as Big Cuter says, "once you've seen Christmas you realize it's great!" I was hooked from the start.

I think Nannie recognized a kindred spirit from the get-go; we never exchanged a hurtful word.  Strong-willed, she was always willing to listen to another opinion.  She loved to learn, and all things Jewish became a major topic between us.  We learned from one another, she encouraging me to light the Chanukah candles when the holidays coincided, I asking for help in explaining Easter to a toddler.  There was respect, there was love, and there was shopping.

Oh, yes, denizens, there was shopping.  She was good at it.  She enjoyed it.  She never wasted time or money.  She found what she wanted because she knew how to ferret it out.  She was a good teacher, and I an attentive pupil.  After a while, she didn't have to ask if I wanted it.... she just knew.

The fancy presents have been out-grown.  The sentimental mementos remain bright and shiny, just like my memories of her joy when I opened the white cardigan with pearl buttons she'd remembered I'd lusted for months before.  Did I mention that she was perfect?

Her gifts struck the right note - not too silly, not too treacly. Like this Santa from 1980

which has hung at the bottom of my tree for the last .... oh, dear.... 32 years.  He has his own special box, with clouds  behind the hard plastic which holds him in place. I laugh with Nannie's ghost every time I put him away.

Though her house gifts were seasonally colored,

the woman was obsessed with ducks.

There were wooden ones and felt ones and stone ones which hung from the ceiling and rested atop the televisions and the shelves and were nicely complemented by the pterodactyl which flew in the window between the tv room and the living room. When she died, I chose dish towels as my piece of the inheritance

 I've never regretted my decision.

Auntie Em was an Avon Representative for a while.  I was the beneficiary of many fragile ornaments which did not survive the many moves and trees they adorned.  These little angels are called Nannie and Grandpaw

and were also part of the stash I took home.  There were lots of fancy glass pieces and collections of Tobey mugs and commemorative spoons, but the simple, silly things

like this winking Santa, are the ones I treasure most dearly.  They are Auntie Em and Nannie and Cleveland in the snow.  They are long walks after huge meals and cousins of all ages and descriptions dropping in just as the ball is snapped for the final down of the game they'd been waiting for all vacation long.

As the ornament I snagged reminds me

How lucky I was to have so much of it.

Happy Birthday, Maw.

In the Afternoon....

I'm back on Douglas, Big Cuter to my right, each of us engaged with our netbooks and the Knicks and the Lakers and the holiday.  He's got his "Open Me First" sweatpants on above his new, no-show, running socks.  He chose the t-shirt himself last weekend; it's no surprise that it's keeping him covered now. We're sharing the occasional laugh or gasp or "Need anything from the kitchen?"'s as the afternoon winds down.

The boxes are flattened, the bags collapsed and folded, the ribbons stuffed in the glitter-dripping-everywhere-free-if-you-buy-3-greeting-cards-shiny-red box.  There is no such thing as a free lunch. I'll be finding little bits of red shiny stuff all year long. It's already all over the chair... the floor... the couch... my lap....

My stash is stacked on the wooden table Adele-the-decorator told us we'd have forever.  When she was right, she was right.  We won't talk about the scary fabric she insisted on hanging above our bed in Chicago. It's Christmas and I only want to think happy thoughts.  Everything I can see is soft and useful and it's mostly pastels.  That's not where I usually go, but it feels right this year.

TBG's taken over the hearth with his blacks and greys, the ebon brightened only by the crimson IU tees and the white, crew socks which are nearly 3" deep at the toe padding.  They may not fit into his new shoes, but they'll be perfect as his version of barefoot.  The man likes his toes covered..... there is nothing else to be said.

Big Cuter's pile has a purplish hue.  It's a good thing he was with me when the clothes were purchased; I'd never have guessed that he'd stray so far from the navy and grey that have been the staples of his wardrobe since middle school.

Auntie Em's paperwhites are growing inch by inch as we watch them, the basket and blooming overseen by  Henry VIII.   We'll go next door to JannyLou and Fast Eddie's for dinner with their in-from-out-of-town families and then we'll come back, and put on some more of these new comfy clothes, and start all over again.... on the couch.... together.

I love this time of year.

Merry Merry

I was sitting on Douglas, left-over wedding wine in one hand, Kate Shugak on the Kindle in the other, my big boy to my right, listening Soft Rock: Holiday Hits on Comcast's music channel. My nearly kindling tree looked  beautiful, CTG's angel front and center, Mei-Mei's monogrammed bird house right above it.  The sun was setting and peaceful was the relevant adjective.

We looked up and saw that the factoid on the screen was revealing the rather alarming fact that a two-headed Buddhist god gave children Christmas presents.  There were so many, many, many questions, but first and foremost the two of us were wondering why a Buddhist god was sending gifts for Christmas. Then, Big Cuter smiled.

"It's like the fork, Mom.  Once you've seen it, you realize that it's great!"

On that theory, I wish you all, each and every Buddhist and Zoroastrian and Jew and Muslim the happiest of happy holidays on this, a day that celebrates a baby's birth.  We can all be happy when a baby is welcomed to the world, can't we?
*****
As a Christmas gift to those who've asked, here's the brownie recipe I use for the Brownie List.  You can try it with fancier chocolate and serious extracts.  I have, and I always come back to the generics.  Just be sure the extracts are pure and not imitation, the chocolate is Bakers, and the butter is unsalted.  You can leave out the nuts if you'd like; reduce the cooking time if you do.

• Melt 2 squares of Bakers unsweetened chocolate and 1/3 cup unsalted butter.
• Beat together 2 large eggs, 1 cup sugar, 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract and a dash of pure almond extract.
• Add the melted chocolate and butter.  Mix together.
• Add 2/3 cup King Arthur Flour and 1 teaspoon each of salt and baking powder.
• If you like, add chopped walnuts.
• Bake in an 8x8x2 ungreased pan at 350 for approximately 20 minutes.  My crew likes them slightly undercooked (17 minutes) and gooey, but you may prefer them with a drier texture.  You know your oven better than I do.  

Holidaze in the Desert

It started with Stuff the Hummers for the Christina-Taylor Green Memorial Foundation.

It was a rainy day, but it didn't seem to matter much. 

By the end of the day, there were over 200 bikes for the Salvation Army to donate to needy kids.

There were all kinds of toys, too.

They covered the entire covered patio at Sullivans.

 First responders and military personnel were there to pose for photo ops

and to load the goodies 

into the decorated Hummers.

There were elves to help, too.

Then there was the Hanukkah Party at Amsters.

I love living in a place where the McMahan/Hernandez house hosts a party with menorahs.

Miss Texas helped put the wrapping paper on the table 

to protect it from random dreidling.

Making menorahs with clay

 

is a messy business.

especially when Ms Suzi insists that you clean up after yourself. 

The finished product was lovely. 

although the nuts as candle holders turned out to be less wonderful than anticipated.

Moms and daughters, 

and big kids 

made them, too.

They listened to the story and lit the candles and we sang blessings in English and in Hebrew.

We remembered those who were not with us, and felt them close to our hearts.

Then, it was time to eat.

Miss Texas is the best kitchen helper.

Those were the cleanest potatoes ever shredded in a Cuisinart for latkes.

The recipe is the same paper I've been using since playgroup parties in the 20th century.

There's no reason to mess with something that works.

Though his dad didn't believe it, Frankie managed to eat that entire turkey leg. 

And now it's time to go to housebound-Bobbie's birthday party.

The noodle kugel (thanks for the recipe, Seret) is puffing up nicely.

She'll be surprised to see dinner arriving in many cars.

We'll be smiling and glad to share the joy.

After all, that's what it's all about, right?

If you're wondering what I'm wearing this season, here's a peek at my attire for the last ten days. 

The pants have changed, the sweater remains the same.

I really thought I had the best holiday outfit, until I met this guy at The Gap.

I leave you with his smile. 

They're Just Kids

There were six of them.  They were neatly dressed in first-time-this-season cold weather gear, or what passes for such when Tucson's temperatures dip to the 50's.  Each one held a prettily wrapped gift as she walked through the door and into Five Guys this afternoon.

Sitting at an outdoor table in the sun, waiting for TBG and Big Cuter to arrive from the airport, I smiled at those grown up Madelines, walking in one straight line, happy and healthy and .....

oh, no, they didn't do that.  They did not let that door slam in the face of the older woman who had been waiting patiently just inside the restaurant as they made their way past her.  They did not do that.  It's too nice a day for such bad manners.

Sigh.  The woman and her two female companions opened the door themselves and smiled at me and the girls as we all shook our heads.

"Obviously raised by wolves," I opined.

"Oh, no," said the leader of the pack, "they're just kids."

As they laughed and drove away, I felt even worse than I did before.

I don't think that the bar is set too high.  I think that High School students should have learned to hold the door for their elders, for little kids, for men carrying too many packages, for the disabled or the feeble or the limping.  I refuse to believe that it's too much to ask .  I absolutely refuse.

Please and Thank You and holding doors and waiting til the chef sits and picks up her fork before snarfing your dinner are not that difficult to instill if you start at the very beginning.  You model it yourself and you expect it of your toddler and by first grade it's part and parcel of who they are.

Why do I care?  Manners make the world go 'round, I used to tell the Cuters.  They take the edge off the inevitable inconveniences of living in society.  They are an attempt to connect on a human-to-human level in an increasingly uncivil world.  They reflect well on you and on your parents.  They demonstrate respect.

Giving those girls a pass is an abrogation of parental responsibility, a lovely phrase coined by someone in the Department of Justice as she was comforting me after the sentencing hearing.  I'd heard comments that I'd been too hard on the shooter's parents.  They were suffering, too.  Mental illness is intractable and tests even the hardiest of families.

True, true and true, I thought. What's also true is that they allowed an obviously disturbed young man to live in their house with a locked safe in his room.  Inside that safe was a written plan for the assassination of Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords. Under my roof, under my rules meant no locked doors (or safes, had it come up) when I was young, and when our kids were young.... and our kids were not mentally ill.  They were children and teenagers and my responsibility.

Didn't the parents of the Columbine shooters ever go into their garage?  Bombs were being constructed there.  How was it possible for them not to notice?

I understand the impulse to embrace anything that would connect a damaged child to the world around him.  I understand that it would be facile to say that the Connecticut shooter's mother should have refused to accept weaponry as an outlet for her son who, apparently, had little in his life which brought him joy.  But what about a gun safe?  What about renting a weapon at a shooting range?  Why not keep the bullets in the vault at the bank instead of accessible to a broken boy with a mental illness?

And why not say no when it came to purchasing a Bushmaster? What if he'd wanted a rocket launcher?

They're just kids just doesn't cut it.  It's hard to be a mean parent, not to be the cool parent, to make the rules and enforce the rules and stick to the rules. But if you do, you end up with kids who would never let the door slam in the face of anyone, let alone a woman old enough to be their grandmother.  If you do, you withstand the rage as you lock the automatic weapon in the gun safe, and admit that there is no ammunition in the house.

It's hard.  I wish you didn't have to go through it.  But there are 26 families in Newtown, just as there are 19 families here in Tucson, who wish you'd given a little bit more thought to the rest of us out here.  We're expecting you to set the bar high enough to keep us safe.

The Olio - Holiday Edition

Shopping is much less stressful when your children are adults.  The newlyweds wanted unpurchased items from their registry.  Big Cuter wants jeans and a sweater and he wants to go with me and pick them out.  TBG and I need nothing and want even less.

It's easier, true.  It's also a lot less fun.
*****
Last year I bought our tree at WallyWorld.  It was inexpensive and they put it in my car and I drove around the corner and I was home.  The tree was so healthy, so vibrant, so verdant, that it dropped not a single green dribble on the floor.  I kept it up through all twelve days of Christmas.  I couldn't let it go.

This year, hoping to repeat my success, I ran into the yard, picked one that looked straight-trunked and full, and ran right home.  I put on the base all by myself and carried it all into the house unaided.  Then I stood it up.

Cascades of dead needles fell on my head.  Clumps of brown needles were nestled in every crotch of every branch.  Adding ornaments was a feat of balance and care; the branches were so dry that heavy ornaments cracked them.

Next year I'm bringing an Episcopal along; Jewish girls are obviously not well trained in the selection of indoor ornament holders.
*****
I did a very good job of culling the crap from my ornament boxes.  I no longer have scads of red and green and white balls in all sizes.  In fact, I have no undecorated balls at all.  The ugly, the unknown origin, the handmade have all been distributed to Goodwill or the child who created them.

What's left is a chronicle of my life. The angel Little Cuter made at a holiday party when she was five sits atop the tree. It was once a white paper plate; now it is a memory I'll cherish forever.  The skier Big Cuter bought when I dragged his cranky fourth grade self to the mall is hiding behind the lacrosse sticks and the New Orleans tree and the MackenzieChilds glass globe.

It's nice to go back in time.  I just wish the tree were worthy of its adornments.
*****
I finally removed the zinnias from the outdoor containers.  Several have reseeded themselves in the ground; one of God's little miracles that I treasure every morning when I raise the bedroom shades.  The amaryllis I planted in the containers out front have grown tall and straight but seem to be waiting for something to make them bloom.

It's going down into the high twenties tonight; perhaps that chill is what they need to open.  If not, I'll find them bent over and frozen in the morning.  I have to pick the Meyer lemons earlier than I'd like because they won't survive below freezing.

Gardening in the desert is always a source of amusement.
*****
The Happy Ladies Club was taking another walk this afternoon.  My pilates appointment precluded my joining them, but lunch was part of the activity and I've never been known to miss a meal.  Barb hadn't seen me since she snowbirded back to Wisconsin last fall.  Her astonishment at how well I was walking since last she'd watch me traverse a room was the best present I could have gotten.

I know I'm making progress.  It's nice to see it on someone else's face.
*****
I've been wearing my reindeer sweatshirt all day. There's no snow, I don't have gloves or a scarf or a hat, but it's December and Santa is on his way and my outfit will reflect that fact.... no matter how ridiculous I look.

Little Cuter's words stay with me at times like these, when I leave the house with absurd attire: Mom, the world needs more people like you!