A Snow Day!!!

           It is hard to say Calamity Day, when Columbus City Schools’ students and teachers alike look forward to having an unexpected holiday in the winter.  Calamity Days usually occur when the roads are bad due to snow, but we have had them over the years for power outages and frigid, below zero temperatures. For the safety of the children, the area schools are cancelled on these Calamity Days.

           This winter most of the bad days began or occurred on weekends or in the evenings when the salt crews had plenty of time to do their clearing.  The weather has been frigid and we have had quite a few inches of snow, but no Calamity Days, or Snow Days, as I prefer to call them.

           The teachers at my school have a little ritual, which helps us to not get too disappointed when the snow falls at the wrong time. On the day before the forecasted snowstorm, we do a lot of winking when we talk about tomorrow and tell ourselves and each other that we will probably have school. We assure the students that most likely we will have school on the morrow.  We take home what we might need if we will not be at school the next day, but we plan for the next day as though it will be “business as usual”.

           Yesterday, since the messy weather was forecasted for a Friday, we had to take home our weekend work, just in case.  Saying good-bye to the other teachers, as we leave the school, on such a day, is always, “See you tomorrow!”(wink, wink), but hoping we won’t.

           Then, there is my ritual of waking up in the middle of the night and checking the weather outside and getting up earlier than usual from sheer excitement and, finally, hearing the radio announcer say, “Columbus City Schools are cancelled today!”

           Today’s weather was slippery and icy with no real snow involved.  By 10 AM all of the problems with the roads had disappeared.  I cleaned; did laundry; went to the store; did taxes; paid bills; talked to a former teacher, who knew what a joy a day off from school can be; exercised for an hour; wrote some cards, read and cooked.  I also burned the bean soup I was making for dinner and the washing machine broke.  In spite of the totally mundane things I did, I felt thankful and joyful all day.  I really felt like playing in the snow all day long, even though that was impossible, because there was no snow.  After all, I have been a teacher or a student nearly all of my life and this was a “Snow Day”, a special treat in the lives of students and teachers, with no calamity at all.

                   This is what I would love to do on a Snow Day!

The Intruder

We had only been married for a short while and our sparkling new home seemed perfect.  We were working on decorating this place, sharing our lives and making decisions together that were binding us as a couple.  Then, the intruder arrived.

This intruder was a beaten-up, broken-toothed, black alley cat that my husband, Mark, found at his shop. The cat had been in many a fight and was filthy.  I assumed, as I saw him lying in the box of towels in our garage, that he needed to be cleaned up, fed and returned to the alley he loved. Mark wanted to bring him into our sparkling new house and nurse him to health. I could not have been more adamantly opposed.

Our family had a few cats when I was growing up and they were a delight to our whole family.  However, I remembered vividly the brand new carpet being ruined and a large spot on the hardwood floors being stained, when we brought the cats to my parents’ new house many years ago. I did not want déjà vu to occur.

I wanted our home to stay beautiful and the intruder could not be trusted.  My husband’s soft-spot for animals, especially this intruder, was definitely something that I intended to logically talk him out of. I was sure that reason would triumph. The cat was not allowed in the house. “We” were making plans about who would want this cat (since returning him to the alleys was clearly not an option for Mark) and making sure that “we” were not getting attached.

Any talk of naming him was nixed by me, because “we” could not get attached. Naming it meant a special connection.  It meant that this intruder might get an identity other than the nameless, homeless alley cat that he was.  What would be the point of naming it when someone else would want to give it another name?  Clearly, the cat did not need a name.

The first night the cat was with us, Mark gave him a bath.  I imagined that Mark’s arms would be scratched from shoulders to fingernails from giving this feisty, alley cat a bath.  To my surprise, the black cat with a white mark under his chin was totally white when wet.  His fur was extremely dense and beautiful and dried into shiny black.  However, when wet, he was white. (How could a black cat be white? I still do not understand this exactly, but it was true. Perhaps, it was because only the tips of the fur were black.)  When the bath was over the cat purred out loud and Mark received not a scratch. 

The next evening Mark’s mother was coming to dinner and we planned to show her the beautiful cat and ask her to keep it.  She was a lonely, divorced woman and needed a cat to keep her company, “we” decided.  As the evening progressed, the cat was not mentioned by this lonely lady’s son.  I kept gesturing, kicking and clearing my throat. Finally, he showed her the cat that he found and did not so much as even hint about her taking the cat. He said later that she would not want it and did not have room for it. Of course, he did not even ask. I was livid.

The rest is history.  The intruder moved in from the garage to the dining room, to the family room and, eventually, had free run of the house.  The ultimate intrusion occurred when I realized that the intruder was sleeping at the foot of our bed.

Mark would whistle the Andy Griffith (Mayberry R.F.D.) Theme Song and the cat would come. He did not hide like some cats; he enjoyed being with us. He would sit on our laps and was indeed a wonderful pet for seven years. Our carpets and floors were never ruined. The cat did not even shed. 

The cat did get an official name: Gatto. However, Mark had so many special, affectionate names for the cat it was hard to keep up with all of them.  The vet’s office had trouble keep up with them, too.  We, at one time, got four different notices from the vet saying that our pet’s shots were due.  Each of the four notices was addressed to the owners of Gat, Szgat, Zcat, or Gatto.  Little did they know that this was all the same cat. This nameless, homeless cat had more names and “special connections” than he could have ever dreamed of.  My name for the cat was Intruder. (Not all intrusions are bad and they can even be a source of joy.)

Most Treasured Heirlooms

Most Treasured Heirlooms

       These quotes express some important ideas about family heritage.

"A family with an old person has a treasure of gold." Author Unknown

"If you don't recount your family history, it will be lost. Honor your own stories and tell them, too. The tales may not seem very important, but they are what binds families and makes each of us who we are." 

Madeleine L'Engle

"How will our children know who they are if they don't know where they came from?"

John Steinbeck

"Our most treasured family heirloom are our sweet family memories."  Author Unknown

"Do not forget the things your eyes have seen or let them slip from your heart as long as you live.  Teach them to you children and your children's children."

Deuteronomy 4:9

           Maybe we parents of today worry too much about entertaining our children.  We fear that they will be bored if we talk about the past or tell our stories. We fear we will get the dreaded "eye-rolling " response. So...they are bored. Boredom has served as a fertile ground for many wonderful, creative, intelligent thoughts. Why do adults always say that children will get in trouble if they are bored?  In my opinion, it is mostly a lack of guidance and supervision that gets our children in trouble, not boredom.

          A child will see Brave ten times, but does not know any of his or her family's stories.  Our children have not learned to listen to the adults in their families (or their teachers at school), but they can watch a movie or play a video game for hours. Some of these are the same children who bear the label of ADHD.

         A family must find time for the sharing of stories or the stories will be lost.  Make meal time, bedtime and time in the car a time for family stories, if there are no other times in the day.   Family stories are unifying and identity-building, but they can also be used to teach lessons about what works and what doesn't work in life.  

         Will the families of the future just look like a bunch of different aged roommates living in the same house or will it look like a "group home"? Will everyone be watching their own shows and eating their own food at their own times in front of  multiple TV's?  Will the parents' role in the family be mostly just shuttling children and earning the "cash"? Of course, this is a complex question and the answer depends on several things, but there must be that solidifying identity that makes each family special and gives us a framework of belonging. There is a binding, calming, loving force found in our family stories, which truly are our most treasured heirlooms.

Before the Library Burns

     What he really said was that when an old person dies it is like a library being burned.  I repeatedly misquoted our nearly 90 year old neighbor by saying that an old person is like a walking library.  Both quotes are true.

     Our neighbor, Dick, knows something about everything and so does his wife, Susan. Besides knowing how to live effectively, they know much about history, science, philosophy, literature, religion, mathematics and any other subject you can imagine.

     They are the best of the 1940’s and 1950’s young adults, that have grown old in the 21^st century.  They are always giving to the neighborhood by all kinds of physical help, encouragement and kindness.  They are some of the finest people you would ever meet.

     It is hard not envy them.  Dick and Susan have a loving marriage that has passed the test of time.  They are always together and deeply in love. They are pillars in their church.  They speak with respect to everyone and stop everything to smile and when you pass by their home by car or by foot. 

     Their “olive tree” is full of children, grandchildren and great-grand children, who visit often.  They are definitely the kind of people that young people would want to visit.

     As they sit facing each other, in the warmer months, on the porch  for their breakfast, lunch or dinner, they bow their heads in prayer.  They do their Bible study on the porch, too.

     They host “Welcome to the Neighborhood” parties for new neighbors.  Dick says that the best security system is a good neighbor.  We in the neighborhood feel safe and secure in our home at least partly because of them.  They are not a part of a Neighborhood Watch Program. They are the Neighborhood Watch Program, because they are such good neighbors.

     When Dick was a teenager, he was an American Army private who risked his life in Normandy on D-Day and Susan was a teenager, who faithfully waited for his return.  Now they serve their neighborhood, church, community and country by living the kind of life that D-Day soldiers died to preserve.

     They have a lot to give, share and pass on. They have experienced so much.  We cannot just wave at our elderly family members or neighbors in passing.  We have to go to the “library” to read the book, before the library burns.

Cousin Nancy

           Cousin Nancy was born five years after my mother.  She was about a toddler when her young mother died.  When her dad remarried within the year, he did not want the child to know that his new wife was not Nancy’s real mother.  Therefore, he forbade any contact with his first wife’s family for fear that the truth would come out.

           This was devastating for my mother, who was an only child and had no cousins within a hundred miles.  She was not allowed to acknowledge or talk to her cousin even though they went to the same church and school for many years.  She was not to enjoy the friendship of her cousin, Nancy, a beautiful, sweet and talented girl, and she longed for this relationship.

           Mom certainly had an ache in her heart about this, as I am sure her mother, grandfather and aunt did as well.  They had tragically lost a sister and then they were not permitted to have a relationship with her child. Yet, they saw her regularly.

          Mom never had the opportunity to know her cousin until a mutual relative died and the attorney located Nancy for legal purposes.  My mother, in her late 70’s, seized the opportunity and the courage to write to her cousin a heartfelt letter and invite her cousin, who now lived on the East Coast, to visit her in Central Ohio.  One of the best days of my mother’s entire life was the day she spent reconnecting with her cousin after seven decades. My mother was so happy and genuinely joyful that she had done this. It was a delight to hear he talk about this meeting.  The cousins corresponded for about a year. Then, the letters stopped. Nancy was a victim of Parkinson’s disease and Mom of Alzheimer’s.

         The focus of this blog is this: take the effort today to mend an ache in your heart, to repair a breach, to reconnect with someone you care about. Sometimes it takes courage as it did for my mother, but you will be glad you did.  In doing, this you will likely find JOY!

        When I was growing up my mother would always speak of her cousin Nancy with love and sadness.  Those heartaches can be so painful. When my mother had her second daughter and youngest child, it was an honor and gift of love to name her beautiful and sweet baby (who would be very talented, too) with her mother’s name for a middle name and the first name of Nancy.

Homemade Clothes

 Homemade Clothes

       Mom definitely did not make all of our clothes, but the special ones she made were memorable to say the least.   I am not sure I always appreciated her labor of love as I do today.

       When I was a very little girl, my mother made my sister and me matching dresses.  They were lavender checked gingham and had solid lavender accents.  They had puffy sleeves and a full gathered skirt with a sash that tied in back.  The best part besides the great color was the little purple, embroidered piggy bank pockets stitched on the front of the skirt.  I remember wearing it so proudly. That was my favorite dress that Mom made for me.  My sister, who was younger than I was, got to wear the dress two years.  First, she wore hers, then; she got to wear mine when I outgrew it! I know she was just thrilled…

        The next special outfit that I remember her making me was for a sixth grade winter dance.  All of the girls were wearing fashionable solid light colored or bright colored dresses. (I do not think the other mothers of the girls in my class sewed.)  Mom, wanting to save money, made me a dress from an old formal of my grandmother’s.  It was beautiful for a 6o year old woman, but not for me. It was not that it was just ugly; it was just not in style. It had a black velvet top with short sleeves and a dropped-waist, full skirt made from turquoise taffeta with white stars all over it.  The turquoise taffeta was made into a Peter Pan collar, cuffs on the sleeves and a band around the hip. I even wore a turquoise-with-stars bow in my hair.  Donning my black patent leather shoes and my pink glasses, the look was complete!  I was so embarrassed, but, of course, I could not say anything, because the giver had put so much love into its making.

      

        At the dance, I stood in the corner of the room feeling very out of place.   Along came a sweet boy, who came up to me and said that he liked my dress. I am not sure what negative comment I made, but he said, “I really like those stars.”  Charlie Meng, I will always remember you and love you for saying that!  What a gentleman!

        The outfits Mom made me for seventh grade got even more memorable, because she would use the same pattern over and over to save money on patterns.  The green corduroy jumper with a matching green blouse seemed cute enough to me until I heard that the other students were calling me a Martian.  Maybe it was the matching green knee socks that clenched the look. I had a grey jumper; too, that was the identical style.  I also had a brown and blue outfit out of the same pattern as the sixth grade dance dress. Mom was thrifty. 

        I was glad when Mom started letting me start picking out my own patterns and material.  It was a great bonding time. Eventually, we even got to regularly purchase  “store-bought” clothes.  The great thing about homemade clothing, however, was that you never ever had to worry about someone showing up at school, church or an activity in the same outfit you wore. What a relief!! I was the only sixth grader around with stars all over my dress and the only seventh grader anywhere who was dressed from head to toe in green and not in a Girl Scout uniform.

       

Knot Sewing

Knot Sewing

       Sewing was something that all young ladies did. Actually, it was something that middle aged and elderly women did, too.  My mother had tried teaching me to sew at home, but she thought I definitely needed to take it in school.  In seventh grade, I made a duster with a cap.  Later, in high school clothing classes, I made other articles of clothing that, thankfully, I choose not to remember. 

       It was a chore to sew at home on mom’s machine, because of dropping bobbins, out of control stitching and constant ripping out of knots.  The sewing machine would regularly make horrendous stitching and the thread would break after only making a few stitches. The machine was not a very good one. In fact, it was in terrible condition.  I would get so upset, because the machine just would not do what I wanted it to do.

       I had seen the many beautiful things that my grandmother and my mother had sewn.  I did so want to make those beautiful things, too. 

       One of my first purchases with my teacher’s salary, after the necessary car, was a sewing machine.  It was a symbol to me that I wanted to be a wife and mother someday to make exquisite home decorations and cute clothes for my children, just like my mother and grandmother had done.  In the meantime as I waited for Prince Charming, I could be thrifty and make my own clothes. Certainly, Prince Charming would recognize worth in this.

       There was a time when I make most, if not all, of my own clothes. (I shutter to think of them now.)  I took adult sewing classes. I made a “stretch and sew” red blazer, slacks, many dresses, tops, cushions, and curtains. That was what I was supposed to do. I could be thrifty: I could be domestic.  That was the right thing to do!

       Eventually my new sewing machine started doing the same horrible things that the old machine at home did.  Often, I would go no more than a few inches without the thread breaking, the bobbin dropping, the stitches balling up or the needle breaking. There were knots instead of stitches up and down the seams. Maybe, it wasn’t the machine after all. 

       Then, at some point in time, I realized how expensive the material was, how much time it took to sew, how frustrating sewing was for me, how less than mediocre the items I made really were and I decided to start buying clothes instead of sewing.  It was like a big burden being lifted from off of my shoulders.  The joy of not sewing had arrived! No more knot sewing!  I had found my joy and only a little guilt!