And here's a hand, my trusty fiere
And gi'e's a hand o' thine
And we'll tak a right good willy waught
For auld lang syne.
My kids are going to sleep. Then Mike and I will play tag team and baby monitor games to get back over and back to Trisha's house for the rest of our evening. Funny. A couple of years back, even, I would never have dreamed of spending a minor holiday (as opposed to Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Easter, which are "major" holidays--I'm thinking New Years, Mothers' and Fathers' Days, Halloween, 4th of July, Arbor Day, you know...) with my neighbors. Seriously. Who does that?
Everyone has their family or their tribe or whatever--and most folks in most neighborhoods know a couple of neighbors, maybe the lady next door fed the cats one time when you were at a funeral in Dallas. But neighbors aren't usually the first choice for party companions. Camping companions. Heck, police line up companions. I know I talk about this a lot, I know it's the tag line for the whole durned blog, but what an amazing place I accidentally chose to reside in.
Mike and I started out on South Grand, in a cruddy 4-family apartment with mice and nasty carpeting, across from St. Mary's High School. Didn't even know the people across the hall. Then we made the big move to the recently rehabbed Euro-decor apartment on South Compton. Two blocks from I-44, 3 blocks from Grand. We knew Wade upstairs. Nobody else. Got out of there once Wade and his boyfriend went home to Wisconsin and that kid moved in with the Rottweiler and the revolving door girlfriends. Started the house hunt with Leland Hartsfield, the best buyer's agent I've ever encountered.
Once he knew we wanted a house in the city, it was a ton of good advice. We would start the house tours in the basements with flashlights, looking at stack pipes and dielectric unions. Saw some really bad stuff. Saw some good stuff in bad spots. Leland was good to us, though, held us in his hands, frankly, and knew what we wanted even before we'd verbalized it. We wanted a circa 1900 whatever it is we live in. I've heard different people call it different things (it's not a bungalow, it's not a townhome, it's a _________). Perhaps it isn't special enough for a label. But whatever it is, it is concentrated around Tower Grove Park with a smattering here and there throughout the south side.
We put our first contract on a house on Nottingham. It was the biggest, oldest house on the block, near Kingshighway, in crappy shape. I don't think it had a working kitchen. We put in a laughably low bid and they didn't even respond to us. Oh well. Then we almost put a contract on a house on Beethoven, in Bevo. This was before the Bosnian migration, and the neighborhood was at a tipping point. It could get really good, or it could take a huge slide downward. Also the only house like itself on the block, but in pristine condition. Pristine. We chickened out.
I was surprised that Leland didn't tell us "don't call me, I'll call you." He didn't. He would call on Wednesdays, give me the new listings, and then Mike and I would do drive-by's. On Saturday or Sunday, then, we'd look at the one or two from the list that looked worthwhile.
Our second contract was on the second block west of Grand of Hartford. It would have been almost directly across from the Murphy house, actually, Kate, if you're reading this ;^) but our bid, which was $4,000 less than the asking price, was rejected with an offended tone. How dare we lowball them. Totally confused, Leland sent us over to Halliday. But haven't we seen the stuff over there? I asked, frustrated. We'd walked through Kerri & Clayton's house, which was still a boarding house then, and their next door neighbor's place. But we'd missed this one. An alley driveby looked promising. The next day, we walked through.
Lots of aesthetic..shall I call them mistakes?..but solid. The roof needed to go, but the price was low. The kitchen was 1980s, the dining room had a weird closet. Didn't like the butler's pantry bathroom redo. Some nice mantles. It wasn't fabulous, but Leland was either tired of us or knew better than we did. We put a contract in on it and were homeowners the next month. [Note: the Hartford folks called back looking for us two days after we closed--would we still be interested??].
So that's why we're here and not at Mary Magdalene. That's why we're talking about our June camping trip with Corey's little Missouri camping guidebook and eating Janine's fabulous mashed potatoes. That's why our kids were at my house with three babysitters having a "kid party". That's how we've somehow gotten the best parts of auld lang syne--the stuff that the county dwellers wish still existed but "just can't in this day and age." You can't force this into existence, but if you're lucky and play your mah jongg tiles right, you can wake up and find it right around you on a one-way city block in a rundown midwestern city. Who'd a thunk.
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Saturday, December 30, 2006
One of those tiny ironies
Ok, it's not really that ironic. But I didn't have a good title in mind.
Yesterday as I was vacuuming the girls' room, post-cleaning frenzy, where new Christmas stuff gets integrated into the room at large and a few things find their way into large white trash bags (although not as much as you might think--we focus on wood toys and other durable stuff, not a lot of teensy plastic crap, although Polly Pocket and her rubber fetish clothing is present--anyway, so most stuff sticks around intact). I noticed that the vacuum had that burning vacuum smell, and then checked, yup, the belt broke.
Somehow, the belt always is ready to break right before Mike volunteers to vacuum something. I don't know if the vacuum hates Mike, or if he's rough on it, or what. Perhaps it's like an old-fashioned standard transmission. My dad's Triumph really liked me; it constantly broke on Ian. I think it got used to the way I handled it. Perhaps the same is true for the vacuum. It is not much less complex than the Triumph, after all.
So I've replaced my share of belts on this vacuum. Yesterday was Friday and I figured I'd make it over to the vacuum place Saturday and all would be well. But then I totally forgot about it until I noticed the dog hair wafting down the steps and thought perhaps I should vacuum. I could hose-vacuum the steps, but the carpet in my room could use a once-over as well. And shoot, it's 3:30 and I haven't picked up a belt yet.
I can't recall the name of the place I bought the vacuum at, where I usually return for belts and bags. It's on Macklind and has a Batman bat above the door. Right by the Greek restaurant. So I flip open the yellow pages, hoping to find something. The one on South Grand, in walking distance, doesn't answer the phone. I don't bother with Southside on S. Broadway. Long story. I find a place on Watson ("at Arsenal") and know exactly where that might be. He'll be open till 4. Yes, he has a UB belt. He'd prefer small bills this late in the day. Sure. Be right over.
I get over there and it's the same. Exactly the same. The same as every independently owned vacuum shop I have ever been to. Kind of scuzzy, run by weird marginal people--like the guy at Southside who never opens on time, of the guy here with an oxygen tank and a misaligned nose, or the intense individual who runs the place I usually go to. The folks on South Grand were more than a little odd as well. There are randomly strewn about objects--sometimes vacuums, sometimes sewing machines or either of them in various states of open heart surgery. The windows are never very clean, and the cash register is a box with a jimmied lock or an ancient artifact with popup numbers. These places are all the same. And they are all dirty.
They sell vacuums. Why are they so dirty?
The ones that also sell and repair sewing machines, I mean, they have to cater to women for the most part. Housewives, even. How can they get away with being so grungy? I mean, they are all super nice, even when they lose my featherweight sewing machine and I crap my pants trying to figure out how to explain that to my grandmother and then they find it--under the table where they've been sitting all week. They deal mostly in cash, and tend to give me a break on things like belts and bags. They aren't hard-sellers or slick or nothing that bugs me. But it's like shopping in my grandparents' old basement, the one with the pool table, dark room, hot tub, dresser filled with buttons, coconut monkey statues, and aisle after aisle of weird crap. It's taking some terrible step backwards into 1955, which was the last time the windowsills were dusted.
So I got my belt, ran back out to the van, and came home to change it. Can't have wafting dog hair with out-of-town friends coming over. Of course, I could just dim the lights a bit, put a couple of sewing machines and vacuum parts in the hall, a neon sign in the window. I'd never have to clean again.
Yesterday as I was vacuuming the girls' room, post-cleaning frenzy, where new Christmas stuff gets integrated into the room at large and a few things find their way into large white trash bags (although not as much as you might think--we focus on wood toys and other durable stuff, not a lot of teensy plastic crap, although Polly Pocket and her rubber fetish clothing is present--anyway, so most stuff sticks around intact). I noticed that the vacuum had that burning vacuum smell, and then checked, yup, the belt broke.
Somehow, the belt always is ready to break right before Mike volunteers to vacuum something. I don't know if the vacuum hates Mike, or if he's rough on it, or what. Perhaps it's like an old-fashioned standard transmission. My dad's Triumph really liked me; it constantly broke on Ian. I think it got used to the way I handled it. Perhaps the same is true for the vacuum. It is not much less complex than the Triumph, after all.
So I've replaced my share of belts on this vacuum. Yesterday was Friday and I figured I'd make it over to the vacuum place Saturday and all would be well. But then I totally forgot about it until I noticed the dog hair wafting down the steps and thought perhaps I should vacuum. I could hose-vacuum the steps, but the carpet in my room could use a once-over as well. And shoot, it's 3:30 and I haven't picked up a belt yet.
I can't recall the name of the place I bought the vacuum at, where I usually return for belts and bags. It's on Macklind and has a Batman bat above the door. Right by the Greek restaurant. So I flip open the yellow pages, hoping to find something. The one on South Grand, in walking distance, doesn't answer the phone. I don't bother with Southside on S. Broadway. Long story. I find a place on Watson ("at Arsenal") and know exactly where that might be. He'll be open till 4. Yes, he has a UB belt. He'd prefer small bills this late in the day. Sure. Be right over.
I get over there and it's the same. Exactly the same. The same as every independently owned vacuum shop I have ever been to. Kind of scuzzy, run by weird marginal people--like the guy at Southside who never opens on time, of the guy here with an oxygen tank and a misaligned nose, or the intense individual who runs the place I usually go to. The folks on South Grand were more than a little odd as well. There are randomly strewn about objects--sometimes vacuums, sometimes sewing machines or either of them in various states of open heart surgery. The windows are never very clean, and the cash register is a box with a jimmied lock or an ancient artifact with popup numbers. These places are all the same. And they are all dirty.
They sell vacuums. Why are they so dirty?
The ones that also sell and repair sewing machines, I mean, they have to cater to women for the most part. Housewives, even. How can they get away with being so grungy? I mean, they are all super nice, even when they lose my featherweight sewing machine and I crap my pants trying to figure out how to explain that to my grandmother and then they find it--under the table where they've been sitting all week. They deal mostly in cash, and tend to give me a break on things like belts and bags. They aren't hard-sellers or slick or nothing that bugs me. But it's like shopping in my grandparents' old basement, the one with the pool table, dark room, hot tub, dresser filled with buttons, coconut monkey statues, and aisle after aisle of weird crap. It's taking some terrible step backwards into 1955, which was the last time the windowsills were dusted.
So I got my belt, ran back out to the van, and came home to change it. Can't have wafting dog hair with out-of-town friends coming over. Of course, I could just dim the lights a bit, put a couple of sewing machines and vacuum parts in the hall, a neon sign in the window. I'd never have to clean again.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Got the camera going
A couple of photos from church...this one is the nativity scene. Baby Jesus has all his fingers. Took it with a flash, so the lights seem minuscule--but you get the idea. It's in the back of church, where most people enter through a side door:
This is the distance view of the nativity, as well as the advent wreath (hung) that has been converted to Christmas with the silver and gold ribbons and ornaments. More apologies for the photograph...I will bring my tripod with me next time:
Here is the view from the choir loft. I personally think there are too many poinsettias. Just kidding:
And the mittens, knit from "socks that rock" yarn that I won in a lottery from Ann, for voting in November. I have enough leftover for a hat, she tells me. I'm so thrilled with these. I can't wait to make more:
This is the distance view of the nativity, as well as the advent wreath (hung) that has been converted to Christmas with the silver and gold ribbons and ornaments. More apologies for the photograph...I will bring my tripod with me next time:
Here is the view from the choir loft. I personally think there are too many poinsettias. Just kidding:
And the mittens, knit from "socks that rock" yarn that I won in a lottery from Ann, for voting in November. I have enough leftover for a hat, she tells me. I'm so thrilled with these. I can't wait to make more:
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Coffee, Coffee
Remember the old radio show Dr. Demento? I would catch him late Saturday nights on the oldies station back in high school, of all things. Sometimes he was friggin hilarious, other times it was just a bunch of Weird Al songs. One night, though, was a coffee themed show. Back then I didn't drink coffee. I liked coffee ice cream, but that was due to game theory--everyone wants the chocolate chip/vanilla/cherry/whatever. So it'll be gone fast--and coffee will still be here in a week when I have an ice cream craving.
So of course I went from coffee ice cream to frappuccino to mochas to latte to now--a bottomless cup at Hartford coffee with a splash of 1/2 and 1/2. It's like a lot of alcohol drinkers who start with wine coolers and end up with scotch and water (besides an ameretto sour or a glass of wine here and there, I've pretty much eliminated my alcohol habits--mostly because I don't like being drunk and now I'm 32 and I've chosen my drug: caffeine).
But that Dr. Demento show had a song that I don't recall anything about except that it was folksy-guitar style, sung slowly by a country-music style male voice. And here's the refrain:
Coffee, coffee, the joy of my life
I don't need my kids
I don't need my wife
When I can get it I always feel high
Without it I surely would die.
I'm at my in-laws for the week (we'll be home tomorrow), and there is a coffee maker in the kitchen. Yesterday I put it on and slurped down several strong cups (Mike's aunt Peggy had a cup and said, "well, it's stronger than I make it..."). But today, the local coffee shop was open.
Local coffee shop? In Cairo, Illinois? Well, actually no--about 10 minutes away in Mounds. It's called Kismet, and it opened earlier this year. And let me tell you, I like my LCS back in St. Louis. Actually, I like several of them. But this woman knows how to make a latte. And her donuts are St. Louis style (not actually a style of donut, but they're good donuts--not krispy kremey or like the greasy ones down in Texas). Do stop by if you're headed south on I-57 towards Cairo. Just when you think gas stations are your only option...
So that made my morning. We can stay another day. She's open tomorrow, too.
So of course I went from coffee ice cream to frappuccino to mochas to latte to now--a bottomless cup at Hartford coffee with a splash of 1/2 and 1/2. It's like a lot of alcohol drinkers who start with wine coolers and end up with scotch and water (besides an ameretto sour or a glass of wine here and there, I've pretty much eliminated my alcohol habits--mostly because I don't like being drunk and now I'm 32 and I've chosen my drug: caffeine).
But that Dr. Demento show had a song that I don't recall anything about except that it was folksy-guitar style, sung slowly by a country-music style male voice. And here's the refrain:
Coffee, coffee, the joy of my life
I don't need my kids
I don't need my wife
When I can get it I always feel high
Without it I surely would die.
I'm at my in-laws for the week (we'll be home tomorrow), and there is a coffee maker in the kitchen. Yesterday I put it on and slurped down several strong cups (Mike's aunt Peggy had a cup and said, "well, it's stronger than I make it..."). But today, the local coffee shop was open.
Local coffee shop? In Cairo, Illinois? Well, actually no--about 10 minutes away in Mounds. It's called Kismet, and it opened earlier this year. And let me tell you, I like my LCS back in St. Louis. Actually, I like several of them. But this woman knows how to make a latte. And her donuts are St. Louis style (not actually a style of donut, but they're good donuts--not krispy kremey or like the greasy ones down in Texas). Do stop by if you're headed south on I-57 towards Cairo. Just when you think gas stations are your only option...
So that made my morning. We can stay another day. She's open tomorrow, too.
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
Notes From Christmas
Christmas Eve morning, I picked up the family after cooking with Sr. Dorothy Ann (I was up so early my bones hurt) and we went to church together at 10 a.m. Fr. John met me on the side and asked me how I was doing. I said it was all good and it was going to be wonderful. He agreed. Mass was so nice--his homily started by showing off some Christmas letters he'd gotten in the mail, talking about them like, "oh, the McMillans, look, Lucy is learning to play the flute. Oh, here's a priest friend of mine--he's got a lot to say!" And then he said, what if Mary had written a Christmas letter? What would she say, as she got ready for this birth of Jesus? He paused and then said, "Well, we don't have to wonder, because look, she did!" And over on the Mary altar is an envelope. A letter opener. And he opened it and read the letter. It was beautiful. Sophia listened to every word and then during the pause before the offertory, she whispered to me, "How did Mary write us a letter?" I told her, "She had Fr. John write it down for her." God, I love little kids' faith.
After Mass, I was so nervous and worried. All the naysayers said there was no way this was going to work on Christmas Eve. The trees, the flowers, the wreaths--it was just too much work and nobody was ever going to stay. And other naysaying--Fr. John, two weeks before Christmas, had me double the poinsettia order. We had a sea of those plants in the Utah side vestibule. Overwhelming number of poinsettias. And guess what--my predecessor mentioned not to me, but to others, that I'd made a mistake and ordered too many. Who knows how many people she said that to--just a little bit of undermining. Thanks. And then there was tree lot guy. He was standing in the back where he'd left the orange cones. Waiting for me.
"Bridgett, what happened to the trees?"
"I cut them down to size so they would be usable."
"What do you mean, usable?"
"They weren't in good shape. They hadn't been able to fall out at all, they didn't match, they just weren't right for the altar."
"But where are they?"
"Right there," I said, pointing to the two 6 foot trees behind me. Folks at this point are milling about, getting out ladders, saying hello after mass. Still a big crowd. We are nobody's center of attention. In no way did I want this to be the center of anyone's attention.
"Where's the rest of them?"
"I recycled them down at Carondelet Park."
"Why'd you do a thing like that?" he said, obviously upset or frustrated, something. And you know, I'd had all night to think about this and get the wording right, but it didn't come out like I might have wanted. But I was still crystal clear:
"Because they were terrible trees. Because you were demeaning and hurtful to me and Sr. Mary yesterday. It was awful. And in front of all those boy scouts." My voice is actually starting to crack here. I'm not loud, I'm not in his face. I'm just telling him what I think about it. His mouth is hanging open, and I turn away from him to get this work done, work at that point looked like I was going to be doing alone (obviously not true, it was just as big a crowd as ever). I walked away and he doesn't pursue me.
The thing is, I did mention this to a couple of folks who do know him outside of this tree lot. All three of them said, "he SAID that to you?" and reiterated what a nice guy he has always been. Two of them only know him peripherally, but the other one, she is good friends with his wife. Maybe I caught him on a bad day. Maybe it was all the other men and boys there and it egged his testosterone on. Maybe if he knew who I was, how I was so closely knit to him by so many other people, he wouldn't have been so crappy to us. But sometimes, you just have to do what you have to do. I'm not out to get this guy, but I certainly wasn't going to take his crap right then, not for Christmas, not for the church.
Church decorating was a little overwhelming but also very energetic. I don't think I did anything. I mean, I found a hammer, I decided that this or that wreath went here or there, I located a ladder once. But overall, I didn't really do anything. I may have been in charge but it didn't feel like that--folks kind of knew what to do, had done it before, there was a lot of planning beforehand. I was nervous but everyone really worked together and did things and it was LOVELY.
It was all so beautiful. I wish I'd taken pictures--I mean, I'll have time to do so when I get back over to church in a few days, but I can't post them until Thursday or so. So you'll see them then. Or come to church next Sunday and take a look for yourself. :^)
The choir started to arrive around 9 p.m. and Michael, one of the guitarists, brought some white tablecloths for the tree stands around the creche. So I was essentially hidden underneath the trees, behind the new creche in the back of church, as folks started coming in to listen to the Christmas carols. So these people don't know I'm there, they don't know anyone is listening. They aren't trying to please me. And they were astounded by how nice everything looked. The nativity, the trees, the lights, the poinsettias--not a single person said "oh wow, way way too many poinsettias."
It was hard to remember sometimes that I see it all from behind the scenes, but the average congregant only sees the beautiful church. Not the apologetic tears behind the sacristy trying to make things right with the liturgical dance lady. Not the bad stitches on the ambo banner. Not the one dedication candle that failed to light. Nobody sees that stuff but me--just like nobody hears the choir's mistakes but the choir. Mass on Christmas night was a different sort of thing for me. In a good way.
But when it's all said and done, I'm exhausted and a little shaky still, but I am really happy with the result. I feel like I--with so many people's help--have given this gift to St. Pius' parish family, this lovely place to have Christmas Mass, and it was worth every moment.
So before I throw my shoulder out patting myself on the back, I'll stop there. I'll try to post pictures in a couple of days.
So much for the naysayers. Too many poinsettias my butt.
After Mass, I was so nervous and worried. All the naysayers said there was no way this was going to work on Christmas Eve. The trees, the flowers, the wreaths--it was just too much work and nobody was ever going to stay. And other naysaying--Fr. John, two weeks before Christmas, had me double the poinsettia order. We had a sea of those plants in the Utah side vestibule. Overwhelming number of poinsettias. And guess what--my predecessor mentioned not to me, but to others, that I'd made a mistake and ordered too many. Who knows how many people she said that to--just a little bit of undermining. Thanks. And then there was tree lot guy. He was standing in the back where he'd left the orange cones. Waiting for me.
"Bridgett, what happened to the trees?"
"I cut them down to size so they would be usable."
"What do you mean, usable?"
"They weren't in good shape. They hadn't been able to fall out at all, they didn't match, they just weren't right for the altar."
"But where are they?"
"Right there," I said, pointing to the two 6 foot trees behind me. Folks at this point are milling about, getting out ladders, saying hello after mass. Still a big crowd. We are nobody's center of attention. In no way did I want this to be the center of anyone's attention.
"Where's the rest of them?"
"I recycled them down at Carondelet Park."
"Why'd you do a thing like that?" he said, obviously upset or frustrated, something. And you know, I'd had all night to think about this and get the wording right, but it didn't come out like I might have wanted. But I was still crystal clear:
"Because they were terrible trees. Because you were demeaning and hurtful to me and Sr. Mary yesterday. It was awful. And in front of all those boy scouts." My voice is actually starting to crack here. I'm not loud, I'm not in his face. I'm just telling him what I think about it. His mouth is hanging open, and I turn away from him to get this work done, work at that point looked like I was going to be doing alone (obviously not true, it was just as big a crowd as ever). I walked away and he doesn't pursue me.
The thing is, I did mention this to a couple of folks who do know him outside of this tree lot. All three of them said, "he SAID that to you?" and reiterated what a nice guy he has always been. Two of them only know him peripherally, but the other one, she is good friends with his wife. Maybe I caught him on a bad day. Maybe it was all the other men and boys there and it egged his testosterone on. Maybe if he knew who I was, how I was so closely knit to him by so many other people, he wouldn't have been so crappy to us. But sometimes, you just have to do what you have to do. I'm not out to get this guy, but I certainly wasn't going to take his crap right then, not for Christmas, not for the church.
Church decorating was a little overwhelming but also very energetic. I don't think I did anything. I mean, I found a hammer, I decided that this or that wreath went here or there, I located a ladder once. But overall, I didn't really do anything. I may have been in charge but it didn't feel like that--folks kind of knew what to do, had done it before, there was a lot of planning beforehand. I was nervous but everyone really worked together and did things and it was LOVELY.
It was all so beautiful. I wish I'd taken pictures--I mean, I'll have time to do so when I get back over to church in a few days, but I can't post them until Thursday or so. So you'll see them then. Or come to church next Sunday and take a look for yourself. :^)
The choir started to arrive around 9 p.m. and Michael, one of the guitarists, brought some white tablecloths for the tree stands around the creche. So I was essentially hidden underneath the trees, behind the new creche in the back of church, as folks started coming in to listen to the Christmas carols. So these people don't know I'm there, they don't know anyone is listening. They aren't trying to please me. And they were astounded by how nice everything looked. The nativity, the trees, the lights, the poinsettias--not a single person said "oh wow, way way too many poinsettias."
It was hard to remember sometimes that I see it all from behind the scenes, but the average congregant only sees the beautiful church. Not the apologetic tears behind the sacristy trying to make things right with the liturgical dance lady. Not the bad stitches on the ambo banner. Not the one dedication candle that failed to light. Nobody sees that stuff but me--just like nobody hears the choir's mistakes but the choir. Mass on Christmas night was a different sort of thing for me. In a good way.
But when it's all said and done, I'm exhausted and a little shaky still, but I am really happy with the result. I feel like I--with so many people's help--have given this gift to St. Pius' parish family, this lovely place to have Christmas Mass, and it was worth every moment.
So before I throw my shoulder out patting myself on the back, I'll stop there. I'll try to post pictures in a couple of days.
So much for the naysayers. Too many poinsettias my butt.
Monday, December 25, 2006
Gloria
Merry Christmas! I'm a big honkin emotional mess right now, due for bed about, oh, 4 hours ago...the church is beautiful, everything is fixed and lovely and came together seamlessly with nobody really in CHARGE but many people doing many tasks. I need to send out some thank you notes while I'm lying in a recliner tomorrow recovering.
So much was so wonderful today and I have so much to say. But it will wait until I get some sleep. Santa comes and ya know, we have a 5 year old.
But tonight, we sang "Angels We Have Heard On High" at church, and it got stuck in Sophia's head. And here's what she was singing as we pulled up in front of our house tonight:
Glo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-ria! In excilis stable!
[For the non-latin speakers in the room, it should go "gloria in excelsis deo"]
Ha! More as the week goes on and I recover!
Bridgett
So much was so wonderful today and I have so much to say. But it will wait until I get some sleep. Santa comes and ya know, we have a 5 year old.
But tonight, we sang "Angels We Have Heard On High" at church, and it got stuck in Sophia's head. And here's what she was singing as we pulled up in front of our house tonight:
Glo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-ria! In excilis stable!
[For the non-latin speakers in the room, it should go "gloria in excelsis deo"]
Ha! More as the week goes on and I recover!
Bridgett
Sunday, December 24, 2006
What We Did
So I'm standing there, and Dottie (choir member) asks, "those trees don't look alike. What are you going to do?" This is not in an accusatory way at all. More like complete wonderment. Sr. Mary looks at me and her and then I say,
"I'm going to cut them into fire wood and drive around the city until I find an open tree lot."
Without missing a beat, Dottie says, "there's a place up on North Broadway that's very good." Bam. My flippant comment is now a plan.
Mary and I talk about what we're going to do. I'm going to get my dad's truck. Call this place--find its name somehow--and go up there if they still have trees. I figure I can go home and find a dozen numbers to call. And then tomorrow/Sunday we'll come up with two new trees and put these big ugly things out for the garbage.
I go. I'm shaking--I'm breaking with tradition, sort of, and I've just added a lot of extra stupid work to my already crowded plate of a day. I do call my dad. He says sure, take the truck. Mike figures out online that the place is Glueck ("Glick") and it's a wholesale nursery. I call, and they say, sure, we have trees, 5 to 10 feet, yeah, we're open till 6 today. So we go--Mike follows in the van with the girls because at this point, I am a fragile porcelain figurine and am totally convinced that all men who work tree lots are scumbags.
The men who work at Glueck's are not only not scumbags, but they gave me a good deal on two lovely trees that are in my backyard soaking in water. That was the easy part--picking out nice trees from non-crispy choices, having them cut fresh across the trunk, bag the trees, and put them in the back of the truck. Just lovely. We got home, and suddenly I knew that if those big honkin trees were there tomorrow at church, I was going to have to fight someone. Even if it was just Joe Fontana. And I had a feeling that my voice, however big it may be when you're in 6th grade and I have power over your grade, was pretty small in the world of yucky boy scouty men and we were going to wind up with Q-Tip and Monster on the altar and I was going to go home and cry.
So Mike, the girls, and I went up to Pius. We cut the top 6 feet off each of the bug trees, and found that this made for a nice little tree. Pleasing, even. The rest of each tree got tossed in the back of the truck and recycled down at Carondelet Park's mulch pile. I swept up the church, got that queasy guilty feeling again, and went home to sew.
And sew I did.
I did stop by the end of 4:30 Mass to fess up to Fr. John so that he wouldn't be caught off guard if some boy scout adult demanded to know where the trees were. He told me it sounded like they were big jerks, and it was all going to be fine.
In February or March, I may lobby for more than just knowing that it's all going to be fine. I have a lot to think about, and I'm on Parish Council...I don't want to act on what may be simply a personal vendetta. But I don't want that to be the public face of St. Pius during the Christmas season--I mean, he was like this to a mom and a nun from the parish, his parish, that he knew would be coming and whose church allows the tree lot to even exist. What is he like to Joe Schmoe off the street looking for a tree. How South St. Louis can you get. Hoosiers. That isn't my church, and I'm more than a bit embarrassed that I'm probably associated with that lot because it sits on our church's property.
Plus the trees were crispy and ugly. Fugly. And I think Glueck's might be open to a wholesale account. Who knows?
So MERRY CHRISTMAS, really. I'm going to go fold things and make that list, check it twice. I make meals with Sr. Dorothy Ann tomorrow. After I feed Mary and Heidi's bunny. And then I order folks around and tell them where to put evergreen things. I'm ready now.
"I'm going to cut them into fire wood and drive around the city until I find an open tree lot."
Without missing a beat, Dottie says, "there's a place up on North Broadway that's very good." Bam. My flippant comment is now a plan.
Mary and I talk about what we're going to do. I'm going to get my dad's truck. Call this place--find its name somehow--and go up there if they still have trees. I figure I can go home and find a dozen numbers to call. And then tomorrow/Sunday we'll come up with two new trees and put these big ugly things out for the garbage.
I go. I'm shaking--I'm breaking with tradition, sort of, and I've just added a lot of extra stupid work to my already crowded plate of a day. I do call my dad. He says sure, take the truck. Mike figures out online that the place is Glueck ("Glick") and it's a wholesale nursery. I call, and they say, sure, we have trees, 5 to 10 feet, yeah, we're open till 6 today. So we go--Mike follows in the van with the girls because at this point, I am a fragile porcelain figurine and am totally convinced that all men who work tree lots are scumbags.
The men who work at Glueck's are not only not scumbags, but they gave me a good deal on two lovely trees that are in my backyard soaking in water. That was the easy part--picking out nice trees from non-crispy choices, having them cut fresh across the trunk, bag the trees, and put them in the back of the truck. Just lovely. We got home, and suddenly I knew that if those big honkin trees were there tomorrow at church, I was going to have to fight someone. Even if it was just Joe Fontana. And I had a feeling that my voice, however big it may be when you're in 6th grade and I have power over your grade, was pretty small in the world of yucky boy scouty men and we were going to wind up with Q-Tip and Monster on the altar and I was going to go home and cry.
So Mike, the girls, and I went up to Pius. We cut the top 6 feet off each of the bug trees, and found that this made for a nice little tree. Pleasing, even. The rest of each tree got tossed in the back of the truck and recycled down at Carondelet Park's mulch pile. I swept up the church, got that queasy guilty feeling again, and went home to sew.
And sew I did.
I did stop by the end of 4:30 Mass to fess up to Fr. John so that he wouldn't be caught off guard if some boy scout adult demanded to know where the trees were. He told me it sounded like they were big jerks, and it was all going to be fine.
In February or March, I may lobby for more than just knowing that it's all going to be fine. I have a lot to think about, and I'm on Parish Council...I don't want to act on what may be simply a personal vendetta. But I don't want that to be the public face of St. Pius during the Christmas season--I mean, he was like this to a mom and a nun from the parish, his parish, that he knew would be coming and whose church allows the tree lot to even exist. What is he like to Joe Schmoe off the street looking for a tree. How South St. Louis can you get. Hoosiers. That isn't my church, and I'm more than a bit embarrassed that I'm probably associated with that lot because it sits on our church's property.
Plus the trees were crispy and ugly. Fugly. And I think Glueck's might be open to a wholesale account. Who knows?
So MERRY CHRISTMAS, really. I'm going to go fold things and make that list, check it twice. I make meals with Sr. Dorothy Ann tomorrow. After I feed Mary and Heidi's bunny. And then I order folks around and tell them where to put evergreen things. I'm ready now.
Saturday, December 23, 2006
And Then...
Ok, so there we were, Sr. Mary and I, looking at these trees. Totally mismatched. I have a bow saw, and Mary goes after the tall tree with it. It's not sharp and we're not lumbrejacks...we ask one of the teenaged scouts to go get one of the adults. The same man I'd dealt with on Tuesday comes over.
"What are you doing to the tree?"
"We just want to even them out. They need to be closer to the right size." I tell him.
"Why? It's not like that in nature."
"But these are for the altar. They need to match." He grumbles and gets to work. I go spritz the other greens we are storing in the garage, get away for a minute. Then I go to my house and pick up some 5 gallon buckets to soak the smaller trees in. I come back, and they've moved both trees over to the fence, where the electricity is, and are using a sawsall. Great, I think, now it's not such a tough job. But somehow, the fact that we've asked for this help, HELP WE'D BEEN PROMISED, has ruined it for us. The tree lot guy gets it to about a foot and a half from the other tree and Mary tells him that's great, we'll even it out tomorrow. He pulls out his tape measure and says,
"I'm going to get it to the centimeter, lady."
I had this thought then, if only, if only I'd come up on Thursday evening with Mike and my dad, maybe Brian, Maloki, oh, heck, throw in a neighbor or two, maybe George or Ann's husband too, we could have done this, nobody would have had any weird power trip in front of 15 pimply young men, it just would have gotten done. But I thought then, ok, yeah, but this job shouldn't be new--they provide the church trees every year. This shouldn't be a surprise nor a hassle.
So I didn't say anything.
Other little snide comments passed between the men about us, about the trees, about our "demands." Then they gathered up a bunch of boys and dragged the near-kindling trees into the church. They dumped them on the floor of the back gathering area, right behind the pews, blocking the center aisle. They started walking away.
"Wait, can we get them stood up?" asked Mary. This is when the confusion really set in. See, it's not Christmas yet. We can't put them up on the altar, it wouldn't be appropriate for Advent. There have been a lot of naysayers in our parish regarding this, which is disheartening, but at the same time, I'm new at this job, I don't want to make bold big statements and be proven wrong. I'd rather silently (smugly) be right later and show them up. And have a lovely church. So anyway, the trees are getting stood up in the back of church, somewhat out of the way. Why this is a problem I'm still not sure.
They demand the stands. They preach a little about physics. I get the stands. They affix them. They try to stand up the smaller tree. It won't stand up straight, it keeps tilting, it's topheavy. They tell me this, and I'm staring at the tree. It is only 12 foot tall because it has a 3 and a half foot trunk with no branches. It looks like a Q-Tip. It's really ugly. I'm totally disheartened by it, standing there in the church. I start thinking about "That's The Way We've Always Done It" and our old dirty school and the grungy church that we've worked so hard to make elegant and clean and lovely. And we've been successful.
And staring at the Q-Tip Tree leaning against one of our pillars, and then listening to Tree Lot Guy dismiss all the ratty boy scouts, who disappear immediately and do not return, I realize that this is a leftover symptom of the Old St. Pius. This has nothing to do with our Christmas plan. And I start getting this feeling in the pit of my stomach. The feeling I got when I decided I was going to fire my florist three days before my wedding.
I ask the men if they'll at least move the trees to one side so they're not in the aisle. Tree Lot Guy doesn't want to even do this for us, but one of the other men even says his name in that "be rational" tone, and they scoot the two trees. The larger tree is still sticking out in the middle of the right hand side aisle, about 4 inches, just the tippy top. Tree Lot Guy says, "oh, can't have any tree in the way" in a tone dripping with sarcasm. Mary tells him, really, it's ok, nobody's going to trip.
He has Joe Fontana, who is the older retarded man who works at the church--also a boy scout--go and get two ORANGE CONES to put on either side. "Can't have anyone trip. The church will be in deep doo-doo then, wouldn't it?"
Mary tells Joe not to get the cones. Joe does anyway. Tree Lot Guy puts them around the tiny bit of tree. He then says, "Ladies, what you have is conflicting desires. You want this place to be all holy and have people worship, but it's just not safe, and that's a problem."
I tell him we'll work it out tomorrow. I thank him for helping us. And I tell him we'll sweep up, that it's fine. The men leave.
By this time, one of the choir members has showed up. She looks at the trees on the ground and asks,
"What are you going to do to make those look ok?"
Up next: what we did.
"What are you doing to the tree?"
"We just want to even them out. They need to be closer to the right size." I tell him.
"Why? It's not like that in nature."
"But these are for the altar. They need to match." He grumbles and gets to work. I go spritz the other greens we are storing in the garage, get away for a minute. Then I go to my house and pick up some 5 gallon buckets to soak the smaller trees in. I come back, and they've moved both trees over to the fence, where the electricity is, and are using a sawsall. Great, I think, now it's not such a tough job. But somehow, the fact that we've asked for this help, HELP WE'D BEEN PROMISED, has ruined it for us. The tree lot guy gets it to about a foot and a half from the other tree and Mary tells him that's great, we'll even it out tomorrow. He pulls out his tape measure and says,
"I'm going to get it to the centimeter, lady."
I had this thought then, if only, if only I'd come up on Thursday evening with Mike and my dad, maybe Brian, Maloki, oh, heck, throw in a neighbor or two, maybe George or Ann's husband too, we could have done this, nobody would have had any weird power trip in front of 15 pimply young men, it just would have gotten done. But I thought then, ok, yeah, but this job shouldn't be new--they provide the church trees every year. This shouldn't be a surprise nor a hassle.
So I didn't say anything.
Other little snide comments passed between the men about us, about the trees, about our "demands." Then they gathered up a bunch of boys and dragged the near-kindling trees into the church. They dumped them on the floor of the back gathering area, right behind the pews, blocking the center aisle. They started walking away.
"Wait, can we get them stood up?" asked Mary. This is when the confusion really set in. See, it's not Christmas yet. We can't put them up on the altar, it wouldn't be appropriate for Advent. There have been a lot of naysayers in our parish regarding this, which is disheartening, but at the same time, I'm new at this job, I don't want to make bold big statements and be proven wrong. I'd rather silently (smugly) be right later and show them up. And have a lovely church. So anyway, the trees are getting stood up in the back of church, somewhat out of the way. Why this is a problem I'm still not sure.
They demand the stands. They preach a little about physics. I get the stands. They affix them. They try to stand up the smaller tree. It won't stand up straight, it keeps tilting, it's topheavy. They tell me this, and I'm staring at the tree. It is only 12 foot tall because it has a 3 and a half foot trunk with no branches. It looks like a Q-Tip. It's really ugly. I'm totally disheartened by it, standing there in the church. I start thinking about "That's The Way We've Always Done It" and our old dirty school and the grungy church that we've worked so hard to make elegant and clean and lovely. And we've been successful.
And staring at the Q-Tip Tree leaning against one of our pillars, and then listening to Tree Lot Guy dismiss all the ratty boy scouts, who disappear immediately and do not return, I realize that this is a leftover symptom of the Old St. Pius. This has nothing to do with our Christmas plan. And I start getting this feeling in the pit of my stomach. The feeling I got when I decided I was going to fire my florist three days before my wedding.
I ask the men if they'll at least move the trees to one side so they're not in the aisle. Tree Lot Guy doesn't want to even do this for us, but one of the other men even says his name in that "be rational" tone, and they scoot the two trees. The larger tree is still sticking out in the middle of the right hand side aisle, about 4 inches, just the tippy top. Tree Lot Guy says, "oh, can't have any tree in the way" in a tone dripping with sarcasm. Mary tells him, really, it's ok, nobody's going to trip.
He has Joe Fontana, who is the older retarded man who works at the church--also a boy scout--go and get two ORANGE CONES to put on either side. "Can't have anyone trip. The church will be in deep doo-doo then, wouldn't it?"
Mary tells Joe not to get the cones. Joe does anyway. Tree Lot Guy puts them around the tiny bit of tree. He then says, "Ladies, what you have is conflicting desires. You want this place to be all holy and have people worship, but it's just not safe, and that's a problem."
I tell him we'll work it out tomorrow. I thank him for helping us. And I tell him we'll sweep up, that it's fine. The men leave.
By this time, one of the choir members has showed up. She looks at the trees on the ground and asks,
"What are you going to do to make those look ok?"
Up next: what we did.
Crunch Time
Ok, I am doing this on borrowed time. Completely borrowed. Because I really need to hem an altar cloth. Really. But I need to say something here, and probably use some rated R language, about how Bridgett has now finally taken on the position of church art & environment coordinator. Note that I'm not in charge of this committee, but that I essentially am doing all the work. Not the ideas, but the work. And when I say that, I am also overstating it--Sr. Mary Henry is doing so much more than me. She is a parishioner and an employee and thankfully she has more time than I do (hence, employee) to devote to this. But tomorrow is my show and after today, I can be totally in charge. Kind of like "How Bridgett Got Her Groove Back" if my groove is being a total bitch in charge of a class full of naughty middle school students. It's probably something that had to happen so that I wouldn't be wishy washy and a big deferrer to other folks' desires tomorrow. Cause that ain't gonna happen. No more.
Ok, let's see if I can get this written in 15 minutes and then back to altar cloth hemming.
So on Tuesday, I went to the boy scout lot. They sell trees on St. Pius' lot. Pre-cut, delivered from who knows where, a fund raiser for the troop or militia or whatever boy scout groups are called. Cell. I'd been up there the Saturday after the ice storm, and very nice Pat and Peggy told me to come back once everything thawed again, because it was all encrusted. I told them fine, I'd be back, no problem. Peggy is a long time friend of mine; I taught some of her boys, and her daughter is Sophia's age. I know Pat from going to Riley's with her on occasion, with Peggy and others. Nice people. Realistic people. Very.
So Tuesday, I go up because I realize the lot is getting a little bare and I need to get this done. I need to reserve a few more trees and make sure we have enough. We pay for these trees--someone donates every year--the Boy Scouts get their money. So I'm essentially another customer.
I show up as they open the gates Tuesday night, and I tell him I'm from the church. What church? St. Pius. Oh, your trees are over here. He takes me over to them. Oh my. There are two large trees and that's all. I tell him we'll need at least 4 more trees, and he says I can pick them out and he'll set them aside. All is well. I pick out 4 trees.
Now, my family always cuts down their own tree. Every year. Every year since my mom was pregnant with my brother, and that was 1977. Correct me if I'm wrong, mom, and it's been since you were pregnant with Bevin. Anyway, a LONG TIME. So I've always had fresh killed tree--the needles are soft and green, it doesn't shed too much, it doesn't get crispy while it stays in the house. So I have no experience with lot trees. So I have no idea what to look for--but I pick out 4 regular looking balsams and call it a day. They seemed pretty dry, but everything there did and I don't know no better...
I go back over to the two huge trees. Can you pull them out and show them to me? Can you untie them and let them kind of breathe? This is when he gets fussy. They're heavy. There's nowhere to lean them. Where am I going to put them anyway? He has his teenage worker pull them apart and I see that they are nothing like each other--I persuade him to measure them, and one is 12 feet tall and the other is almost 18 feet tall. Not close. But I figure we'll cut the 18 footer down to size and I'm not picking a fight here on the cold tree lot on a Tuesday night.
Pat calls me the next night to tell me they've sold out of the other trees and could I be up there Saturday morning to orchestrate where trees should go? Very nice on the phone. I tell her I could come up earlier if she'd like. No trouble, Saturday will have lots of folks to help out and it'll be fine. Fabulous. I call Sr. Mary and she says she'll be there, too.
Last night was my parents' party. I had a lot of bourbon slush. I'll leave it at that. The alarm went off early this morning and I got myself up and dressed and even brushed my teeth (not my hair, though, oh well). I made it out the door and to the van. Drove to Pius. The lot was down, the smaller trees were in the garage, and Sr. Mary was walking back up to the front of the lot to the larger trees. I met her halfway and we walked together. The trees were "crispy" she said, but at that point, what do we do? I told her they'd be fine--the new nativity set, the lights, it will be lovely. Lovely.
Ok, my 15 minutes are up and the bitching has only started. I have to go work, Mike has to run one last errand with the girls (get them out of my hair while I sew for a minute). So you'll have to wait in suspense until I get back to this. It's 3:30 my time...perhaps I'll get to this around 5 this evening. Of course, if you're reading this on Wednesday of next week, go on ahead to the next post. I hope it's eloquent.
Ok, let's see if I can get this written in 15 minutes and then back to altar cloth hemming.
So on Tuesday, I went to the boy scout lot. They sell trees on St. Pius' lot. Pre-cut, delivered from who knows where, a fund raiser for the troop or militia or whatever boy scout groups are called. Cell. I'd been up there the Saturday after the ice storm, and very nice Pat and Peggy told me to come back once everything thawed again, because it was all encrusted. I told them fine, I'd be back, no problem. Peggy is a long time friend of mine; I taught some of her boys, and her daughter is Sophia's age. I know Pat from going to Riley's with her on occasion, with Peggy and others. Nice people. Realistic people. Very.
So Tuesday, I go up because I realize the lot is getting a little bare and I need to get this done. I need to reserve a few more trees and make sure we have enough. We pay for these trees--someone donates every year--the Boy Scouts get their money. So I'm essentially another customer.
I show up as they open the gates Tuesday night, and I tell him I'm from the church. What church? St. Pius. Oh, your trees are over here. He takes me over to them. Oh my. There are two large trees and that's all. I tell him we'll need at least 4 more trees, and he says I can pick them out and he'll set them aside. All is well. I pick out 4 trees.
Now, my family always cuts down their own tree. Every year. Every year since my mom was pregnant with my brother, and that was 1977. Correct me if I'm wrong, mom, and it's been since you were pregnant with Bevin. Anyway, a LONG TIME. So I've always had fresh killed tree--the needles are soft and green, it doesn't shed too much, it doesn't get crispy while it stays in the house. So I have no experience with lot trees. So I have no idea what to look for--but I pick out 4 regular looking balsams and call it a day. They seemed pretty dry, but everything there did and I don't know no better...
I go back over to the two huge trees. Can you pull them out and show them to me? Can you untie them and let them kind of breathe? This is when he gets fussy. They're heavy. There's nowhere to lean them. Where am I going to put them anyway? He has his teenage worker pull them apart and I see that they are nothing like each other--I persuade him to measure them, and one is 12 feet tall and the other is almost 18 feet tall. Not close. But I figure we'll cut the 18 footer down to size and I'm not picking a fight here on the cold tree lot on a Tuesday night.
Pat calls me the next night to tell me they've sold out of the other trees and could I be up there Saturday morning to orchestrate where trees should go? Very nice on the phone. I tell her I could come up earlier if she'd like. No trouble, Saturday will have lots of folks to help out and it'll be fine. Fabulous. I call Sr. Mary and she says she'll be there, too.
Last night was my parents' party. I had a lot of bourbon slush. I'll leave it at that. The alarm went off early this morning and I got myself up and dressed and even brushed my teeth (not my hair, though, oh well). I made it out the door and to the van. Drove to Pius. The lot was down, the smaller trees were in the garage, and Sr. Mary was walking back up to the front of the lot to the larger trees. I met her halfway and we walked together. The trees were "crispy" she said, but at that point, what do we do? I told her they'd be fine--the new nativity set, the lights, it will be lovely. Lovely.
Ok, my 15 minutes are up and the bitching has only started. I have to go work, Mike has to run one last errand with the girls (get them out of my hair while I sew for a minute). So you'll have to wait in suspense until I get back to this. It's 3:30 my time...perhaps I'll get to this around 5 this evening. Of course, if you're reading this on Wednesday of next week, go on ahead to the next post. I hope it's eloquent.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Advent Thoughts (you may have heard this before)
In Advent 2004, my parish invited me and another new mom to give a reflection about Advent as is related to pregnancy and motherhood. Full of grace. Here's what I said that evening, although since Maeve was 2 months old and I was pretty new-mommy-ish, there were several pauses for my totally uncontrolled emotions! Anyway, here it is. There's a few days left of Advent. Peace!
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My daughter Sophia was born in July 2001. That fall, and the following year, my perspective on the world, on my place in it, and my nation and government, were totally in upheaval. I was fearful, worried, anxious about the future. There was no way I was going to bring another child into this world, not until I knew things would be ok for them. There were even moments in a post-partum haze when I regretted giving birth the first time. Christmas was pretty hollow to me that year, and the following.
This feeling of wanting to control the fates of my child, of potential later children, was strong for a long time. And then last Advent, I was caught unprepared. I was sitting under that window, back beyond where the choir sits, that shows Mary arriving at Elizabeth’s house. Mary said yes to the angel. Mary let go and trusted.
Not only was she quite young, still living at home, and she was technically married but not even old enough to move in with Joseph—betrothed is the word, not only all that, but she was visited by an angel who told her this would happen to her. While angels appear with some regularity in the Bible, nobody I know has ever been visited by an angel. I can probably guess that nobody Mary knew had ever been visited by an angel either—well, Elizabeth’s husband Zechariah has, but since the angel struck him mute until John is born, he can’t tell anybody about it yet at this stage. When the shepherds are visited by angels on Christmas night, they are very much afraid. Zechariah is greeted with a “Do not be frightened”—Mary was probably more than “deeply troubled” as Luke puts it, when Gabriel comes to call.
But she said yes. She couldn’t have known what she was in for, the joy, grief, pain, love, that being the mother of Jesus would bring her. Luke is understated there too—Mary treasured all these things and reflected on them in her heart. No mother, I think, knows what she’s in for. Will her child get sick, will she live to see them graduate from high school, will this child be good, be smart, be a burden, will he leave home and live in the desert eating honey and locusts, will this child be happy, will he make her happy, will he die before his time, will he be murdered by the state, will they have to flee to another country in order to save his life? It’s too much to take in, to consider. But she trusts.
There is no perfect moment in which to conceive or give birth. There are no perfect situations, times, circumstances. What is of concern when you get pregnant is nine-moth-old news by the time the baby arrives. It is always a gamble. It is always a leap of faith.
And so I stopped trying to control. Maybe another baby was just what my world needed. And, like some sort of reverse prayer, not asking for something from God, but taking what might come, I was pregnant within a month.
There I was, full of baby, full of doubt and hope and joy, maybe a little grace. Just like this season.
We see Mary pregnant for 4 weeks of Advent. It’s really 10 times that long, and that isn’t an exaggeration—typical pregnancies are 40 weeks, not 4. Mary had a long time to think about what the angel said. Why did I say yes? may have crossed her mind at some point while she couldn’t sleep due to third trimester insomnia or some other strange symptom pregnancy brings on. But more often, at least from my own experience, she had a long time to be completely fascinated by the changes she was going through physically and emotionally.
She had a long time to worry about what Joseph was going to do. Matthew shows a worried and betrayed Joseph, debating about what he should do about his pregnant wife-to-be. According to Jewish law, he had the right to divorce her, and the society had the right to stone her to death. Mary would have known this might happen.
And then she had a long time to thank God for her stand up guy. She wasn’t publicly disgraced and stoned to death, she wasn’t even quietly divorced and sent away to fend for herself, which is what Matthew portrays as Joseph’s first plan. He takes her in. He pledges to raise her child.
Of course, the first thing we see Mary do after the angel leaves her is run away, to her kinswoman Elizabeth’s house. Luke says that she set out, proceeding in haste into the hill country. Was she running to Elizabeth to see if it was so, if Gabriel had really told her the truth? Was she afraid? Excited? Was she looking to prove to herself that she wasn’t crazy? Had she talked to Joseph before she ran off? Did she talk with her family? We don’t know. All we know is that she left in haste. Perhaps in fear.
When she reaches there, as we all know, the baby Elizabeth is carrying leaps for joy in her womb. Elizabeth is filled with the Holy Spirit. And she asks Mary why she has come to visit, why her, why now? Who am I that the mother of my Lord should come to me?
Mary answers with the Magnificat. She began her journey to Elizabeth’s in haste, perhaps in fear, for her life, for her future. But by the time she arrives, and Elizabeth greets her, she knows, she trusts, she seems almost relieved: My being proclaims the greatness of the Lord, my spirit finds joy in God my savior…for he has looked upon his servant in her lowliness; all ages to come shall call me blessed. God who is mighty has done great things for me, holy is his name. Instead of running away to Elizabeth, which may or may not have been her first plan, she arrives there announcing the kingdom of heaven: he has deposed the mighty from their thrones and raised the lowly to high places. The hungry he has given every good thing while the rich he has sent empty away.
We watch during Advent as some things work out for Mary, and some don’t go the way anybody would want. She and Joseph do marry. He trusts God too. She isn’t stoned to death as an adulteress. She has a son, they both survive the birth, which, given the times and circumstances, is no small feat. Shepherds and astrologers come to visit. There’s this star…of course, she walks 65 miles from Nazareth to Bethlehem. She gives birth in a stable, or maybe a shed or cave, some sort of minimal shelter for livestock. Later she has to move to Egypt to keep Herod from killing her toddler. No matter how much she could have prepared, she couldn’t have been very ready for those things, good or bad. But she trusted.
Advent is full of ups and downs as well. Just as there is no perfect birth situation, no easy breezy pregnancy (no matter what your mother or best friend told you), there is no perfect Christmas season or Christmas. There are relatives you don’t want to deal with but know you have the obligation to do so. You spend too much money even though you said you wouldn’t. The divinity doesn’t set up and you know your mother is going to blame it on your lack of moral fiber instead of the humidity in your kitchen. On the other hand, the lights are beautiful this year, your kids come home and spend time with you, people really seem to enjoy your sugar cookies, your mother in law tells you how glad she is you made the trip. There will probably be moments to treasure and reflect on in your heart.
We can be filled with joy or anxiety about this season, but, just like once you’re pregnant, birth is the inevitable result. We can try to orchestrate every moment, every party, every fruitcake baking session, but in the end, it’s not about that. It’s about a young woman, and her uneasy betrothed, who trusted that God would come through on his promise. Keep in mind that they did walk 65 miles and gave birth to a baby alone in a barn to help that promise to fulfillment. God didn’t do it alone.
God doesn’t change our hearts or bring stillness and peace to the world alone either. Human action is required. We must prepare, we must listen, pray, engage our senses in the Advent season if we are to fully participate in its joy. But most of all, we must trust that Jesus is coming, that he seeks us out, he needs us to help bring his promises to fulfillment.
Elizabeth’s words to Mary are well known in the Hail Mary, but one sentence doesn’t get heard as often, and I thought I would close with her words. Blest is she who trusted that the Lord’s words to her would be fulfilled.
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My daughter Sophia was born in July 2001. That fall, and the following year, my perspective on the world, on my place in it, and my nation and government, were totally in upheaval. I was fearful, worried, anxious about the future. There was no way I was going to bring another child into this world, not until I knew things would be ok for them. There were even moments in a post-partum haze when I regretted giving birth the first time. Christmas was pretty hollow to me that year, and the following.
This feeling of wanting to control the fates of my child, of potential later children, was strong for a long time. And then last Advent, I was caught unprepared. I was sitting under that window, back beyond where the choir sits, that shows Mary arriving at Elizabeth’s house. Mary said yes to the angel. Mary let go and trusted.
Not only was she quite young, still living at home, and she was technically married but not even old enough to move in with Joseph—betrothed is the word, not only all that, but she was visited by an angel who told her this would happen to her. While angels appear with some regularity in the Bible, nobody I know has ever been visited by an angel. I can probably guess that nobody Mary knew had ever been visited by an angel either—well, Elizabeth’s husband Zechariah has, but since the angel struck him mute until John is born, he can’t tell anybody about it yet at this stage. When the shepherds are visited by angels on Christmas night, they are very much afraid. Zechariah is greeted with a “Do not be frightened”—Mary was probably more than “deeply troubled” as Luke puts it, when Gabriel comes to call.
But she said yes. She couldn’t have known what she was in for, the joy, grief, pain, love, that being the mother of Jesus would bring her. Luke is understated there too—Mary treasured all these things and reflected on them in her heart. No mother, I think, knows what she’s in for. Will her child get sick, will she live to see them graduate from high school, will this child be good, be smart, be a burden, will he leave home and live in the desert eating honey and locusts, will this child be happy, will he make her happy, will he die before his time, will he be murdered by the state, will they have to flee to another country in order to save his life? It’s too much to take in, to consider. But she trusts.
There is no perfect moment in which to conceive or give birth. There are no perfect situations, times, circumstances. What is of concern when you get pregnant is nine-moth-old news by the time the baby arrives. It is always a gamble. It is always a leap of faith.
And so I stopped trying to control. Maybe another baby was just what my world needed. And, like some sort of reverse prayer, not asking for something from God, but taking what might come, I was pregnant within a month.
There I was, full of baby, full of doubt and hope and joy, maybe a little grace. Just like this season.
We see Mary pregnant for 4 weeks of Advent. It’s really 10 times that long, and that isn’t an exaggeration—typical pregnancies are 40 weeks, not 4. Mary had a long time to think about what the angel said. Why did I say yes? may have crossed her mind at some point while she couldn’t sleep due to third trimester insomnia or some other strange symptom pregnancy brings on. But more often, at least from my own experience, she had a long time to be completely fascinated by the changes she was going through physically and emotionally.
She had a long time to worry about what Joseph was going to do. Matthew shows a worried and betrayed Joseph, debating about what he should do about his pregnant wife-to-be. According to Jewish law, he had the right to divorce her, and the society had the right to stone her to death. Mary would have known this might happen.
And then she had a long time to thank God for her stand up guy. She wasn’t publicly disgraced and stoned to death, she wasn’t even quietly divorced and sent away to fend for herself, which is what Matthew portrays as Joseph’s first plan. He takes her in. He pledges to raise her child.
Of course, the first thing we see Mary do after the angel leaves her is run away, to her kinswoman Elizabeth’s house. Luke says that she set out, proceeding in haste into the hill country. Was she running to Elizabeth to see if it was so, if Gabriel had really told her the truth? Was she afraid? Excited? Was she looking to prove to herself that she wasn’t crazy? Had she talked to Joseph before she ran off? Did she talk with her family? We don’t know. All we know is that she left in haste. Perhaps in fear.
When she reaches there, as we all know, the baby Elizabeth is carrying leaps for joy in her womb. Elizabeth is filled with the Holy Spirit. And she asks Mary why she has come to visit, why her, why now? Who am I that the mother of my Lord should come to me?
Mary answers with the Magnificat. She began her journey to Elizabeth’s in haste, perhaps in fear, for her life, for her future. But by the time she arrives, and Elizabeth greets her, she knows, she trusts, she seems almost relieved: My being proclaims the greatness of the Lord, my spirit finds joy in God my savior…for he has looked upon his servant in her lowliness; all ages to come shall call me blessed. God who is mighty has done great things for me, holy is his name. Instead of running away to Elizabeth, which may or may not have been her first plan, she arrives there announcing the kingdom of heaven: he has deposed the mighty from their thrones and raised the lowly to high places. The hungry he has given every good thing while the rich he has sent empty away.
We watch during Advent as some things work out for Mary, and some don’t go the way anybody would want. She and Joseph do marry. He trusts God too. She isn’t stoned to death as an adulteress. She has a son, they both survive the birth, which, given the times and circumstances, is no small feat. Shepherds and astrologers come to visit. There’s this star…of course, she walks 65 miles from Nazareth to Bethlehem. She gives birth in a stable, or maybe a shed or cave, some sort of minimal shelter for livestock. Later she has to move to Egypt to keep Herod from killing her toddler. No matter how much she could have prepared, she couldn’t have been very ready for those things, good or bad. But she trusted.
Advent is full of ups and downs as well. Just as there is no perfect birth situation, no easy breezy pregnancy (no matter what your mother or best friend told you), there is no perfect Christmas season or Christmas. There are relatives you don’t want to deal with but know you have the obligation to do so. You spend too much money even though you said you wouldn’t. The divinity doesn’t set up and you know your mother is going to blame it on your lack of moral fiber instead of the humidity in your kitchen. On the other hand, the lights are beautiful this year, your kids come home and spend time with you, people really seem to enjoy your sugar cookies, your mother in law tells you how glad she is you made the trip. There will probably be moments to treasure and reflect on in your heart.
We can be filled with joy or anxiety about this season, but, just like once you’re pregnant, birth is the inevitable result. We can try to orchestrate every moment, every party, every fruitcake baking session, but in the end, it’s not about that. It’s about a young woman, and her uneasy betrothed, who trusted that God would come through on his promise. Keep in mind that they did walk 65 miles and gave birth to a baby alone in a barn to help that promise to fulfillment. God didn’t do it alone.
God doesn’t change our hearts or bring stillness and peace to the world alone either. Human action is required. We must prepare, we must listen, pray, engage our senses in the Advent season if we are to fully participate in its joy. But most of all, we must trust that Jesus is coming, that he seeks us out, he needs us to help bring his promises to fulfillment.
Elizabeth’s words to Mary are well known in the Hail Mary, but one sentence doesn’t get heard as often, and I thought I would close with her words. Blest is she who trusted that the Lord’s words to her would be fulfilled.
Saturday, December 16, 2006
A Little More Like It Every Day
This morning we delivered Christmas boxes for St. Vincent de Paul Society at our church. Our church hall, which is the basement of the church, was packed this morning with amazingly organized boxes and packages—I didn’t count the top numbered family section, but I know it went past the 90s. It’s a lot of people, considering that this count is by family, not by individual. Our church does a giving tree during Advent and what we purchase and wrap goes directly to these assembled packages. That plus a large assortment of food for Christmas—some years we’ve done frozen turkeys and some years we give Shop N Save gift cards (that also give our school money back through the Together We’re Better program, I mean, we’re no dummies) to help round out the donated items. It’s kind of overwhelming.
But it’s also a social time—the kids play, we find our family’s boxes, help each other out to our cars, and disperse into the neighborhood. I think, but am uncertain, that we limit to our parish boundaries. I at least have never had to travel further than Gravois Park or Tower Grove East. We try to take two or three loads—deliver, come back and see if there’s more, deliver those.
Some years, the folks invite us in and we chat for a minute. Oftentimes, the people we’ve delivered to are not living in abject poverty, just comparative, you know? Many older folks on fixed incomes who would break the budget if they shopped for a bunch of presents for the grandkids, but who normally do not require that helping hand. Some are parishioners. Some are school families. These are people we know, or might recognize. And other times, well, it’s irritating, but we can’t know what the situation is—the big screen TV might be rent-to-own and they might be ear-deep in consumer debt. We don’t stand there and measure folks up and decide if this box goes to their house. I assume St. Vincent de Paul Society does some of that—they know the scam artists in the area, for instance, by name—and I’m sure some of it is taken on faith that folks who need us will find us and that we’ll have enough to go around.
This year was the first year I encountered something I haven’t seen since I worked at Henry, the city school downtown where I taught right out of college. Not just relative poverty, but something deeper. The second box we delivered, one of the kids answered the door half-dressed (hmm, kind of like Maeve) and I was practically knocked down by the smell. It’s something I have only experienced at Henry, in fact, never before or after. I don’t know what it is—it’s not cigarettes, it’s not mold, it’s something I can only call poverty. Some of my kids in that first grade class would come to school and have that smell on their clothes. That look on their faces. We delivered the box of food and the packages and went back to the van. You drive down this street, you have no idea what’s inside. How we can live in the same zip code and have this street and this house and good jobs and friendly neighbors is jarring to my sense of fairness. I know I sound naïve and silly, and I’m not—my year at Henry, I saw things that would make your hair literally curl—but I guess in the supervening years, I put it out of my mind? What else did I let go so permanently?
We drove in relative silence to Quik Trip, listening to KEZK’s sugary Christmas music. Mike pumped gas, and I went in and got him a diet Dr. Pepper from the soda machine/fountain. I was up at the cashier’s and the total came to 83 cents. I realized suddenly I didn’t have a dollar, only a ten (what a problem to have), and I hunted in my change purse for the change. The guy next to me plunked down three quarters and a dime he’d just gotten for change and said, “oh, I hate change,” leaving before I could protest or thank him. I took the two pennies in change and went out to the car.
I’m just not that cute. I think it’s Christmas.
But it’s also a social time—the kids play, we find our family’s boxes, help each other out to our cars, and disperse into the neighborhood. I think, but am uncertain, that we limit to our parish boundaries. I at least have never had to travel further than Gravois Park or Tower Grove East. We try to take two or three loads—deliver, come back and see if there’s more, deliver those.
Some years, the folks invite us in and we chat for a minute. Oftentimes, the people we’ve delivered to are not living in abject poverty, just comparative, you know? Many older folks on fixed incomes who would break the budget if they shopped for a bunch of presents for the grandkids, but who normally do not require that helping hand. Some are parishioners. Some are school families. These are people we know, or might recognize. And other times, well, it’s irritating, but we can’t know what the situation is—the big screen TV might be rent-to-own and they might be ear-deep in consumer debt. We don’t stand there and measure folks up and decide if this box goes to their house. I assume St. Vincent de Paul Society does some of that—they know the scam artists in the area, for instance, by name—and I’m sure some of it is taken on faith that folks who need us will find us and that we’ll have enough to go around.
This year was the first year I encountered something I haven’t seen since I worked at Henry, the city school downtown where I taught right out of college. Not just relative poverty, but something deeper. The second box we delivered, one of the kids answered the door half-dressed (hmm, kind of like Maeve) and I was practically knocked down by the smell. It’s something I have only experienced at Henry, in fact, never before or after. I don’t know what it is—it’s not cigarettes, it’s not mold, it’s something I can only call poverty. Some of my kids in that first grade class would come to school and have that smell on their clothes. That look on their faces. We delivered the box of food and the packages and went back to the van. You drive down this street, you have no idea what’s inside. How we can live in the same zip code and have this street and this house and good jobs and friendly neighbors is jarring to my sense of fairness. I know I sound naïve and silly, and I’m not—my year at Henry, I saw things that would make your hair literally curl—but I guess in the supervening years, I put it out of my mind? What else did I let go so permanently?
We drove in relative silence to Quik Trip, listening to KEZK’s sugary Christmas music. Mike pumped gas, and I went in and got him a diet Dr. Pepper from the soda machine/fountain. I was up at the cashier’s and the total came to 83 cents. I realized suddenly I didn’t have a dollar, only a ten (what a problem to have), and I hunted in my change purse for the change. The guy next to me plunked down three quarters and a dime he’d just gotten for change and said, “oh, I hate change,” leaving before I could protest or thank him. I took the two pennies in change and went out to the car.
I’m just not that cute. I think it’s Christmas.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
People Who Bug Me (Long)
Ok, the title is unfair to one of the people involved. But the story goes together with the one for the people who really bug me. Illegal dumpers.
Sophia has a fairy godmother. Many of you have heard of her; I encouraged this early on because I needed an ally in the situation where we met (she was a babysitter at the YMCA where the other babysitter didn't like me or my children) and because it's always nice to have surplus grandmother type figures. This woman moved on from the Y (as have I, actually--cancelled my membership there last month), but stayed in touch over the first summer with little notes in the mail for Sophia. I thought this was adorable, and Sophia drew pictures to send back to her.
Then the halloween costumes arrived, and the Christmas presents. I wasn't going to say no, although it was definitely not the things that I would have given to Sophia.
I have exacting taste when it comes to kids toys and books. I kind of have a point system. Made of wood gets points, plastic loses them. Made by hand or at least in a western country gains HUGE points, made in China loses them, sometimes enough that I reject a toy outright because it is plastic and from China. Books that are derivatives from TV shows or movies lose big points, while books by Eric Carle, for instance, or any number of legitimate authors, are coveted. Toys that have more than one use or encourage imaginative play are great (blocks, plain dollhouse furniture), ones that can only be used one way are not (magnadoodle, for instance--sounds great, but, umm, not for me). Toys with batteries, well, they lose points because I don't replace batteries except in flashlights or CD players (Sophia has the former, but not the latter)--you know, things that SHOULD have batteries. I'm not going to put batteries in the fisher price barn. Or the play kitchen. Or the baby doll. Ugh.
So I'm kind of picky. I allow a little leeway when it's gifts from those who are likely to be clueless (my great aunt, for instance). The fairy godmother from the YMCA sends some odd things, but they either get rejected over time and get freecycled, or I toss them once they break/lose every single required piece. I cull pretty regularly.
Now, it had been a long time since the last box she sent--Halloween 2005, in fact--and I got a Christmas card from her two days ago, so I thought that was it. I figured I'd have Sophia draw her a picture and send that in return. But today, THREE boxes arrived with the mail. At first I thought, hey, my amazon.com order is early, woo hoo! And then I saw her handwriting. Sophia was excited and could read her name on the address. She's jumping up and down and I open the box marked "Sophia Wissinger little sister" first so that Maeve will not grab or hit or you know, whatever new trick she's developing in her little mind. Near occasion of sin--just keep it at bay. There are three identical baby dolls in there, mostly inoffensive, and Maeve is so happy to see them. They're soft, too, which gains them back some of the points they lose for being from China and being overly packaged.
The next box is a really nice Cinderella backpack and insulated lunch box. I'm not anti-Disney on its face. My girls, in fact, are watching Monsters, Inc. right now. I think that derivative toys are irritating, and it makes my heart ache to see little girls play with derivative toys and not able to make up new stories to act out. But a backpack with Cinderella's face? Whatever. And the lunch box is something we kind of needed.
So this is all to say I was lulled into a sense of safety, and I opened the next box right in front of Sophia without checkings its contents first. Right on top--a Bratz Doll. O, these are fugliest creations I have ever seen in a toy aisle, and my brother used to play with He-Man. There are no nice words to describe them. There are ones that aren't nice--Prostitute Barbie, for instance--and I had actually walked Sophia down their aisle at Target last month to show them to her and point out that she will never ever have one in our house. She agreed (or paid me lip service) that they were ugly, and I told her there were tons of toys she could have, but these were some of the few she could not. So there it was, Dynamite Meygan in her black pleather outfit, nasty makeup, and detachable feet. Sophia sees it and gasps. Looks at my face. Looks at the doll.
"Now I have a Bratz doll?" she says, like a question.
"Let's see what else is in this box," I stall. The rest of the box is filled with little cheapy horses, identical packaging but different versions to the one she bought at the dollar store. She is jumping up and down with excitement about these, and I am totally off any hook I might have been on.
"I can't let you keep the doll. You know what I said about them."
"Yes," she says. "Gabrielle's doesn't have any feet." I tell her that none of them have permanent feet and that I think dolls should have their basic parts intact in order to be good dolls. I mean, they don't need those tiny bones in their ears or anatomically correct fingers that wiggle, but they should have hands and feet. That do not detach as some sort of feature.
We decide to give the doll to charity, that some older girl might really like this for Christmas. I come upstairs and get on freecycle. I post exactly what I have, and my zip code. I kid you not, I had 40 responses if I had 1. I stopped counting; I stopped replying. And these were all people who were willing to come out and get it NOW, right NOW, GIVE ME YOUR ADDRESS!!!! Well, the first woman who replied (only one minute after I posted) won the right to the doll, and she was at my door at 5:50.
But before that, I had to take out these boxes to the dumpster. You know what? This post is long enough. Suffice to say I got to yell at some sassy contractor and his son who told me "look lady, just go back in your house, this isn't your job." I don't think they knew who they were talking to. Heh.
Mike is home finally, for a 4 day weekend in the attic. Maeve wants to be in bed right now but the window of bedtime opportunity doesn' open for another half hour. We'll see how long I hold out. Peace!
Sophia has a fairy godmother. Many of you have heard of her; I encouraged this early on because I needed an ally in the situation where we met (she was a babysitter at the YMCA where the other babysitter didn't like me or my children) and because it's always nice to have surplus grandmother type figures. This woman moved on from the Y (as have I, actually--cancelled my membership there last month), but stayed in touch over the first summer with little notes in the mail for Sophia. I thought this was adorable, and Sophia drew pictures to send back to her.
Then the halloween costumes arrived, and the Christmas presents. I wasn't going to say no, although it was definitely not the things that I would have given to Sophia.
I have exacting taste when it comes to kids toys and books. I kind of have a point system. Made of wood gets points, plastic loses them. Made by hand or at least in a western country gains HUGE points, made in China loses them, sometimes enough that I reject a toy outright because it is plastic and from China. Books that are derivatives from TV shows or movies lose big points, while books by Eric Carle, for instance, or any number of legitimate authors, are coveted. Toys that have more than one use or encourage imaginative play are great (blocks, plain dollhouse furniture), ones that can only be used one way are not (magnadoodle, for instance--sounds great, but, umm, not for me). Toys with batteries, well, they lose points because I don't replace batteries except in flashlights or CD players (Sophia has the former, but not the latter)--you know, things that SHOULD have batteries. I'm not going to put batteries in the fisher price barn. Or the play kitchen. Or the baby doll. Ugh.
So I'm kind of picky. I allow a little leeway when it's gifts from those who are likely to be clueless (my great aunt, for instance). The fairy godmother from the YMCA sends some odd things, but they either get rejected over time and get freecycled, or I toss them once they break/lose every single required piece. I cull pretty regularly.
Now, it had been a long time since the last box she sent--Halloween 2005, in fact--and I got a Christmas card from her two days ago, so I thought that was it. I figured I'd have Sophia draw her a picture and send that in return. But today, THREE boxes arrived with the mail. At first I thought, hey, my amazon.com order is early, woo hoo! And then I saw her handwriting. Sophia was excited and could read her name on the address. She's jumping up and down and I open the box marked "Sophia Wissinger little sister" first so that Maeve will not grab or hit or you know, whatever new trick she's developing in her little mind. Near occasion of sin--just keep it at bay. There are three identical baby dolls in there, mostly inoffensive, and Maeve is so happy to see them. They're soft, too, which gains them back some of the points they lose for being from China and being overly packaged.
The next box is a really nice Cinderella backpack and insulated lunch box. I'm not anti-Disney on its face. My girls, in fact, are watching Monsters, Inc. right now. I think that derivative toys are irritating, and it makes my heart ache to see little girls play with derivative toys and not able to make up new stories to act out. But a backpack with Cinderella's face? Whatever. And the lunch box is something we kind of needed.
So this is all to say I was lulled into a sense of safety, and I opened the next box right in front of Sophia without checkings its contents first. Right on top--a Bratz Doll. O, these are fugliest creations I have ever seen in a toy aisle, and my brother used to play with He-Man. There are no nice words to describe them. There are ones that aren't nice--Prostitute Barbie, for instance--and I had actually walked Sophia down their aisle at Target last month to show them to her and point out that she will never ever have one in our house. She agreed (or paid me lip service) that they were ugly, and I told her there were tons of toys she could have, but these were some of the few she could not. So there it was, Dynamite Meygan in her black pleather outfit, nasty makeup, and detachable feet. Sophia sees it and gasps. Looks at my face. Looks at the doll.
"Now I have a Bratz doll?" she says, like a question.
"Let's see what else is in this box," I stall. The rest of the box is filled with little cheapy horses, identical packaging but different versions to the one she bought at the dollar store. She is jumping up and down with excitement about these, and I am totally off any hook I might have been on.
"I can't let you keep the doll. You know what I said about them."
"Yes," she says. "Gabrielle's doesn't have any feet." I tell her that none of them have permanent feet and that I think dolls should have their basic parts intact in order to be good dolls. I mean, they don't need those tiny bones in their ears or anatomically correct fingers that wiggle, but they should have hands and feet. That do not detach as some sort of feature.
We decide to give the doll to charity, that some older girl might really like this for Christmas. I come upstairs and get on freecycle. I post exactly what I have, and my zip code. I kid you not, I had 40 responses if I had 1. I stopped counting; I stopped replying. And these were all people who were willing to come out and get it NOW, right NOW, GIVE ME YOUR ADDRESS!!!! Well, the first woman who replied (only one minute after I posted) won the right to the doll, and she was at my door at 5:50.
But before that, I had to take out these boxes to the dumpster. You know what? This post is long enough. Suffice to say I got to yell at some sassy contractor and his son who told me "look lady, just go back in your house, this isn't your job." I don't think they knew who they were talking to. Heh.
Mike is home finally, for a 4 day weekend in the attic. Maeve wants to be in bed right now but the window of bedtime opportunity doesn' open for another half hour. We'll see how long I hold out. Peace!
Knitting to make my brain grow
WARNING: ALYSSA: HUGE SPOILER COMING REGARDING YOUR CHRISTMAS PRESENT BUT I'M GOING TO POST ANYWAY BECAUSE YOU ARE A GROWN UP WHO CAN DECIDE WHETHER SHE KNOWS ABOUT HER CHRISTMAS PRESENTS AHEAD OF TIME OR NOT. THEY'RE IN THE MAIL, BY THE WAY.
OK, ENOUGH CAPS.
So I've made my brain grow by really spending some time knitting. Waldorf teaches knitting to first and second graders because it supposedly helps them with math. Probably because it is rhythmic and repetitive. I came to knitting much later, in college, and I don't know if it's a coincidence, but I'm certainly better at math now than I was pre-knitting. Ann would probably say coincidence.
For my birthday, I received a gift certificate to an online yarn shop, and I picked up two skeins of Berroco ultra-alpaca, sight-unseen. Never held it in my hand before. In a lovely heather green, it arrived, soft and warm and joyous. I made this:
This is a hooded scarf. Not difficult, done in "mistake stitch ribbing" which essentially means a nice curvy ribbing that doesn't curl on the edges. It also has a slit on one side of the scarf, to insert tab A into slot B, and then jauntily toss behind you. Note how green my eyes look in this picture. I love this hood. Try not to note how crazy my teeth look. It isn't my teeth--my nose is the off-center part of my face.
This little thing kept my head warm during the ice storm clean up process. You would think a knitted object wouldn't, that it would be too loosely put together, but it did. I think alpaca is going on my list of natural wonders. It is soft AND warm.
The next photo I realize is blurry, but I wanted to show the length or something. The one below it is more indictative of what it looks like. This would be the Christmas gift for Alyssa. Ann was kind enough to let me come over to her house this week and hunt through her huge stash of awesome, awesome yarn and cull the herd, so to speak. That evening, I sat down with my sister's size 19 wood knitting needles my dad made for her (beautiful and functional). I took a red boucle from Ann and combined it with a skein of white acrylic and another skein of white baby yarn with just a tiny twist of shine too it. Cast on 4 stitches, knit the first row, repeat first row until you run out of red yarn.
It is really soft, and obviously cute. I finished it rapidly (I HEART size 19 needles) and it's in the mail.
So my next two projects are: the sweater my mom got me for my birthday, "some assembly required", and this cable knit scarf in a pretty partly-wool tweed. That is really making my brain grow.
Ok, kids are begging for lunch. Gotta run. Do check out Ann's blog for a funny picture of her Christmasy kitchen.
OK, ENOUGH CAPS.
So I've made my brain grow by really spending some time knitting. Waldorf teaches knitting to first and second graders because it supposedly helps them with math. Probably because it is rhythmic and repetitive. I came to knitting much later, in college, and I don't know if it's a coincidence, but I'm certainly better at math now than I was pre-knitting. Ann would probably say coincidence.
For my birthday, I received a gift certificate to an online yarn shop, and I picked up two skeins of Berroco ultra-alpaca, sight-unseen. Never held it in my hand before. In a lovely heather green, it arrived, soft and warm and joyous. I made this:
This is a hooded scarf. Not difficult, done in "mistake stitch ribbing" which essentially means a nice curvy ribbing that doesn't curl on the edges. It also has a slit on one side of the scarf, to insert tab A into slot B, and then jauntily toss behind you. Note how green my eyes look in this picture. I love this hood. Try not to note how crazy my teeth look. It isn't my teeth--my nose is the off-center part of my face.This little thing kept my head warm during the ice storm clean up process. You would think a knitted object wouldn't, that it would be too loosely put together, but it did. I think alpaca is going on my list of natural wonders. It is soft AND warm.
The next photo I realize is blurry, but I wanted to show the length or something. The one below it is more indictative of what it looks like. This would be the Christmas gift for Alyssa. Ann was kind enough to let me come over to her house this week and hunt through her huge stash of awesome, awesome yarn and cull the herd, so to speak. That evening, I sat down with my sister's size 19 wood knitting needles my dad made for her (beautiful and functional). I took a red boucle from Ann and combined it with a skein of white acrylic and another skein of white baby yarn with just a tiny twist of shine too it. Cast on 4 stitches, knit the first row, repeat first row until you run out of red yarn.
It is really soft, and obviously cute. I finished it rapidly (I HEART size 19 needles) and it's in the mail.
So my next two projects are: the sweater my mom got me for my birthday, "some assembly required", and this cable knit scarf in a pretty partly-wool tweed. That is really making my brain grow.
Ok, kids are begging for lunch. Gotta run. Do check out Ann's blog for a funny picture of her Christmasy kitchen.
It's beginning, as it were, to look a lot like Christmas
So we cut down a Christmas tree this past Saturday, went out to Heritage Valley Tree Farm, which is the best of both worlds for the mixing of my family traditions with Mike's. His family always got skinny needle balsam firs, my family always cut down their own trees at a tree farm. The problem is, in Missouri and all stops south, beautiful balsam trees that smell like, well, Christmas, do not grow. Or do not grow well. So there are white pines, for the long fuzzy look, or, I can't recall--Frasier? Dark green, pokey, and as Mike puts it, Hanukkah-bush-looking. Not that either of us even knows what that means. It's just what Mike referred to those trees as for the first 3 years we cut down trees with my family. Then I found Heritage Valley. They grow Canaan Firs, which smell like balsams but grow in Missouri. I love how the internet makes one an expert on a million little pieces of information.
So the kids walked in the snow, which was still on the ground down in Washington, and we hunted down the perfect Christmas tree. After each of us (my parents and my family) had our tree felled and ready, the snowball fight ensued. There aren't too many photos of this because I got a snowball down the back of my shirt, courtesy of my father, and then, of course, it was war and the expensive camera got put away.
Bevin and Colleen got off several good hits before they posed for this shot for me. I love Colleen's sweater, by the way. It's a basket weave knit pattern and I covet the information on how one does that. Ann is teaching me cables (well, she described, I nodded, I went home and looked up the pattern she suggested--but it works!) right now...it's a whole new world. My knitting progress to come in the next entry.So after the lovely little snowball fight, we started dragging trees back up to the place where they shake and net them, and stopped by this frozen lake to toss snow on it.
Something about frozen lakes just asks for tossed snow. And the requisite testing of the ice thickness, this time courtesy of Mike. Not thick.We got up to the main house, my dad was buying hot cider, and then we realized that one of our trees had been taken. The numbers on the tickets didn't match. At first we thought someone had actually driven here, parked in the muddy lot, walked all the way over to the tree shake and net area, and stolen our tree. One of the workers went to the parking lot and checked all the trees that were leaving. Nothing matched. We hadn't been careful and it was gone. But soon after, we realized that there was a lone tree nobody was claiming--it was an accident, not malice. Which made us feel better. As my dad said, "well, they must have needed that tree more than we did." But simple mistake is more understandable.
So the Heritage Valley folks had us go back out and find another 8 1/2 foot tree and keep an eye on it this time. They said it happens a couple times a year--I'm thinking it probably happens more often, but that most folks don't pay attention to the numbers on the tickets. I hope the tree fit in their living room--our ten foot ceilings dwarf these trees, but if they're in an 8 foot ceiling suburban tract home, they're going to be a bit puzzled.
The trees are up; they look lovely in both houses. Always do, of course, they're Christmas trees. Silver foil aluminum trees look good. Hanukkah bushes look good, whatever they are. Obviously fake trees with flashing white lights and oversized gold balls look good. Because they imply something. They are bigger than what they are.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
The Most Wonderful Time of the Year
It really can be. It's busy, though, and you must make time for naps. Ten Things I've Learned This Week, to be brief and still informative, perhaps entertaining:
1. Two year olds who can talk are more fun but more challenging than two year olds who can't talk.
2. Knitting up a darling little boucle & worsted scarf from stash yarn with size 19 needles is enjoyable and rewarding.
3. Kids who have bedtimes make for happier parents and in the end, better rested children.
4. Blogger Beta is actually quite nice (new format).
5. Shopping with my sister is so much more fun than shopping with my kids. Duh.
6. Christmas tree hunts have snags. This year, someone accidentally took my parents' tree from the pile of wrapped trees (we cut it, they feed it through that netting machine). So we had to find a second one, for free (it wasn't our fault)--with cold toes and long hikes. It's a nice tree, though. And the snowball fight and tests on the frozen lake were worth it.
7. It is so nice to live in a city that is naturally multicultural. Sophia's Bosnian piano teacher is a wonderful addition to our week; the little City Garden kindergarten program is lovely. Lovely.
8. It is so nice to live in a city that has suburban tendencies, like detached homes, but city style, like a grid layout of streets and tall houses that create an outdoor living room on our front stoops. I really like my neighbors and I know you know this but we would be missing out on something wonderful if we lived on some ritzy culdesac where everyone worked too long at work and commuted huge distances. And garages faced the streets instead of front doors. Yes, I've been reading...
9. It is really nice to have friends with better taste in yarn. Thanks, Ann! ;^)
10. It is nice to be able to intertwine people and places and situations in one's life. Godparents and parishioners and neighbors and coffee houses and students and girl scouts and friends. As Peggy Stein said to Sophia after mass on Sunday, when she was sad because it was time to go and she couldn't keep playing with Molly in the grungy church basement: "don't worry, there will be many viewings available."
1. Two year olds who can talk are more fun but more challenging than two year olds who can't talk.
2. Knitting up a darling little boucle & worsted scarf from stash yarn with size 19 needles is enjoyable and rewarding.
3. Kids who have bedtimes make for happier parents and in the end, better rested children.
4. Blogger Beta is actually quite nice (new format).
5. Shopping with my sister is so much more fun than shopping with my kids. Duh.
6. Christmas tree hunts have snags. This year, someone accidentally took my parents' tree from the pile of wrapped trees (we cut it, they feed it through that netting machine). So we had to find a second one, for free (it wasn't our fault)--with cold toes and long hikes. It's a nice tree, though. And the snowball fight and tests on the frozen lake were worth it.
7. It is so nice to live in a city that is naturally multicultural. Sophia's Bosnian piano teacher is a wonderful addition to our week; the little City Garden kindergarten program is lovely. Lovely.
8. It is so nice to live in a city that has suburban tendencies, like detached homes, but city style, like a grid layout of streets and tall houses that create an outdoor living room on our front stoops. I really like my neighbors and I know you know this but we would be missing out on something wonderful if we lived on some ritzy culdesac where everyone worked too long at work and commuted huge distances. And garages faced the streets instead of front doors. Yes, I've been reading...
9. It is really nice to have friends with better taste in yarn. Thanks, Ann! ;^)
10. It is nice to be able to intertwine people and places and situations in one's life. Godparents and parishioners and neighbors and coffee houses and students and girl scouts and friends. As Peggy Stein said to Sophia after mass on Sunday, when she was sad because it was time to go and she couldn't keep playing with Molly in the grungy church basement: "don't worry, there will be many viewings available."
Saturday, December 09, 2006
NO! He see me!
Ok, more cutesy stuff.
Maeve and Sophia watch TV. But they don't watch network TV--we don't have cable and get really bad reception, including channel 9 (PBS). So they've never been exposed to any number of inane--umm, I mean educational--programs that PBS has to offer these days. Including Sesame Street, and I could devote an entire blog to the reasons why that show sucks now. Most posts would be entitled "ELMO".
For some reason, though, we have a small Cookie Monster beanie animal thingy. It's about 6 inches tall and has the requisite blue fur and big eyes on top of its head. We recently cleaned the girls' room so that Sophia could start sleeping on the top bunk and Maeve on the bottom bunk (which is working like a dream, dear readers). But in the process, I found this little Cookie Monster and tossed it on Maeve's bunk.
Two nights ago, she kept creeping out of her room well past the bedtime, a little anxious. We were trying to watch "Thank You For Smoking" and kept having to pause to have her go back to bed. Finally Mike came down laughing. He'd put the Cookie Monster on her pillow next to her and she'd freaked out.
"No onna my bed! No onna my bed! Onna Seuss bed." (Seuss would be her name for Sophia)
So Mike picked it up and put it on Sophia's bed, so that it was peeking through the mesh bedrail.
"No! He see me!" she yelled.
He hid it away.
I'm hoping to use this to terrorize her into good behavior. Wait, did I just write that? Just kidding.
Maeve and Sophia watch TV. But they don't watch network TV--we don't have cable and get really bad reception, including channel 9 (PBS). So they've never been exposed to any number of inane--umm, I mean educational--programs that PBS has to offer these days. Including Sesame Street, and I could devote an entire blog to the reasons why that show sucks now. Most posts would be entitled "ELMO".
For some reason, though, we have a small Cookie Monster beanie animal thingy. It's about 6 inches tall and has the requisite blue fur and big eyes on top of its head. We recently cleaned the girls' room so that Sophia could start sleeping on the top bunk and Maeve on the bottom bunk (which is working like a dream, dear readers). But in the process, I found this little Cookie Monster and tossed it on Maeve's bunk.
Two nights ago, she kept creeping out of her room well past the bedtime, a little anxious. We were trying to watch "Thank You For Smoking" and kept having to pause to have her go back to bed. Finally Mike came down laughing. He'd put the Cookie Monster on her pillow next to her and she'd freaked out.
"No onna my bed! No onna my bed! Onna Seuss bed." (Seuss would be her name for Sophia)
So Mike picked it up and put it on Sophia's bed, so that it was peeking through the mesh bedrail.
"No! He see me!" she yelled.
He hid it away.
I'm hoping to use this to terrorize her into good behavior. Wait, did I just write that? Just kidding.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
MONKEY COMING!
To begin with, check out Annie Knits for her open letter to the electric company.
After that, check out this picture of our Mary altar at church:
Tomorrow is The Immaculate Conception, which, for those who don't know, is when Mary was conceived, not Jesus. Mary, conceived without stain of original sin, I believe is what I had to say to win the little magnetic Mary statue I earned at Late Night Catechism last January. And then this coming Monday is Our Lady of Guadalupe. Combine that with a rejuvenated spirit at St. Pius and a beautiful Advent so far, and you get this picture. The mosaic is from Sr. Mary's house, the candles are from down on Cherokee St. (the Mexican area of South St. Louis), the cloth is from Bolivia, and the roses are from Baisch & Skinner, THE florist wholesaler in town. They take up almost a city block of building after building of flowers and greens and plants.
I bought almost twice as many flowers as I intended--they came in packs of 25, even though I could only count 15 blooms. There was also no sign. But on the other hand, I used them all--we had underestimated how many we'd need. So it worked out. Of course, Maeve somehow broke the church today, flipping a switch at toddler-level, marked DO NOT TOUCH--and it wound up turning off all the electricity. But it was back on this evening when I went up to finish. When Joe, our janitor, who is a middle-aged mentally retarded man, scared me half to death by hovering in the doorway silently until I turned around. I screamed. It was already dark out, I thought I'd locked myself in (I had--he has keys). So I'm a little jumpy now. And then there were these two exchanges: teaching Sophia O Come O Come Emmanuel, and Sophia's Christmas Comments.
O Come O Come Emmanuel, with Maeve's additions, sung today in the car:
O Come O Come Emmanuel
MONKEY COMING!
And ransom captive Israel,
MONKEY COMING!
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the son of God appear
MONKEY COMING!
Rejoice!
MONKEY COMING!
Rejoice, Emmanuel shall come to thee, o Israel
MONKEY COMING!
And, less bizarrely: Sophia and I were listening to Christmas music while I ironed ten thousand shirts and Maeve napped. The CD was Barenaked for the Holidays, the one with the Sara MacLachlan "We Three Kings" that is so awesome. Well, on this CD, they also sing "Happy Birthday to Jesus", which is the Happy Birthday song. Sophia listened, and we talked about how it is the day that we remember Jesus' birthday. Pause.
"That's why we get presents on Christmas, then," she tells me. "Because it's Jesus' birthday, and each of us has a part of Jesus living in our hearts."
Ah. Amen.
After that, check out this picture of our Mary altar at church:
Tomorrow is The Immaculate Conception, which, for those who don't know, is when Mary was conceived, not Jesus. Mary, conceived without stain of original sin, I believe is what I had to say to win the little magnetic Mary statue I earned at Late Night Catechism last January. And then this coming Monday is Our Lady of Guadalupe. Combine that with a rejuvenated spirit at St. Pius and a beautiful Advent so far, and you get this picture. The mosaic is from Sr. Mary's house, the candles are from down on Cherokee St. (the Mexican area of South St. Louis), the cloth is from Bolivia, and the roses are from Baisch & Skinner, THE florist wholesaler in town. They take up almost a city block of building after building of flowers and greens and plants.
I bought almost twice as many flowers as I intended--they came in packs of 25, even though I could only count 15 blooms. There was also no sign. But on the other hand, I used them all--we had underestimated how many we'd need. So it worked out. Of course, Maeve somehow broke the church today, flipping a switch at toddler-level, marked DO NOT TOUCH--and it wound up turning off all the electricity. But it was back on this evening when I went up to finish. When Joe, our janitor, who is a middle-aged mentally retarded man, scared me half to death by hovering in the doorway silently until I turned around. I screamed. It was already dark out, I thought I'd locked myself in (I had--he has keys). So I'm a little jumpy now. And then there were these two exchanges: teaching Sophia O Come O Come Emmanuel, and Sophia's Christmas Comments.
O Come O Come Emmanuel, with Maeve's additions, sung today in the car:
O Come O Come Emmanuel
MONKEY COMING!
And ransom captive Israel,
MONKEY COMING!
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the son of God appear
MONKEY COMING!
Rejoice!
MONKEY COMING!
Rejoice, Emmanuel shall come to thee, o Israel
MONKEY COMING!
And, less bizarrely: Sophia and I were listening to Christmas music while I ironed ten thousand shirts and Maeve napped. The CD was Barenaked for the Holidays, the one with the Sara MacLachlan "We Three Kings" that is so awesome. Well, on this CD, they also sing "Happy Birthday to Jesus", which is the Happy Birthday song. Sophia listened, and we talked about how it is the day that we remember Jesus' birthday. Pause.
"That's why we get presents on Christmas, then," she tells me. "Because it's Jesus' birthday, and each of us has a part of Jesus living in our hearts."
Ah. Amen.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Welcome to Winter
What, it was 70 degrees here on Wednesday? And then this storm. It was supposed to be a little rain, switching to sleet, and then dumping 5-8 inches of snow on us. Winter wonderland. But this one got distracted by something shiny and instead gave us a terrifying coating of ice.
I was in an ice storm when I was 4 or so--there are pictures of me in my army surplus (for kids? where did they find these coats?) jacket holding icicles in my mittened hand. The trees and everything, coated. But I don't remember anything like this. We almost topped our outage record set this summer for electricity. I believe my friend Ann is still in the dark. And the trees.
The trees. Our block didn't lose much this summer--and the big trees behind us were taken down right after the July storm. But the two big sycamores left on our street, one by Amanda's, and one by Ralph's, both shed like crazy. Ralph's went through his upstairs porch railing, but nothing too scary in the end. Still, sitting there on my couch watching a movie with Mike and my sister, we kept hearing booming and crashing noises, followed by the sound of shattering glass. The sky was filled with faraway lightning and the wind was starting to pick up.
We went to bed just knowing we weren't going to have power. So what did I do? I started a load of laundry, ran the dryer, and started the dishwasher. Mike got batteries charged for flashlights. We both plugged in our phones. We left the computer on, thinking the UPS would wake us up with its beeping, alerting us to the inevitable darkness.
And it didn't happen. I think it is because those huge trees in the abandoned 4 family came down this summer. I kind of mourned their loss--some neighbors more than me--but there are fewer squirrels and less damage in our alley.
But we did lose a basswood up the street. Landed in the only non-owner-occupied building on the block. I think the residents, medical students, are gone for the month, too. The tree hasn't moved. It is still where it landed.
Friday morning, we got out and shoveled and let the kids play in the half-inch of snow covering the ice. They sledded down Mary's front yard hill, and the ice on the sidewalk and curb made it a wild little ride for a bunch of 5 and 6 year olds. They had a blast.
I will admit I was a little shell-shocked from this summer's experience. I think it's only natural. Our backyard looked like this on Friday afternoon. That's a 5 year old oak tree, probably a pin but perhaps a scarlet, bent over like a horseshoe. As of this writing, it had finally shed enough ice to stand partway back up. That would be 5 days in the shape of an arc. But I don't think we'll lose it. Nature is amazing, its adaptability. In the end, our magnolia shed one branch the thickness of my arm, and that was it. Of course, I would have paid money to have our mulberry come down in the right direction, even if it took out our back fence. That's going to be a pricey tree to pull down the right way.
Dave next door lost about a third of the locust tree, the one I shaved a third off of this summer to let that horseshoe shaped oak tree get enough light to flourish (it worked). I am not a locust fan--it sends up root shoots in my backyard that are thorned. I blame Mike, not my husband, but the Mike who used to live next door. I am thoroughly convinced he planted that tree to annoy me. But now it looks like it won't be worth saving. My grandmother has informed me how I might go about making sure it won't be. It involves a drill and an old fashioned oil can. But let's not go there just yet.
Saturday, I took this picture in Forest Park, at the base of the hill where the World's Fair Pavilion is. There is beauty in destruction.
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