It was a cold and sunny Saturday afternoon as a crowd gathered in the parking lot in front of Shop Rite. The focus of this group was a large square contraption with large bells and wires with a bench and pedals and levers. Perched on the bench behind the bells sat a man dressed completely in black save for a gold bird-like mask. As up tempo music poured out of speakers, the man began to stamp and pound on the pedals and levers, working the bells. Theatrically he engaged the audience while making music best described as haunting and medieval. The instrument he worked was a bronze carillon, usually only heard from a church tower.
As I stood there with my family watching and listening it occurred to me that there is no better way to temporarily lose oneself than to be at a performance in which the performer is enjoying what they are doing so much that they draw in the audience. This Christmas season I have been lucky enough to be seeing performers who get such joy from what they are doing that it beams into the audience, drawing in all those who are there. We went to an Advent afternoon of music at our church in the beginning of December. It just seemed to me that all those who performed were enjoying themselves and sharing that joy with all who were present. The final act was a group of adults who, because they enjoy making music, formed a “garage praise band”. The whole church rocked as they donned sombreros and treated us to their rendition of “Feliz Navidad”. If the Christmas season is about finding joy, then I have found it time after time in the past few weeks. What a wonderful gift performers give the rest of us when they are fully enjoying what they are doing and invite us to enjoy it with them.
My wish for all of you, my faithful readers, is that you find joy and pass it along in whatever way you are talented. Whether your talent is music, cooking, hugging, or just listening I urge you to share the gift that God has given you. In doing so, may you find the joy of Christmas in your heart. Merry Christmas!
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Christmas Memory
**Disclaimer: If any of my brothers read this and find that the facts are not accurate, I apologize, but it DID happen and forgive me if the details are not exact***
Looking back on the Christmas seasons of my childhood brings an eclectic deluge of memories. I can remember hearing the rustling of bags and packages late at night while my mother and aunt whispered excitedly, and my father’s footsteps while I lay in my bed pretending to sleep. One Christmas Eve we had a snow storm complete with thunder and I remember standing on my bed and peeking out the window hoping to see Rudolph’s nose glowing through the snowy night. Rehearsals with the children’s’ choir and special holiday dresses, one purple crushed velvet long skirt in particular, along with the feeling of an excited queasy stomach are among my memories. When I was a bit older I recall walking downtown with my friend after school to do some Christmas shopping with our babysitting money, and returning home to the smell of cookies baking. I recall that it was my job to help wrap gifts, and I loved the scotch tape with the Christmas designs embossed on it. I also enjoyed the time my brothers and I spent inventing games for ourselves.
Of all the events, sounds, smells, and feelings that I remember it is something that happened at some point during the Christmas season that always makes me chuckle. It was perhaps during the week off from school after Christmas, or a Christmas Eve afternoon. My 3 brothers and I were goofing around, as kids are likely to do when at loose ends. Someone decided that we would play a game of jumping over someone’s leg. One of us sat in the chair just inside the living room wearing a Christmas stocking on their leg and sticking it out while the others took turns running from the kitchen into the living room jumping over it just as they came through the doorway. Our house was small; it was originally someone’s 2 bedroom summer cottage that my parents made into a 3 bedroom by some strategic wall building as their family grew. So it was understandable that the doorways were so low that a 6 foot tall man had to duck his head to walk through the doorways in the house. At any rate, of my 3 brothers, brother number 2 was the tallest, even at a young age. In third grade he was taller than his teacher by at least a head, and it may be that this was the age at which he last played this jump over the leg game. I’m not sure if it was my leg or brother number one’s leg but when it was number two’s turn, he ran, he jumped, he hit his head on the top of the door jamb and howled. The rest of us, of course, rolled on the floor laughing and that is all I remember about it. I am sure my mother must have come running to find out what number two was crying about, and I’m sure the rest of us got into some trouble. Number two is no worse for the bump; he went on to earn a bachelor’s degree at a private college. I’m not sure if my brothers remember that day, no one ever mentions it when we are all together. How funny that I don’t remember any of the many gifts I received for Christmas, but I remember a silly game and my poor brother hitting his head.
Looking back on the Christmas seasons of my childhood brings an eclectic deluge of memories. I can remember hearing the rustling of bags and packages late at night while my mother and aunt whispered excitedly, and my father’s footsteps while I lay in my bed pretending to sleep. One Christmas Eve we had a snow storm complete with thunder and I remember standing on my bed and peeking out the window hoping to see Rudolph’s nose glowing through the snowy night. Rehearsals with the children’s’ choir and special holiday dresses, one purple crushed velvet long skirt in particular, along with the feeling of an excited queasy stomach are among my memories. When I was a bit older I recall walking downtown with my friend after school to do some Christmas shopping with our babysitting money, and returning home to the smell of cookies baking. I recall that it was my job to help wrap gifts, and I loved the scotch tape with the Christmas designs embossed on it. I also enjoyed the time my brothers and I spent inventing games for ourselves.
Of all the events, sounds, smells, and feelings that I remember it is something that happened at some point during the Christmas season that always makes me chuckle. It was perhaps during the week off from school after Christmas, or a Christmas Eve afternoon. My 3 brothers and I were goofing around, as kids are likely to do when at loose ends. Someone decided that we would play a game of jumping over someone’s leg. One of us sat in the chair just inside the living room wearing a Christmas stocking on their leg and sticking it out while the others took turns running from the kitchen into the living room jumping over it just as they came through the doorway. Our house was small; it was originally someone’s 2 bedroom summer cottage that my parents made into a 3 bedroom by some strategic wall building as their family grew. So it was understandable that the doorways were so low that a 6 foot tall man had to duck his head to walk through the doorways in the house. At any rate, of my 3 brothers, brother number 2 was the tallest, even at a young age. In third grade he was taller than his teacher by at least a head, and it may be that this was the age at which he last played this jump over the leg game. I’m not sure if it was my leg or brother number one’s leg but when it was number two’s turn, he ran, he jumped, he hit his head on the top of the door jamb and howled. The rest of us, of course, rolled on the floor laughing and that is all I remember about it. I am sure my mother must have come running to find out what number two was crying about, and I’m sure the rest of us got into some trouble. Number two is no worse for the bump; he went on to earn a bachelor’s degree at a private college. I’m not sure if my brothers remember that day, no one ever mentions it when we are all together. How funny that I don’t remember any of the many gifts I received for Christmas, but I remember a silly game and my poor brother hitting his head.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Don't Ask For A Milkshake
It’s been a running joke with my family for the past 18 years or so. Don’t ask for a milkshake, you never know what will be in it. It all started out of my desperation to feed my youngest and avoid a feeding tube.
When Hillary was old enough to be given soft baby foods, she simply would not eat. Anything. She would drink anything, but put a spoon to her lips and she would retch and/or vomit. It was pretty gross, pretty frustrating, and pretty unhealthy for her. Between her seizures and the myriad of medications she was (and still is) on it was quite a challenge. I was determined that I would not deal with a feeding tube any sooner than I had to. It was discussed with the doctor, but I REALLY didn’t want to do that. Real food is better for the digestive system anyhow, so I pureed regular food and put it all in milkshakes. I had other parents tell me how gross that was and advise me to put her on some type of formula, but, as my older daughter observes, I don’t do beginner level. Ever. I tasted all of the shakes to make sure they didn’t taste as yucky as others thought they sounded like they would be. Chicken, sweet potatoes, a vanilla instant breakfast and milk actually wasn’t bad. Chocolate & peanut butter were good for making beef and peas palatable. The texture was just a tad grainy for me, but the flavor really wasn’t bad, and we got by that way for a year or so and then I was able to introduce the spoon again with the help of a speech therapist. Eventually, of course, we had no choice but to have a feeding tube placed in her abdomen and supplement her diet with formula. My bottom line is always to keep her healthy, but avoiding the inevitable for so long allowed me to form a nice relationship with her. Meal times are social times and I can’t imagine not having had that time to bond normally with someone who has many differences.
I no longer make those milkshakes, but my reputation lives on; at least in the minds of my family. How interesting that we no longer have a blender in the house. I wonder if they’d give me one for Christmas?
When Hillary was old enough to be given soft baby foods, she simply would not eat. Anything. She would drink anything, but put a spoon to her lips and she would retch and/or vomit. It was pretty gross, pretty frustrating, and pretty unhealthy for her. Between her seizures and the myriad of medications she was (and still is) on it was quite a challenge. I was determined that I would not deal with a feeding tube any sooner than I had to. It was discussed with the doctor, but I REALLY didn’t want to do that. Real food is better for the digestive system anyhow, so I pureed regular food and put it all in milkshakes. I had other parents tell me how gross that was and advise me to put her on some type of formula, but, as my older daughter observes, I don’t do beginner level. Ever. I tasted all of the shakes to make sure they didn’t taste as yucky as others thought they sounded like they would be. Chicken, sweet potatoes, a vanilla instant breakfast and milk actually wasn’t bad. Chocolate & peanut butter were good for making beef and peas palatable. The texture was just a tad grainy for me, but the flavor really wasn’t bad, and we got by that way for a year or so and then I was able to introduce the spoon again with the help of a speech therapist. Eventually, of course, we had no choice but to have a feeding tube placed in her abdomen and supplement her diet with formula. My bottom line is always to keep her healthy, but avoiding the inevitable for so long allowed me to form a nice relationship with her. Meal times are social times and I can’t imagine not having had that time to bond normally with someone who has many differences.
I no longer make those milkshakes, but my reputation lives on; at least in the minds of my family. How interesting that we no longer have a blender in the house. I wonder if they’d give me one for Christmas?
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Friends
My friends amuse and comfort me. Friday late dinner, and as usual the wait staff has to tell us it's time to leave because they are closing. The three of us together never run out of conversation. For a year or two our friendship was strained by an event that altered all of our lives in a very personal way. One of the things that initially brought us together left us bereft and reeling, so sudden and stunning an event that although we initially became closer, in time we bagan to drift apart, two of us still in the same boat, one of us barely treading water. Yet somehow we knew that 16 years of friendship could not end, that somehow it was better to continue to meet and work through the pain together than to be forever without each other's companionship. Although we are not all in the same boat any longer, we can come to shore and walk along the water's edge together and feel as one unit for a bit. There is no better way to spend time than with people who amuse and comfort.
Best Buddies
After having run around like a crazy person for 5 hours preparing food, setting up, and selling lunch & snacks to high school kids, it was time to visit my daughter's classroom. My younger daughter has multiple disabilities. They had a "Best Buddies" Thanksgiving feast &; invited parents for dessert. For those of you not familiar with the "Best Buddies" program, it is a national program set up to partner developmentally disabled teenagers with non disabled peers. This is my daughter's first year at high school and with this program. The room was crowded and noisy with the chattering of at least 40 kids and adults, all of whom had partaken in the feast. It was a happy place to spend an hour. You cannot fathom the happiness of developmentally disabled kids when they have a chance to form friendships with their peers. These are the types of programs that will eventually change societal opinions and the way that the developmentally disabled are treated. When kids grow up learning to respect and value those with disabilities, they become adults who don't find it odd to include them. Our future policy makers, volunteers, scientists, and teachers may make better decisions that affect all of us if they see from their earliest school days that EVERYONE is valuable and deserves to be included in daily life.
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