from Christmas, 2006:

There comes a time where you realize you must wake up. The snooze alarm keeps blasting at intervals and it’s just time to get up. What I thought was real was not, and so I faced the fact that I was pretending, living in a space created in my imagination.

It was a little startling to discover this, but it’s also freeing to know the truth. It has allowed me to embrace what’s good, because most of it actually is, and to feel clear about what didn’t make sense before. It also gives some sense of truth to realize that the person at the center of my life is me. Girls, realize: All the kids and family you wait on, all the people clamoring for this and that—it’s YOUR life. You own it.

A couple years ago a dear friend died, and she took with her a lot… my sense of security in the world, the history we shared, the complete safety and peace she brought to my life, the laughter (and hard times too) we shared, the meals she cooked—chicken and dumplings, minestrone, bbq chicken and potato salad….her delicious Betty Rubble snicker, our shared lust for John Travolta, her unpretentious and completely beautiful self.

She ate many meals at my house too, but I don’t remember those. It’s her cooking I miss. We loved each other’s children, and behind their backs laughed at how comical they were. I know she took me as much for granted as I did her, and at first when she died I wished we hadn’t taken each other for granted. Now I’m glad that we were so comfortable together that we did.

As I went through the emotions of grieving, I realized that none of my other friends were going to fill the gaping hole that this one had left. I miss her so much! And later it occurred to me that I had the power within me to be the friend to myself that she had been to me. I didn’t need someone outside of myself to do it. On a July afternoon a few days before Julia was born, I stood by myself at her grave in the beating sun and looked down at a pile of dirt. It was miserably hot and ants crawled over the dirt and that bothered me.

There weren’t even tears, it felt so overly bright and desolate. And then I realized I could hear the chirpy voices of kids playing on the water slide at the community pool beyond the hedge, the very one she had take our girls swimming at. In the air was her voice, “Let’s get out of here.” I don’t feel her around me much, and her sister has said the same. We’re both glad of that. She’s gone on to better things. But that day, she was right there at my shoulder.

One of my friends is always preoccupied, only ever available on her own terms. I don’t resent that anymore, and don’t feel inadequate or insecure when she blows me off. It’s her, doing her thing. I appreciate what she brings to my life and don’t blame her for not being what she isn’t.

Others are very busy with their own lives, and I’m not sad about it any more. I have a life too, and though connections with other women have always been a lifeline to me, I really can be a lifeline to myself, and more and more I am figuring this out.

I also have a husband who can be moody and exuberant, a roller coaster of moods, which is partly why my friends were such an anchor for me, and I relied on them way too much to steady my course. I used to ride this with him, feeling like there was some validity to it, like he knew something I did not.

He doesn’t, and I adore him, but since my friend died, I’m off the ride. He’s free to have his moods, but I’m not getting tugged along. He thoughtfully buys me Fostoria cake plates, pretty jewelry, and chocolate. He’s generous, huggable, devoted to our kids, has a rowdy sense of humor, and treats me with great sweetness most of the time, and I know he loves me the best he can, the best any mortal really could.

Moody as he may be, his integrity frames his life. He’s reliable and decent, and he makes me happy. I am long past wishing he were someone else, some perfect romance-novel hero of my imagination. Whatever: Time to grow up, Val. You’re into middle age now. Who he is, is nothing short of great, even if we drive each other crazy some days.

Tonight was our family Christmas party. Years ago, we moved our party to the 23rd to avoid conflict with other family parties, and it was just convenience that motivated it. How I did not realize what genius this would later become! And what is special about the 23rd anyway? Nothing. We can do this on the 22nd or the 26th or 27th just as well. It’s a state of mind, an appreciation of the spirit of Christmas, a being togetherness that drives it, and that’s all we need.

Tonight though, today, the whole day, all week, I’ve been melancholy, which isn’t really like me. I’m not sure why. I was angry (not toward her, but inside) with a very elderly aunt who is always demanding. She always has been, and I always give her a pass, so why I’d fume about it now makes no sense, but I did! I was a tad bit irate! And why so blue all week? I have no idea.

After our family Christmas party, as I waited for Julia to fall asleep, I sat here and viewed a New York Times photo montage of joyful people –the montage was called this, and I watched the photos flip by and they could just as well have been photos from MY house, tonight. My beauteous grandbaby in his pajamas—the puppy pajamas I gave him as a gift and my daughter in law was thoughtful enough to put on him, literally brought tears to my eyes as I hugged him tonight, squeezing that precious rascally baby against my chest, kissing his cheeks. (He lets me. He’s generous like that.)

And the photos flipped by of laughing people and I pictured Dan, age 26, sending matchbox cars sailing down a plastic runway and Tim, age four, at the end in a fuzzy Dora the Explorer chair with his mouth open to catch them. (Impossible.) And Dan’s doubled-over laughter as the cars sailed over Tim’s head and into the college-girl sisters beyond, busy playing Mexican Train.

There were meatballs and shrimp, cheesy potatoes and salad… cookies with sprinkles and the most divine handmade gingerbread. The grand-dogs ran wild, jumping off our normally sedate sofas, tearing up wrapping paper and stealing treats… tomorrow is church and the more somber remembrance of the religious meaning of Jesus’ birth. But today is our day and it’s goofy and fun.

Eventually Julia dozed off, full of my milk, dolly in her arms, and I went to Tim’s room and found his dad… everybody’s dad, my own crazy husband, asleep on the pillows next to him and I kissed his ear and thanked him for the beautiful necklace, waking him up as I nibbled. I don’t know why I’m in a funk this Christmas, but it’s certainly not lack of joy or blessing in this house. Maybe it’s just more change, all the time change? or the headlines? or just life? Love and good wishes to all of you in the year 2007.

last year at this time...

...we were in Florida, south of Naples on Marco Island. Some friends invited us to spend a week at their timeshare with them. Our friend was here last night, standing in the kitchen eating chili. We're supposed to have a big blizzard today, so we were reminiscing about our trip. Dang, that was fun. Wish we were there now.

Jay in the ocean

something I wrote last year after we returned:

We loved Florida in December. It was amazing, gorgeous, WARM. The fluttery blowing palm trees… sparkly water. It’s absolutely another dimension, stunning, peaceful, and pleasantly dull. Jay and I hung out, walked to the store holding hands, ate fish at a restaurant in our shorts and sandals where the doors were wide open to the warm rain pouring outside.

He went on long fishing trips with his friend and I killed time, soaking up sunshine, knowing I won’t feel that warmth again until next May--sat on the patio near the pool and read a book about Princess Diana that read like a textbook. No gossip tale that. I finally checked the author—some British historian!! Good Lord! Too many old houses and too many fancy cheating Brits all backstabbing each other.

The first night, there was much talk about the tree lighting ceremony next door. Whatever. This place could not feel less like Christmas, but whatever. Later that night we wandered out along the balcony/veranda… (I’d call it a porch) while the ceremony was going on. I could hear Bing Crosby singing White Christmas, and I was glad I had my glasses on so I could take it in… the whole lawn was filled with lawn chairs and people in summer clothes, children running around the edges in the dark, chasing each other, kind of like the 4th of July back home.

The tree was fully lit and the stage next to it was decorated with pine boughs and lights and little kid ballerinas danced on the stage, twirling in unison. In a little while they sang jingle bells, and dashing through the snow sounded so funny under palms, but the breeze was balmy and sweet and Jay was nestled against my back in the dark.

I do love palm trees. I had no idea before this week that there are different kinds! Tall, short, all different swirls of leaves…fronds, whatever they are. There’s one kind I like the most that reminds me of the cowlicks on a guinea pig. I’m glad to be through with the guinea pig stage of life. (God bless you Nibbles, Rusty, and Marty, Felicia, Amy, and Patrick, warm comical pigs all. Mweep.) But those trees did kind of tug me by the heart.

We went to a restaurant on the edge of a marina and ate dinner with our friends in the dark by the bay, all you can eat fish and chips. Well all I can eat is not a lot, but it was perfect there, tiki hut over the bar, Christmas lights. They had live music, some guy with a guitar singing Roger Miller when we came in, “Trailers for sale or rent. Rooms to let—fifty cents. No phone, no pool, no pets. I ain’t got no cigarettes…” He sang Bob Dylan, “Everybody’s got to get stoned,” while he made balloon animals for the little kids dancing near his booth. I sneaked up and asked if he took requests. He seemed surprised, “Yeah! I do!” (Rod Stewart, what else would I ask for?) He played Have I Told You Lately That I Love You. That one is written by Van Morrison, so that gets extra points.

I watched a sweet curvaceous mom dancing with a boy on her hip, probably about four years old with a blonde Beatles haircut and long bare legs. She dipped him low on “…you fill my heart with gladness,” and he clung to her shoulder and laughed. So did I. His little-bitty pot bellied sister was next to them, swinging her little diapered hips to the music. Could have hugged them all.

Which brings me to the family vacationing next door and one floor down… their stubborn preschoolers arguing about trivia and juicy baby girl with the Michelin Man arms and legs and swirl of fluffy curls on the top of her head made me feel so connected to home. They were from Ohio. I don’t know who they are, but the baby girl’s name is Paige… and the obstreperous brother has red pajamas and his hair twirls to a point at his nape, right where I like to plant my nose on my own pointy-nape sons. I’m so glad they were there. I liked listening to them down below.

Another night we went to the Irish Pub for supper, and our waitress asked where we were from. I told her Minneapolis. She said she’d spent a Christmas Eve in Minneapolis many years ago, then bit the edge of her lip and looked away, grinning. When she came back with the Guinness I asked her what she’d been doing in Minneapolis at Christmas? Did she have family there? She laughed. Nooo. She was traveling with a rock band. She was 19 then and her parents were most unamused. (I suppose they were!) But it’d been a beautiful Christmas, a great time. What a cute lady.

the canal

Friday Jay and his bud were gone fishing with some guide for like 12 hours. (His friend lived for this piece of the trip.) By suppertime I was climbing the walls, with only the Princess Diana tome left for amusement. I’d walked all around the town, been in all the stores one last time, sat by the pool for hours… COME HOME. Finally I called at 5:30. They were just getting out of the boat, still in Naples, an hour and a half away!

our friend, removing a catfish

I teased him, “Well. Just so you know. Cheri and I are completely drunk.” (She’s the other guy’s wife, very reserved, spent the whole week quietly working suduko puzzles. God bless her, she is definitely easy-going company.) Anyway, they got a big laugh out of that. Har de har har. They finally arrived back and fried the fish. I walked in the dark to the store for oil and salt, summery wind on my arms. Afterward, as our friend snoozed on the couch and his wife poured over suduko, Jay and I sat on the balcony in the breeze and drank some wine, looked out over the water and houses beyond, Christmas lights in their cabanas.

And then we came home. After this very quiet week, we drove home on a drab overcast day, MN gray freeway…Then I opened the door of my house, and a huge burst of warmth and color hit me—the shiny maple floors and enormous Christmas tree, the giant Welcome Home poster the kids had made, all the friendly cluttery scene that is my house, flowered curtains and rugs, and a herd of happy children, bouncy dogs. My house. My life. It felt so good.

Dan and his dog drove over directly, and John and Dannell and t.c. (and the dog, Sophie) were not far behind. I never did even get my groceries carried in (I went to get the stuff for cooky baking right away when we got home.) until about 11pm. It was wonderful, the laughing and arguing, wound up little kids running through, dogs wrassling and stealing the rawhides from each other.

In the evening we were home, there was more conversation, teasing, loud laughter and hugging than I had seen in a week. Gosh, I felt like a lucky woman…a perfect vacation followed by the completely honest realization that everything that makes my life amazing and bright with love is right here in an old house in a boring neighborhood in a freezing cold city. We find life where we do… which is a version of growing where we’re planted, all those stupid clichés, but seriously look around. Either you’re where you are for a reason, which you must embrace….or you’re not, and you should figure out where you belong instead. Sigh.

But along the way I wish you lunch with your sweetheart in the dark in the rain, ballerinas under palm trees, a cool waitress and easy going friends, funny children and squeezy babies, and everyone you love eager to welcome you home when you get there. Love, Val

two months ago today...

Heidi and Joe were married. Below is something I wrote that night after the wedding for my friends who live out of town. I would love to go back and live that evening all over again....

Oh, I cannot even express how perfect tonight was. Heidi and Kirsten slept over last night and this morning did hair-dos upstairs. The other bridesmaids came over and there was a lot of curling and spraying and so forth. They all looked amazing.

Last night at the rehearsal Julia was crying at one point and not very cooperative generally. Give me a break. In the car afterward I told her: “I paid $150 for that dress and this is Heidi’s wedding. Tomorrow there will be no crying, you got it? You will smile and be nice.” She said okay.

At the groom’s dinner she was perfect, and today, also perfect. She and Tim came down the aisle holding hands, her pausing every little way to drop petals.

The wedding was absolutely lovely, very simple, elegant. Our pastor who has known Heidi since she was a little girl did the service, and he did a beautiful job. His astute sermon was short, funny and insightful, about the difference between attachment and commitment and the whole point of trust. They have no wedding coordinator, so he coached and smoothed the details heading into church, for which I was grateful.

Heidi looked like an angel, and Joe was sweet. The only second when I thought I might cry was after Jay had walked this breathtaking, golden ANGEL down the aisle, and she paused to give him a hug before approaching the altar, and he kissed her neck. That’s what did it, that familiar old kiss of the neck.

Then we went to the reception and had a blast. Heidi had colors of eggplant for the dresses and orange, red, and yellow flowers. She grew the gourds in her garden for table decorations. It was so pretty! The purple napkins with the fall decorations…. The meal was delicious, and those kids danced and danced and danced, hokey pokey, the electric slide, rap and country and rock and roll.

At first Tim was slow to warm up, but by halfway through the dance he was break dancing all over the floor. My grandma was there and got to hold b.g. and she and Dan talked for a long time. Our neighbors were there and I danced with him. (Gosh I love them.) I danced with the kids and their dad. (Gosh I love him.)

I never drink a drop at these occasions because I want to take them in fully clear-eyed, not blurry or tired, or wondering if my perceptions were shiny and skewed because of the wine. Oh my gosh what a great night. Some kid I don’t even know approached me and introduced himself. I held out my hand and he threw his arms around me and said, “I was warned your family are huggers.” It’s true, we totally are. But I don’t even know him.

Lori’s daughter was there. She and I have not talked very often since Lori died—a couple times a year maybe? But I send her care packages every now and then: spray cheese, Little Debbie, bath gel, holiday window clings. She told me how much those boxes in the mail have meant to her, how jealous her roommates were, and excited to open the boxes. Very gratifying. I thought maybe she thought I was corny and lame, but no. She felt loved and thought about, which was the whole point. I’ve been sending boxes at intervals for 5 years, and didn’t know she even liked them. In the parking lot in the dark, arms wrapped tight around each other, there were tears about her mother, and happiness about the future.

The kids are done in the shower now, all the sweaty dancers, little bridesmaids with their hair full of hairspray. Little Jay needed a shower after that kind of dancing and James also. James is rapidly approaching him in height, which scares me a little. To cop a phrase from Little Jay, “not gonna lie.” James. My gopher cheeked, quiet, good natured baby—is taller than me and has to shave his little shadow of moustache these days. Heidi’s wedding was wonderful. We’re babysitting John’s dog tonight and the grand-dog is on my pillow, gazing at Jay. She’s already shit on my rug once, God bless her. I’ll send wedding pictures tomorrow. Love, Val

October

James and Sam, June 2009

My doggie Spooner died just about two years ago. He and I started out his life with very much a love-hate relationship. My other dogs had died tragically in a fire at the boarding kennel where we’d left them, and so I took on Spooner at a bad time. I really wasn’t up for him. I was pregnant, in the throes of morning sickness and sorrow besides.

He was a brat, overgrown, obnoxious, a mutt expected to be about 50 pounds… well at 90 pounds, we knew we didn’t have what we supposedly had, but it was all water under the bridge by then. His mind was perpetually caught in his zipper, and if he wasn’t chasing girl dogs, his thoughts were on food. My husband is not a dog person; he always has the vague feeling dogs are out to get him. But Spooner could make even a dog lover think this.

As he grew old though, he mellowed, and though I never embraced his frightful shedding (God bless the inventor of the shop-vac), I did come to adore him, the energy of him, the luxurious, plush feeling of him in my arms, his patience, his sense of humor. He was a first rate guy.

On his last trip to the vet, they wanted to draw blood, and I told the technician, “He’s blind. You’ll have to help him.” She said sure, and headed out through the door, and ran my boy into the wall next to it. I never took him back. His rashes were the least of his problems. We had to link our arms under his belly and haul him to his feet, so arthritic was he. What he suffered most, it seemed, was profound vertigo, so intense he’d crap on the patio (simply not done) and vomit, always circling to the left.

He’d get lost in the yard and we’d have to help him, and I swear it, when we’d fetch him from the lilac bushes, he seemed grateful, licking my chin, the kids’ hands, tail wagging. We bought Sidney, anticipating his death and the hole it would leave, and he snubbed her for months, turning his head to her exuberance. In the end, he seemed grateful for her good eyesight to lead him back to the house.

When the whole thing was obvious, I called the vet and asked him: His tail still wags. He still seems to find happiness in his life. Terry told me the truth: “Val. If you are waiting for the day his tail stops wagging, that day will not come. You tell me if it’s time.”

We had him come to the house and it was done. No trip to the nerve wracking clinic where they ran him into the walls, just an old friend who came to his bed so he didn’t even have to get up.

Afterward I fetched an old silky 101 Dalmatians sleeping bag and Jay and Terry zipped him into it and each took an end and carried him out to the trailer. The next day we took his body to Wisconsin, and in a small clearing in the woods that my dad had chosen, the men dug a deep hole and gently put his body into a safe place in the ground. While they did this, my mom took the kids to cut flowers from her garden, and they piled them on top. It was the end of our buddy Spooner, and the end of an era.

After Christmas last year, the oldest girls, 21 and 19 then, set up a lobby for another dog. Because Sidney had been a 9th birthday gift for Maria, James should also have a dog for his 9th birthday. Okeee. They kept it up, begged, cajoled, and tormented me.

James

I said I’ve done a big dog. I’m not doing it again. But Mom you looooved Spooner! I know it. I did love him very much. And then they got James crying about the injustice of it all, and what I have never been able to stand, since he was born, is James’ tears. I am the same way about Dan. He’s 26 now, but his crying has always broken my heart too. I think it’s the lip, the tragic lip. Sigh.

Last January I caved, and I knew I was caving and would regret it, and Heidi and I went and picked up a Newfoundland puppy, a 20 pound teddy bear, flat face, fuzzy, funny, fat. We asked James her name and he told us, “Samantha.” And so I began doing the big dog thing all over again.

James and Sam

This weekend in Wisconsin, I sat on the steps, and dark comes early now in October. The kids had eaten their fill of hot dogs and little fruit pies cooked in the fire, and were playing Ghost in the Graveyard, starry night overhead, autumn wind whipping in the trees.

Sammy, our new dog, was beside me in all her obnoxious, what? Glory? I love her and I hate her.

She’s too big. She sheds too much. Her huge fanning tail spans a swath 6 feet wide, knocking things to the floor left and right. And I pry her jaws open and shove pills deep into her enormous mouth (she has rashes, just as Spooner did) and I chase her from the wastebasket, and yet she’s never cross with me, only bemused and patient.

I know someday she’ll be calm and she already has the happy energy of Spooner’s that I missed. In spite of her soft, spitty mouth and the way she steps on everyone’s feet, she’s an angel.

James, always airborne

This weekend the younger kids discovered the joy of the old TV show, Full House. Season Two was a birthday gift to Maria, who turned 12. This was a favorite show of those college girls who got me involved with Sam.

This weekend was a marathon of Full House episodes, the 90s fashion and hair, the goofy plots, the sweet faces of those children… and images of my grown girls as children kept finding me… while my little girls enjoyed those corny stories all over again. Uncle Jesse, Michelle, Stephanie and DJ, the theme music, “Aaah, Aaah, Aaah, Aaah, Every where you go…” I was tugged back and forth between then and now.

But I sat on the steps that night, watching them run in the dark, shrieking as they reached the home-free tree, and could see clearly once again that we change and we grow.

One stage leads to another, and it’s all good. I’m here now, with other children, who are just as sweet as their older siblings, and they’re going to pass through my arms in a flash too.

Of course, him again

(No wonder this bedframe is cracked)

Whenever I’ve been giving birth to a baby, that’s all I can see: the baby. But those babies were babies only the fleetingest of seconds, and toddlers for only a year, preschoolers for the blink of an eye, and shortly they were relatives, family, friends.

A dog’s age played out, and I still am a momma to those daughters, though they’re in their 20s now and women, they’re still my girls. I suppose I am still my own mama’s girl, and I know how her grandmas doted on her, and my grandmas love me. It all just rolls on, and I’m beginning to see that I ought to let it.

Not just let it, but enjoy it—appreciate it, embrace and love it.

And so here we are again, another October, three years after I wrote this, still with all our families creating and becoming and love drawing us all forward. –love, Val