Dating in the Digital Age

In real life as opposed to the movies, things don’t always turn out happily ever after. Husbands leave, wives die, children take jobs in states half way across the country, which leaves some folks in their late to upper fifties and beyond, seeking companionship. There was a time when the church or the dreaded singles dance would have taken care of meeting someone. Friends with good intentions can sometimes be relied upon to introduce a potential date or friend or whatever label is most suitable in the current state of affairs, so to speak. But for those who are brave, intrepid and have computer skills there are alternatives. There are web sites devoted to finding everyone a partner. 

There are sites that cater to very specific demographics too, there’s Christian Mingle for example, fairly self explanatory unless you are not a Christian. But perhaps you are seeking someone who is, to see what it’s like. Then is it false advertising to join such a site? Is there a Christianity test to be passed before one can join the divine site to find true love with a like minded and vetted person? These questions are yet to be answered. There is a site called Our Time, just for those of a certain age let’s say, over fifty for the sake of honesty. You can find a mate online in almost as many categories as you can conjure.  There is one just for farmers called…Just for Farmers, not as creative as they might have been but one can hope they make up in hay what they lack in feed. 

There is Match.com which upon investigation appears to be easy to navigate, has a reasonable fee and allows you to look before you make a date commitment. Most of the online dating services do that. You can log-in and conduct a search just to see whom you know in your neighborhood, who is looking. Sometimes that can prove eye opening, when you discover that Mr. Jones who is married is also seeking the companionship of a politically aligned woman whose size and looks are of no concern to him. E-Harmony attracts members with their filmy love-laced television commercials showing perfectly matched couples frolicking on a beach or walking hand in hand down a charming city street. These matches are made according to the intake application, through careful screening processes that take you deep into your psyche to reveal your truth and to reveal to others who you really are and what you really are seeking in a partner. Heavy stuff.  Then there are deep-specialty sites. For those into the Sci-Fi world or those who wish to find travel partners, for those who seek a mate for sports and of course, just lunch. Even those who need a buddy to walk along side them in a journey through cancer. All this can be attained simply by clicking on the right site, telling the truth and being willing to take a little risk.

Carolina, not her real name, found herself looking at age 60. She is fair-haired and slim, attractive, active and not particularly interested in marrying again. She has been there and done that. “My husband left for pastures elsewhere,” she says “and I was thrown for a bit of a loop.” After a bitter year of wrangling through the financial quagmire she was left in, she began a journey of a very different kind. “After the shock and the pain, I realized that for the first time in almost 40 years, I was my own boss. I could go anywhere in the world, live the way I wanted to and paint my house purple if that was my choice.” she adds, laughing.  With children grown and living independently  Carolina realized that she would like to have a special friend to join her in social gatherings, for travel sometimes and for all those places where it seems that one must be part of a couple to be most comfortable. She went to Match.com, completed the survey and paid with a credit card. All this took almost two hours. She also made a choice to look for date candidates who lived at least an hour from her home, so that if things didn’t work out she wouldn’t have to bump into him at the grocery store.  The first meeting is important too, Carolina chose a coffee shop for lunch. This was also a smart move, plenty of people she knew in her own comfort zone. A public place is always smart so that if things go horribly wrong there are plenty of known helpers in close proximity. “I wouldn’t suggest that you meet for dinner in the evening or for a meeting that involves alcohol for the first date. You want to have your wits about you.” she says. After a few meetings with nice fellows who were simply not a good match, Carolina found a great guy who turned out to be nothing like what she thought she was looking for, but who was smart and funny and enjoyed much of the same aspects of life that she did. She was very clear up front about her expectations and that helped him to understand that she was not husband hunting but rather seeking a friend for companionship. 

Helen, who suddenly became a widow at age 45 was devastated for more than a year, she had a good job but it was not enough to continue living in the house that two salaries had been paying for. The first step for her was to sell the house and move to something more manageable. “This process was daunting, I had no thoughts at all about dating; just getting through the day was all I could manage.” She waited another year then her adult children began to suggest that she look for a friend. She went straight to E-Harmony and while she says she found the intake questionnaire to be complicated and time consuming, she’s glad she went that route. “I was surprised at how well the system worked, I met a great guy, also a widower, who really understood what I had gone through; he was very patient with me and I with him.” They dated sporadically, about once a month, and the first time they met Helen took two friends with her for safety reasons. “I was not very sophisticated about the whole thing,” she says “but he liked that, so I guess it worked out. We have been very happy for more than a year now.”

Both women make the same suggestions, take your time, try different sites to find the one that works best for you, just like your mother told you, you have to kiss a lot of frogs before you meet your prince. And be safe. They both met their potential dates in public places during the day; they also suggest telling the folks at the meeting place what you are doing, so that a waiter or barista can keep an eye on you. They also said that seeing a profile on line is not always the same as meeting a person in the flesh. Photographs can be enhanced and a person can tell a lie or two about their age, job stability or financial situation. The rules for men looking for that special someone are much the same. Honesty really is the best policy. Rick, who lost his wife to infidelity after a thirty year marriage was very hesitant to get back in the game. “I really didn’t trust anybody and had low self esteem.” he said. A good friend pointed out that his online profile, a self description of who you are and what your interests are, which might entice those who are seeking your companionship to make the call, send the e-mail or otherwise attempt to engage you in social interplay, was miserable. “He pointed out that my rambling sad story was not any way to put myself “out there”, so we tweaked it to show my hobbies and my wishes for the future which were much more positive.” Rick met several women and found it much easier than he had anticipated, he too suggests that you start slowly and make sure that you are open about what you are looking for. “If you want a husband I’m not that candidate, but if you want to go fishing or take in a movie and dinner, I’m your guy.” he says. When I was growing up, back in the dark ages my mother always said there was a lid for every pot, it would seem she was right and that most of us can find that special someone if we are patient and smart enough to look in all the places available to us in this modern age of digital dating. There is risk, but there is risk to living. Unless you are willing to take a little risk you may never live your second chapter.

On Dogs.

We have, over the course of almost 35 years of marriage been the proud parents of pooches from purebreds to mutts, from strays to much wished for and fully researched breed-types which we believed, or one of us as least, would complete the family portrait. We have loved dogs singularly and in pairs, I prefer the pair as I think dogs need company and I am not always the best, I have enough of a pack to lead without the requirement to teach a certain fellow how and where to lift his leg. But I didn’t grow up with a dog, or a cat for that matter. We had Budgies. Small noisy sh*t producing things, native to Australia and the Canary Islands. They were all named after my dad’s brothers; so Fred, Billy and I have forgotten the last one. My brother taught them to say the odd word or two and the rest they learned from things my father yelled at regular intervals. Things like “Shut the door.” and “Damn and blast!”  My mother liked to let them out of the cage to fly about a bit and thus upon walking toward our house on occasion, you could clearly see one peeking between the lace curtains to peruse the great outdoors. They didn’t live very long and they stained the wallpaper in the living room. I was not a great fan. 

The idea of a family dog, so often a great deal better than the reality is that you will teach children responsibility. Feed it, clean up after it, teach it to do tricks or at a minimum to behave pleasantly. It would provide companionship, not a huge need for that in a family of seven, it would bind us with a common love. I don’t recall how we came to own the first of so many but his name was Snuffy. We were newly wed and expecting our first child. This puppy was smart, easily housebroken, and I think intuitive because he knew his days would be numbered should he  turn out to be any sort of nuisance. He was also a thief. Living as we did in a small rural town in Ohio, our neighbor was an avid hunter who chose often to clean his prey on his own back stoop. Quite right. The dog however saw this as an open invitation to avail himself of whatever game was hung to cure or await further processing. Never seen by the neighbor or known by us to be undertaking this pursuit, the great mystery remained, who was poaching the hunter’s kill? Finally one bright fall afternoon Snuffy got wind of a carcus and took off up the hill behind our house. Minutes later we heard a great cry and hew as the hunter finally foiled his furry foe.  “Hey, that dog stole my squirrel.” We heard and instinctively knew enough to remain behind closed doors. Of course the hunter knew the dog was ours, we tried valiantly, well the Captain (he was still a First Officer then) did, but to no avail, damn little dog would not give up his catch. Not many weeks later he was hit by a car. We never found out how that happened. 

Several kids and many moves later we found ourselves the proud dog parents of a yellow labrador retriever. The most unintelligent, stubborn, block head of a dog ever known to man. Buster came into the world a hefty untrained pup of about 100 pounds. We had three kids and one on the way, timing was never my forte in these matters. The Captain wore a black uniform in those days, some sort of worsted wool, lightweight but a strong magnet for every hair that Buster shed. Which was a lot, enough to make another fake dog which is what we should have done. He ate through a wall, he ate shoes, purses, toys and clothes. He was never housebroken but he broke our rented house. Literally. He pulled off the spouting from the front of the house and dragged it to the rear. He barked at everything including me and couldn’t walk on a leash unless you were at least 6’5” and weighed about 400 lbs. In the sixth month of our ownership I gave birth to a darling little girl and the Captain broke his ankle rendering him virtually useless in any physical capacity unless the task required hopping. He was very good at hopping. We moved again and this house had a fence, about four feet high. The limping Captain and I now felt some relief at being able to let Buster run about as dogs so love to do, only to watch him the very first day leap over said fence with grace and ease and take off at a jaunty gallop, straight to the main street. We heard the beeping of horns and yelling from drivers,
“Who let this dog off his leash?” Neither one of the responsible parents being physically able to chase the dog, it fell to Dan’s aging grandpa to roam the neighborhood looking for him. The dog cost $200.00, he destroyed another thousand dollars worth of property and I paid a guy $50.00 to take him to his farm and let him be a happy, outside dog. 

One of the best dogs we had was an English Bulldog, Spike. Known to the Captain to be a great breed with very low maintenance. Just getting up to eat required another six hour nap. A stroll from the garage to the house, some fifty feet, would tucker him out completely. The perfect lazy man’s dog. We adored him. He loved the kids, let them sleep on him and cuddle him and in return they allowed him to slobber and slime all over them. A match made in heaven it was. When we moved into the new house I began to notice a gritty, textured substance on the walls, upon closer inspection I saw that it contained microscopic bits of what appeared to be kibble. If you have ever observed a bulldog eat or perhaps seen the movie “Turner and Hooch” you’ll know what I mean. Suffice it to say the slobber and foodie bits came from him, after every meal the great head shaking would commence and all the leftovers from the most recent chow-down would be splattered in slow motion upon the new walls, of the new house. He was a bit of a humper, if you catch my drift, an amorous humper, and not too discerning. A pillow which he would bunch up to the right angle before beginning or even a small child if they sat still for it. Also the plumber’s leg, as the rest of the plumber was under the sink. All very amusing if a little distasteful. Fun to explain to the children what that was all about. He was faithful and affectionate, he left a greasy substance on your hands after you rubbed his head. It was also across the front of all the furniture. We got him a little brother in the form of a Pug, Ike. The first of only two that I have chosen, this little guy was as cute as you would expect him to be and Spike took to being a dad quickly and well. Teaching him to do just as he did, where he did it and how. They romped and barked, pretend growled and generally fell in love with each other. I ran Ike over with the family mini van. Not a great day for motherhood. The children were stoic, upon my greeting them at the school bus and telling them something awful had happened, in unison they cried “Did dad’s plane crash?” Who knew? So running over the dog by comparison was not quite so awful. There was a proper funeral and lessons learned, for me as well as the kids. Spike lived another couple of years but was never the same, he could often be seen lurking about the burial spot, then looking sad. I know, bulldogs always look sad, but he knew, he knew. 

A Jack Russell Terrorist came into our lives next. Let it be known the mutual hate between the two of us was instant, deep and ever lasting. Spike was still alive when Buddy came home and so the lessons began but he showed no respect and was often mean to the old feller. Spike was of course tolerant and eventually a tacit agreement was reached. Buddy ran the ridge, killing everything that was on his ten acre domain. New neighbors wondered where several of their cats had gone, we never said a word. No rodents, very few birds and never a stray cat crossed our territory (or actually Buddy’s) We lived a pest free but terrified existence. He only ever obeyed the Captain who was never home, and he barely tolerated number one son. The rest of us, we girls, lived in a state of constant fear. Eventually Spike went for the big walk and his master found him, having quietly passed away in the front field. He buried him and Buddy went strangely into a deep mourning. He was devastated. He cried and roamed and barked and cried, it was pathetic and of course it made him meaner. A mean dog is funny. So we kept him. One thing you need to know about Jack Russells; they live for EVER. He growled at my friends, our family members and every delivery man who braved the driveway, he chased away small children, bigger dogs and ground hogs which he would bring dead or dying to the front porch at odd hours of the night as a token of his esteem for us. Often the Captain would be forced to finish the kill with a shovel. It’s not that I wished him dead but I was over him long before he was over us or life in general. I spent a holiday weekend in Georgia and whilst gone Buddy decided as dogs will do, that he was not long for this world and it was indeed his time to go walkabout. He roamed down to the front five acres of our little bit of PA heaven and as he lay there waiting for nature to take its course my brother in law and his little girl came whizzing by on a four wheeler. Naturally they “rescued” him. As long as the emergency veterinarian was in possession of my credit card number, which she was via the magic of nation-wide cellular service, all care was duly taken to revive, resuscitate and restore this dog to life. This vet called me for permission to perform all kinds of expensive and invasive tests, all of which I declined saying simply that she should put him to sleep without further ado. Indignant and cross she barked down the phone, long distance shame seeping through the line, “We are nowhere near ready for those kinds of decisions.” My reply was that I had been ready for some time and that no heroic measures were to be taken. Upon my arrival home several days later the poor guy was sent to my own vet who informed us that Buddy had known it was his time, he was riddled with cancer and that we should put him out of his misery forthwith. Now I felt sad. Noble little bastard. My husband arrived home and fetched him from the surgery and when I got home form work that day he looked at the freezer section of my fridge in the kitchen and asked me what we should do with him next!

Mrs. Doubtfire’s Bonnie Wee Lass is snoozing peacefully in her day bed as we speak, a sweet natured playful and stubborn Scottish Terrier (we never learn) Bonnie is my dog but the Captain has stolen her affection with bacon and this chant, “Eggs for a glossy coat.” which he pipes as he lays his almost empty breakfast plate on the floor for her to clean. My grand daughter also shouts this now as she too finishes her breakfast. She’s a good dog, she will most likely be our last. I have not mentioned all of them, there were others, some met an untimely death by UPS and others took off for greener pastures. All were loved in their way and all gave us what they had to give; loyalty, trust, company and life lessons. 

FICTION:

Be careful what you wish for. 

We have all heard this adage and wondered what the point really is. Just, only wish for good things or be careful to only wish for things, that if they come true won’t cause any harm, they won’t kill anyone or maim them for life, is that what it means? Does it mean that even if you know that what you wish for is wrong, then you should somehow stop yourself? There are a few directions that you can go with this. She chose the direction of opposite; she simply didn’t care. She wished him dead and gone. She didn’t want a divorce, she didn’t want the hurts and the dirt and the petty indiscretions brought to the table with lawyers on either side, she didn’t care that he cheated or why, just that he did and it was over. Now he needed to die. How many times she stood at the top of the hill they lived on in the countryside and watched him mow on that bloody tractor; slowly, laboriously, the same every time, the pattern never changing, no deviation from the way he’d always done it. She would watch and imagine him rolling over and over, getting crushed under the size and weight of it, maybe even have his legs sliced off before the safety on the blades ceased their continued spinning. She could see herself waiting to go in and call nine one one, making sure he was dead, no chance for survival. She would take a shower, do her hair and makeup nicely, ready for whomever might show up to save the day. She would have been in the shower when it happened she could say, explaining her delightful yet understated appearance. She would dry her hair and use the curling iron. She’d wear the beige cashmere and the black pencil skirt; she looked good in that, expected, classy. Maybe even add pearls, the ones he bought her for their anniversary. When the ambulance came she would be composed, stoic yet clearly devastated. No police officer could later testify that her reaction was not appropriate to the occasion. Her tears would flow but there would be no embarrassing lines of snot and coughing and general unattractiveness. She would be quoted as having said something like “I just can’t believe it, he was always so careful, whatever could have happened?”

Of course the tractor didn’t roll and he came in as he always did. He would spend exactly two hours out there, come in smelling of diesel fuel and take a shower then complain. Again. How dare he choose to be unpredictable and creative with some one else? She was younger but not much, she was heavier, not as well educated and yet he found her more appealing, exciting, new, different. “Is that all? Just different, not better, not more adventurous?” she had asked, was she willing to to do things she wasn’t? And why could he not have simply asked her to do any of these things, it’s not as if he wasn’t controlling in so many other subtle little ways, checking the calendar when he came home from a trip, silently asking if she had completed her daily to dos. Recriminating glances at Lowes that intimated she was blocking an aisle, not even giving her credit for the capacity to steer a cart without his expert direction. God that infuriated her. She never said a word. For fourteen years she simply wished he would die. She would be at the hospital, by his side until death was declared and would look attractively up into the eyes of a recently widowed doctor who would remember her, and look for her on Facebook after a tasteful period of time. For the funeral, she knew exactly what she would wear, the music she would play, something classical and understated and no hymns, that would annoy his mother, adding to her delight in the funeral arrangements. There would be large expensive pots of gaudy flowers which, were he still alive he would hate, and they would make him sneeze. She would wear a pant suit, again something very expensive and then she’d give it away afterwards. She would have readings from obscure poets that no one would ever have heard of and quotes from foreign writers in the programme which she would spell that way.

For years she envisaged the line of mourners and her sad, ironic smile as she shook their hands, each of them offering short memories and platitudes. And afterwards she would be the talk of the town, how dignified she had been, how great was their marriage, what a tragic ending to such an exemplary couple. Of course in the vision, she would not show up and wail in a barrage of imploring beatitudes. There would be no noisy shuffling her out of the church, no swearing of the mother in law “How fucking dare she show her whore’s face here at this time.” There would not be her son, begging her loud enough for all to hear, to just get out and leave the family in peace. But all that did happen, all the messy public dragnet of filth for the whole world to see, captured and then emptied into the church at his service. For just as she had wished, one spring without warning, he went into the garage to put the mower deck on the tractor, after removing the snow blower, and the thing fell on him and killed him. Instantly. And by God she had been in the bath, but instead of getting dressed she had dialed nine one one instantly and met the paramedics in a dirty bathrobe with egg stains on the front and a splatter of coffee down the side. They came into the house and there was a pile of dishes in the sink as well as two days worth of breakfast cooking pans on the stove, egg-dried and spatulas glued thereto. The laundry room door was ajar and visible to all, a huge pile of unmet needs in the form of sheets and towels, some with the stains of her monthlies visible, awaiting their neglectful mistress. She was forced to throw on sweatpants and rush to the hospital with what was clearly now…his body, to do what, she had no idea, but it wouldn't go well with cashmere and a pencil skirt. 

In the harsh light of the ER she noticed that her socks didn’t match and remembered that her phone needed to be charged. Useless. She couldn’t call the right people to go into her house and clean up quickly to prevent further mortification, she couldn’t call her best friend with whom she had shared all the fantasies of the perfect accidental death to cover for her, bring her make up or a hairbrush. Instead she spent four hours with handsome strangers some even eligible, leaving a lasting impression of sloth and dishevelment. There were no questions asked about how she discovered her husband lying dead under this tractor, the UPS man had found him and banged on the door until she came downstairs, swearing unflinchingly at whom she assumed was her beloved, he who must have locked himself out of the house. There was no need for an autopsy, just a great deal of paperwork and decisions to make. Where would she like to have the body taken and by whom. How the hell would she know this? That had not been a part of the fantasy, why didn’t they ask her about the poetry reading and the music? She took a taxi home where the shower was at last taken and a clean bathrobe found, her best friend arrived and shamed her into cleaning the kitchen, none if this was in the fantasy. 

The debacle of the funeral and the public indignity of it all remained with her for weeks, unlike the fantasy, the only call she received was from the funeral home who had yet to be paid. The life insurance was less than the fantasy too, and the sale of the house she loved, but could no longer afford, was hampered by a weak market, a bad attitude and the need for a great deal of improvement, according to the unenthusiastic realtor who promised to get her out of there in six to nine months. The bills came, she paid them. The job she had did not change, neither did her friends, they just stopped calling and her weekends and nights were a plethora of empty hours filled with her own remorse. The damn grass grew at an alarming rate and she now had to pay someone to come and mow it. She also had to buy a new tractor. 

Two Peas in an Automotive Pod

Both my husband and my son are pilots. Both my husband and my son own old, junky cars, as well as the well-kept, modern vehicles they drive daily and provide for their spouses. They are both tall, talented and funny men. They love burgers and baseball and they are extremely good at things no one ever taught them to do. They are clean shaven and tidy about their personal habits, they do not inflict unkempt nastiness upon either of us, their adoring wives, they will eat almost anything you put in front of them and take you out to dinner if it’s not in the stars for you to cook tonight. They are almost perfect. 

But these cars. The Captain’s is a ’41 Chevy and you have to write it and say it that way, never does one utter the full 1941, it simply isn’t done. It’s a ’41 Chevy. It used to be light blue and was the first car owned by his grandfather. It has enormous, personal, family history, taken as it was to college by two other brothers but left, in fact willed to the Captain by grandma Zimmerman. Due to a stint in the army which required the Captain or the Warrant Officer as he was then, to reside in far away exotic places such as Louisiana and Washington State, for a time the car was stored in the barn of a kindly uncle. There it was left to rest.  And to rot, and to rust, home to many a rodent and hundreds of birds and a dozen or more cats, none of whom felt any compunction about soiling its every surface with the remains of their day. There were nests built and fights for life fought with equal regularity; battles won and lost over food, territory and the right to abide. Fast forward another twenty years or so and the kindly uncle retired and wished for his barn space to be recovered. Perhaps his lovely wife was asking for the removal of the now unsightly gargantuan residing front and center in their erstwhile beautiful barn. 

With reluctance I agreed to its being towed to our place. Allow me to elaborate, our dream home. Ten acres purchased from the same uncle’s farm upon which we constructed a home that we designed and built to our every detailed specification. A home to accommodate our five children and various pets. A home built around ample closet space, three garages and a place for everything. Gentrified landowners now, our homestead would also require the purchase of a tractor. Every pilot’s secret ambition is to be a farmer. So where to put the car. In the garage of course says the Captain, then as soon as funds are made available (By whom? The antique car fairie or the state lottery?) I can restore it. The girls can ride in homecoming parades, I can drive them to their proms in it, they can use it in their weddings, it’ll be a thing of beauty, was his enthusiastic reply. Well what kind of wife and mother is going to nix that? Certainly not I. I’m not crushing the wistful dreams of an indulgent, loving father. So there it came to rest in 1989 and there it continues to lapse into the depths of mechanical and upholstered decay. The astronomical cost of raising said daughters and their brother left little spare cash, much less anything that would come close to the cost of a restoration of the beast. Even our son referred to it once as an eyesore, for which I am eternally grateful as it pertains to my case building for ridding ourselves of it. 

But the flame of hope burns eternal, the Captain still dreams of the great restoration to come, the holy grail for which is now a television show where contestants are chosen to be the recipient of a team of experts who come to your home, retrieve the beast and return it to a pristine condition at no cost to the owner other than the invasion of your privacy to televise the entire undertaking. Bring it. 

When the junior bird man was a third degree or underclassman at a certain academy he was allowed a car. He and the Captain purchased a 2001 Jeep Cherokee. The last year this particular type was made, it is a small tank by anyone’s standard. Living as he did in Colorado there was ample space and opportunity for off-roading which became his new passion. You know how it is with youthful males in a military setting, a certain overabundance of testosterone is evident and if left unchecked can grow to alarming heights. He had the thing custom jacked of course with all sorts of hydraulic accoutrements that defy description. He loved, at the time to listen to angry rap music which was afforded a national audience by the installation of four 200 lb speakers all tuned to bass high. So this chariot would boom and thunder its way up a mountain to disturb nature’s peace and charge back down again at alarming rates of speed all to the giddy amusement of unfettered male youth. Understand, unlike the smooth ride afforded the ’41 in its day this was no romance machine. He was the envy of all at the academe as we called it. Upon graduation and in the midst of flight school he and other brilliant young men thought they’d drive it on a cross country road trip as a sort of reward for all their hard work. All went surprisingly well until a sudden massive downpour in Mississippi resulted in a flash flood. The men came upon a rivulet of fast moving water that defied, to most reasonable persons, a crossing possibility. All of them looked at this body of water, they hemmed and hawed using their vast, expensive and high calibre education, agreed they could “take it”. They hopped back into the Jeep, floored it in four wheel drive and……sank like a rock. There is even a name for this, says the Captain, it's called swamping it. So having admitted defeat, calling in a professional towing service they made one last heroic attempt to restore their manhood by offering assistance to the towers. One game young feller going as far as to dive down under the Jeep to try and hook up the winch installed for four wheeling rescue. Fail.  

Upon it’s arrival in Pennsylvania the smell of rotting carpet and upholstery was unbearable, the thick sludge that had permeated every soft place in the car was infused with a sort of death vapor, the likes of which would never leave the vehicle. Even after a very expensive and thorough cleansing the car still has a lingering malodorous stench to it that leaves one leaning out of the window on an early December morning just to catch one’s breath. We had to sit on trash bags for a couple of years as it dried, finally sealing in the permanent pong. Orders did indeed come taking our boy to far away places over oceans which the Jeep could not cross so of course it has taken up residence at the family abode. In the driveway where all who visit can enjoy the great hulking mass of it with that huge bumper that sort of smiles at us whenever we approach. People often comment on it, asking reasonable questions like why, ten years after graduation do we still harbor this beast. Well, I say, his wife certainly doesn’t want it in their driveway!  The registration was the first thing to expire followed quickly by the tires and then the insurance. So now it has taken on a new position as the second of two sad, rotting useless “cars” that live at our house. I suppose in the great scheme of things they are no worse than my penchant for shoes or Christmas ornaments both of which are immune to counting. But if you have any pull with that TV show let me know, I have a pretty good story for them. 

Imprinting Thanks

It is the day before Thanksgiving and most of those who are coming are here. The youngest and the eldest are in from the southern climes, one had a violent episode with a gastrointestinal hiccup and the other is in bed having come from the urgent care facility with bronchitis. The children, six and three are playing in four inches of snow without boots, hats, or gloves. Their father is chaperoning this endeavor in borrowed but still unsuitable attire. I have made four breakfasts and I've lost count of the lunches thus far. The dog is lying in an exhausted heap on the kitchen floor, un-used to such a level of attention and fun, not to mention noise and wicked good opportunities for dropped food. She is happy. I woke the Captain up at 2:00am to inform him that I forgot to buy cranberry sauce yesterday so he is charged with that, plus the epic drive of more than an hour each way to the airport to pick up more southerners. Snow is coming down at about an inch per hour. Perfect. Son and wife making it in from warmer latitudes.

It's quiet, I made pastry for the pies and am about to peel 30 lbs of potatoes while there is a lull in the cafeteria traffic that has become my kitchen. Lots of crafting going on today, a beautiful paper leaf wreath made by my grand daughter with guidance from her teacher auntie. Marker stains all over the island and dollops of glue to hold them in place. I have conveniently forgotten what this was like when there were five of them at home. The Captain invariably away on a trip and hopefully returning to us just in time for dinner. I used to do all this prepping and cooking while holding down a job outside the home too. I must have been mad.

Why do we do this? Perform these massive rites of feasting and forced family fun. Because we love each other that's why. Because when your sister walks in the door and you hug her and laugh and make a joke that only the two of you understand you are imprinting. You are telling one another and reminding yourself that you belong. This is your clan, these are your people. It is worth every grueling drive through hazardous conditions, every delay at an airport, every forgotten vital piece of make up, electronic equipment or shoes just to get here, where you belong. You belong to us and we to you, and you to each other. We stamp approval and acceptance all over one another as we hug, kiss and remember. Every bite is gravied with the support that only comes from knowing you have a place.

I served a dinner to poor families this year in an effort to give thanks and appreciation for all that I have. I was met with gratitude and happiness. I was thanked and it was obvious that all those attending, whether as volunteer cooks and servers or diners were meant to be somewhere else. They did not belong, they had no connection so visceral as our family and yours at Thanksgiving. It was humbling in its ability to ground me in the reality that not everyone is as fortunate as I. Not everyone is out worrying about the perfect sides to go with the picturesque bird. Many in our community suffer the outsider label, they don't belong. It's worth thinking about them and what you can do to help and how you may only be a step, a job loss, a diagnosis away from the same fate.

Where are the Candles?

This is not new to me, I have been decorating this house since 1989. I have photographed it every year and for the most part kept things pretty much the same. I have of course added some new items from time to time and retired others as needed. I am not one of those great mums who hung onto every ornament my children made, let’s be honest here, there are five of them and between sporadic periods of religiosity where they created little Marys and Josephs, boy scouts, girl scouts and school, where I understand all things Christmas have been replaced by a more pagan and nebulous albeit in-offensive Winter Holiday now, they must have created a hundred or more “ornaments.” From paper plates, popsicle sticks, glue and glitter. And felt, remember felt? Each brought home with a grin, a prideful question mark on each little blighter’s face asking if it could take pride of place on the tree. Yes, of course it could….for about 20 minutes. Then frankly I got sick of celebrating around a tree that was famous for its smell of old glue and animal bits found on nature walks and later turned into treasures. I began to long for brightly coloured ornaments that shone and sparkled but were not made from snot and  macaroni. I wanted a designer tree, like the ones in magazines. I wanted to have a Martha flippin’ Stewart tree. As a mother of five, sometimes things just hit you that way. Bang crash…

“This is why we can’t have anything nice!”

And so it began, the captain suggested that I have a second tree and purchase spiffy ornaments of my choice so that the super-glued, kid friendly monstrosity could be left for the children to continue to express their creativity. That was really all it took for me to begin the journey that has ended in there being no less than seven Christmas trees in our home. I can’t even lie and say I didn’t notice, it was not stealth but rather grim determination that got us here. I was on a mission once begun, to have themed trees in each room and the madness continues. As people in your life realize that you have a small obsession with anything they fall loyally into one of two categories. They begin to purchase you something for the collection for every birthday or other gift worthy occasion or they try to put a stop to it. In my case the former has taken on a life of its own. From one or two snowmen perched cheerily atop a shelf in the family room we now own what has been christened the boyfriends of Christmas past shelf, containing about twenty snow men in every shape and size, each one gifted over time upon recommendation from one of our four daughters. The Santa that made its way to a book case now has at least thirty cousins in resin, pottery, wood and various other mediums, again all gifted over time to evolve into a Santa grave yard of epic proportions. There are Santas tumbling out of drawers and flying in a tin airplane (yes another theme; aviation of course!) I have tiny little Santas that sit jauntily beside tiny Christmas trees and Santas from foreign lands collected lovingly from Boscov’s every year. There are Santa pilots and Santa military men each gifted in honor of the two aviators in our family.

I will not bore you with the details of the contents of the many, many plastic bins in the Christmas closet, the basement and the laundry room. Don’t judge, where’s yours? Suffice it to say it takes a great deal of planning to execute the appearance of a casual Smith Christmas with a few nice things artfully placed, it takes a gargantuan effort of at least three days to haul it to each room and display it all just so. It is then photographed and shown to the captain to whom the task will fall should I meet with an untimely demise, to re-create it for the children. His constant and never failing response to this is to inform me that he will set fire to all of it if I go first. How many of those arguments have you had!! 

Today, some four days after Thanksgiving I thought it would be nice to just make a start and place the candles in the windows. You know, the electric kind, that have timers on them and make your home look warm and inviting in the winter snow. We built this house with those in mind, there is a double outlet under every single window in our home, I am so proud of that. I must admit it was the captain’s idea however, not mine. Credit where it’s due. But I love that I don’t need extension cords and can have the wires neatly tied up in a small bundle just under the sill. Just the way Martha would have done it if she weren’t such a bitch and therefore not married to someone great like the captain! All our candles plug into the lower of the two outlets and can all be turned on at once with the flip of a light switch as one enters or leaves the room. Brilliant. I have a system, usually, when putting all the detritus of the holidays away, but last year we had extra dogs as guests, as well as people, and something must have snapped, I must have had a few too many eggs of the nog, I don’t really know but when I began the search for these window candles they were completely lost to me. I spent more than three hours rifling through bins and tubs, each labeled in indelible marker with helpful sentences that say things like “Kitchen window sill, east 2009” or “Bay window, 2010, needs fresh pine cones.” Where did I put the candles? Why did I not place them all in one box clearly labeled? Now, a bourbon and ginger ale later I sit amidst the chaos I have created in the fruitless search, still no candles. But I am struck by the stories behind all the “mess” The memories of these little gifts given over three decades of a great marriage and a wonderful family. I am bliss-filled and melancholy all at once, another holiday will come and go, gifts will be given, new memories will be made and through it all the sameness and the newness will be a constant. Oh look at that… here’s the Easter bunny I couldn’t find this spring, maybe I’ll look there for the candles!

My Favourite Holiday

Just back from the airport and having said a speedy farewell to the last of our family visitors I  should be feeling a little relief. After all, no more massive meals to cook, no more five loads of laundry per day, no more tiptoeing around delicate issues or tricky personalities. We all have those moments when we are fearful that the wrong thing will be said to the wrong person, the faux pas are often mine as viscerally, I still think of them as my children while logically, I know they are their own adults by now. 

But what I feel is supremely grateful. For such a large family we all get along really well, we rarely argue over anything big, anything that would be a game changer, we bicker like everyone who loves is wont to do, but as a rule we like each other, respect one another’s opinions and express them freely. I know how difficult it is to get everyone in the same place at the same time, they partner up and marry and these other people make demands on them to be present for their family traditions but somehow, once again, they all made it home for thanksgiving in one piece and sailed through the confines of their family home, filled as it is with memories and past indiscretions. They flew, they drove, they overcame bronchitis and two trips to emergency health-care facilities. They dragged huge suitcases and supplies for two small children, they drove in rain and snow, they came early, late, and in the middle of the day. Thankfully they brought no extra pets this year, a blessing for which both my dog and I are grateful. They dutifully ventured to their grandparents homes to say hello, catch up on news and share more memories, and they did it all without being asked. 

They played in the snow, they played with their niece and nephew and took over a little of the care for them so that momma could rest, she with the bronchitis. They played checkers and watched a movie or two and they cleared their dishes, helped set the table many times and respected the rules of the mud room. They let the dog out when need be and they said please and thank you. They were quiet in the early mornings, they went to bed at reasonable hours and let us know if they’d be home late so we could rest between bouts of cooking and laundry. 

Am I surprised? No, of course not, these are all adults in grown-up jobs with grown-up relationships of their own, it’s just that I am still so grateful that we put in the work to raise them this well. That they listened, when perhaps we thought they didn’t, that they understood when they failed to respond, that those decades of investing our time, patience and not an insignificant amount of money have paid off in full. For anyone who is raising teenagers and wondering when that phase will end, I offer you the solace of time. Keep repeating yourself, they are paying attention, keep showing them what being in love, remaining in love and working at a loving relationship looks like. Like sowing high quality seeds in good dirt, the results are worth the wait. 

This holiday of thanks is the favorite for many, but form me it is my life’s greatest reward and it keeps coming every year. I don’t have to make or buy gifts, I don’t have to worry about getting it right. I just clean up, make room and cook. A lot! And they come home, they show love and respect and have fun, and they teach me again that having this family of ours is the greatest gift I have ever been given. And now let’s nip into the Christmas closet to begin the seamless transition!