(This post is dedicated to my daughter Alex. To this day, she has never met a stray dog or cat she hasn’t wanted to adopt. Her love affair with animals started long before a setter named Scarlett entered our lives one January 6th back in the mid-1990s. Scarlett’s story is special, but then, what pet’s story isn’t? She’s been gone from this world a long time now, yet she continues to live in the hearts of our family. RIP, Angel Dog.)
In the past, the twelve days following Christmas used to be among my all-time favorite times of the year. While other families untangled the Christmas lights to return to the attic by the new year, the Rices kept them lit. Only on January 6—the Epiphany, the date that represents when the Magi reached the baby Jesus with their gifts--did we end the observation of our extended holiday season.
That was a lifetime ago, though. I was raising young children and running a home-based business. True, I was busy, busy, busy, and I didn’t exactly have control of my own schedule. But I wasn’t yet tied to a nine-to-five have-to-be-in-the-office-NOW gig. That would come later, and it would provide me with empathy for the people who decorate for Christmas the day after Thanksgiving and put it all away on or before January 1st if at all possible. (Correction: It would turn me into one of those people.)
So for those of you who like to take down the yule lights before stepping out for your New Year’s Eve celebration, I feel ya. I also have three things to say:
Number One: Don’t bid farewell to 2019 too quickly.
You don’t want to wish away the potential wonders of the Betwixt. In this instance, I’m using Betwixt to refer to the specific period between Christmas and New Year. In the generic sense, Betwixt is an old word used back before the 12th century. It actually means between.
To be fair, the Norwegians’ already coined a name for these days on the calendar between Christmas Eve and New Year’s Eve. It’s called Romjul. It’s not just a name, though. It’s more like a purpose, which is for people to slow down and catch their breath, cozy up in the pj’s for a needed reset, and enjoy loved ones without all the planning and frenzy of the previous days. Romjul is an unspoken invitation to stop fretting and to spend more time relaxing and reflecting. So do it.
Number Two: Do set your sites on hopes for 2020.
Yeah, yeah, you might think I’m talking out of both sides of my mouth, and what can I say? I’m good at it. Yet in truth, I do believe we can look forward to tomorrow without wishing away today. I’m trying extra hard to practice that as I await the upcoming new year. You see, I retire from the nine-to-five in January 2020. My last day of traditional work is December 30, 2019. You might say I am GIDDY.
In some ways, the days till retirement have crawled. I haven’t loved every moment of my day job, but I’ve mostly been proud of my work. Its biggest drawback? The time it’s taken. Time away from pursuing other to-do’s and being with people and in places by choice. My choice. Yet suddenly here I am. My time will soon be my own. OMGosh, that takes my breath and leaves me with a sense of tremendous freedom.
Yet with freedom comes a sense of onus.
My bucket list is robust. What if I dive into my next chapter with so much gusto that I crash and burn before February 1? Then again, if I ease in too slowly, I could become a sloth within the same time frame. First-world problems, you say? Why, yes, I believe you’re right.
So in first-world fashion (one that allows for much rumination), I’m nixing my more traditional new year’s happiness to-do list with something more abstract. Until I define my AWESOME new normal (which could require extending my current Betwixt), here’s a more-and-less list to get the new year started:
Number Three: Don’t ever—and that means never—lose your sense of wonder.
Like many, I’ve struggled through my share of difficult holidays. I’m grateful for friends and a husband who talked me off the ledge during the years of “some assembly required.” It’s gotten easier as the Rice children have become adults. I don’t miss much about the days when Rice and I hit the Black Friday sales early, Santa wish lists in hand, headed in separate directions to cover more stores without the aid of an iPhone or cyber sales.
What do I miss from those days? The sense of steadfast wonder that came with them. Sure, Christmas is often more fun when children (and then grandchildren) are front and center. Yet sometimes, like during the Betwixt, merely reflecting on past blessings can bring back that sense of wonder. For me, this happens when I recall the Angel Dog. My recollection of her follows.
Alex was in third grade when she asked for a dog. Not just any dog, mind you. An Irish setter. Where she came up with that breed, I don’t know. You don’t see a whole lot of Irish setters here in Georgia. Gently, I told her no, a dog wasn’t in the cards for us just then. I didn’t dare tell her that a house with three kiddos was all that I could handle. I did remind her that her sister was afraid of dogs, but Alex assured me that Quinn would get used to a dog if we just had one. “I’m sorry, Alex,” I said. “I don’t think we can pull it off just now.” “That’s okay, Mom,” Alex replied. “I’ll ask Santa.” Yup, it was that time of year. I was up to my eyeballs in stress, and before I could stop myself, I blurted, “We need to have a talk about Santa.” (Note: Moving forward, the story is true to the best of my recollection. There might be another version out there, depending on who’s retelling it. I can’t be 100% certain.) If my memory is correct, I recovered quickly and well. “The thing about Santa is this,” I said. “He likes to check in with parents before he decides on kids’ gifts. Just in case there are situations like ours.” Alex furrowed her brow in suspicion but didn’t argue. A few seconds later, her face relaxed and she had a comeback. “I’ll just pray to God for a dog, Mom,” she said. “You’re always saying that God answers prayers.” Oy! This kid. She kept my brain working overtime. “Yes, God answers prayers.” I sighed. “But sometimes his answer is ‘not now.’” Alex didn’t press it, and I survived the season, hanging on by my fingernails but, thankfully, without the arrival of a dog. Until Epiphany. On January 6th, I kid you not, a bag-of-bones of a dog showed up on the railroad ties separating our yard from our neighbor’s. The dog appeared frail and gray around the eyes. Her head shook some as she bared her teeth, but I swear it was a smile and not a sneer. Did I mention, she was an Irish setter? In a Hallmark movie, I’d have tied a bow around the dog’s neck and brought her into her new home. But Rice was traveling, Quinn was frightened, and I wasn’t truly sure of the dog’s health or temperament. Of course it was raining, and when Alex asked to build a dog shelter on the patio with a box and an umbrella, how could I say no? (I was already worried I was hell-bound, given the Santa and God talks we’d had earlier that season.) As you’ve probably surmised, Scarlett joined our family on the cusp of that Epiphany so many years ago. She lived in the garage for months. (Don’t feel too bad for her, though. She had her own couch out there, and she also got plenty of walks and treats and company.) From time to time, Alex would ask Quinn if Scarlett could move inside. “Maybe when I’m five,” Quinn would tell her. Quinn turned five on the Fourth of July. Freaked out by the cul-de-sac fireworks, she and I snuck inside to rock in the quiet of the living room. Not surprisingly, Scarlett wasn’t happy about the fireworks either. We must’ve left the garage door partly ajar, because the next thing I knew, Scarlett’s nose was nudging at my leg. And Quinn’s. “I think I’m going to be ill,” Quinn said, when she realized what was happening. (Who knows where she heard that phrase, but, yes, she really said it.) “Do you want me to put Scarlett back out?” I asked her. She was quiet for a moment. “No,” she finally said. “She can stay inside.” The Angel Dog moved into our home that day. She made us her family for the next several years until she succumbed to cancer. Today she lives on, if only in our hearts.
Some may consider this story one about God’s love and faithfulness. Others may pooh-pooh it as a sappy tale of chance or coincidence. I say, why not just embrace the magic when it comes our way?
May we never outgrow our sense of wonder. Cheers ~ J
- Nov 30, 2019
The holidays are here. Every year, I wonder how it happens so quickly, this annual progression of Thanksgiving to Christmas to New Year. Wasn’t it only yesterday I was chasing my tail to survive the 2018 line-up? Yet here we are again, ushering out 2019, prepping for 2020.
The year-end holiday line-up is a funny thing, no? Most of us recognize some version of it, this multi-faceted stream that flows from our hearts and connects us to others who touch our lives. For some of us, the year-end holidays start with the new year (Happy Belated Diwali, Dr. Roberts). For others, the connection runs the gamut from Jesus and Santa to candy canes, cocoa, and carols. (Merry Christmas, and God bless us, everyone.) For still others, December brings a Festival of Lights complete with menorahs, dreidels, and latkes (Happy Hanukah, Mr. Gottlieb). I could go on, but I’ll spare you.
Maybe some of us embrace the season because of how we were raised. Perhaps others scorn it for the exact same reason. For me, it’s a bit of both. I struggle with the holidays, and I’m not quite sure why. My childhood Christmases were lovely. Over the top at times, maybe. But I was a kid. I don’t think I cared.
When I became a mom, though, the holidays changed. The commercialism got under my skin. The conspicuous consumption embarrassed me, inside my own home and beyond its walls, too. I wanted Jesus to be the reason for the season, but even pastors’ kids were faring better than my own when it came to the gifts. I didn’t want my kids to miss out completely. So I braved the crowds and tried my best to be a good Santa. I wasn’t all so great at it, though. The crowds and the money worries invoked anxiety. I suffered the blues and the blahs. Ugh, I hated December.
It’s taken a lot of years for me to discover two reasons that make the holidays difficult for me: (1) Gift-giving is in no way one of my love languages and (2) I am not mildly introverted, I’m freakishly so. In other words, for me December is a landmine of gift exchanges and parties, caroling and cookie swaps, school pageants and concerts, neighborhood soirees and parades.
Yet here’s the ultimate paradox: I truly like people. I like going to their homes. I like inviting them into my own. I care about what’s going on in their lives. No way do I want to be left off the invitations lists.
That said, this year I have TAKEN CHARGE. I’ve decided to OWN the holidays, from Thanksgiving through the New Year. So just how does one own the holidays, you ask? Let me outline the ways.
(1) You send out house rules to guests before they arrive for the holiday feast. You tell them what’s allowed, which includes watching sports, laughing, praising the chefs, hanging around into the evening, and taking home leftovers.
(2) For follow-up, you tell them what will be frowned upon. This includes discussing politics, acting Scrooge-like, and not assembling their dish for the feast pre-arrival. (Happy hour moms, you copy here?)
(3) You give fair warning to family that there may be talk of future holiday gatherings, including more dinner logistics, the optional gift exchange, the mandatory family photo...you get the picture.
(4) You pep talk yourself that your worst holiday hosting experience is behind you. You know, that first Thanksgiving when you learned that (a) it takes a looooong time to defrost a turkey, (b) if you cover the rum cake, the cat can’t imbibe and then get sick in the dining room an hour before guests arrive, and (c) if you over-bake a pumpkin pie, and you fail to add the requisite spices, you produce a rubbery Frisbee not even the dog will eat. (Remember, Tina H?)
(5) You’re owning these holidays, though. You’ve embraced the fact that you’ll not be hosting a Norman Rockwell-like celebration. Further, no one will die because of it. So you tackle the question of who within the family will be missing from the holiday table because they’ll be at work? (Thanksgiving sucked without you, AA and SiSi, but we’ll see you at Christmas, right?)
(6) Speaking of Christmas, it’s time to take on more pressing issues. For instance, who in the house will bring decorations down from the attic, sneak off to watch sports instead of helping to decorate, remind his wife he hopes she remembered those Black Friday deals he saw, and then be done with all things Christmas? Yeah, that would be a man named Rice...UNLESS his grands are involved, in which case, get out of the way, the man will be on a sacred mission. (I’m partly kidding, of course. The man has a big fat heart. I’m grateful that gift-giving does seem to be one of his love languages. I’m sure our kids are thankful, too. But I digress.)
(7) Now that you’re really owning it, go beyond the walls of your own home and (GULP) dare to compare your holiday spirit to that of your friends. Here’s a good one for starters. Who will be the first to order Nutcracker tickets...during commercial breaks from watching televised holiday specials, snuggled in a Hallmark Christmas channel sweatshirt? You? Or a friend? (Oh, hello, Karen A.)
(8) Who will have their Christmas family photos (with kids in matching outfits, faces clean and aglow) ready to go to the print shop prior to December 1? (Come on, Kelly C, you know you have it together.)
(9) Who will have gifts bought months ahead of time, have at least one room of her home refurbished, and be ready to entertain her entire growing family on Thanksgiving or Christmas, depending on whether it’s an odd or even year? (Kathy M, you are beyond together. Love you, booger.)
(10) On the other end of the scale, who will complain about “your mom and her damned holiday schedules”? (That would be my favorite son-in-law, right, Patch?)
(11) Who will win our family Flake of the Year award? (Bwahaha, I have my suspicions.)
(12) Finally, who will be overwhelmed by this jumble of holiday wonder before all’s said and done? (That would be me, the family matriarch, the last person who’s supposed to be a Scrooge or a Grinch but the one usually hanging on by a thinning, elongated thread.)
For now, though, I’m owning these holidays. I’ve embraced December 2019 with gusto, even typing up Festivus Grievances to share with those who may not have any of their own. (Beware, Susan and Ken L.)
So friends, if you’ve seen me sneak outside to catch a breath of quiet during your previous holiday gatherings..., please don’t cross me off your invitation list just yet. I made it through the Gobble. I’m working on the Ho Ho. With any luck, I may surpass the Humbug. If not this year, there’s always 2020. Right?
Happy Gobble Ho Ho Humbug, all. Cheers, too! J
- Oct 30, 2019
Yesterday was my birthday. I turned sassy sixty-two. That’s a lot of years...and a lot of candles. It got me to thinking: what do all those candles represent?
So let me start with some of the good stuff. I think that’s apt. Thanksgiving, after all, is right around the corner. I’ve never completed a daily gratitude list in November, but if I did, here’s how it would start. The things I’m most grateful for include:
(*) My soul mate. Yes, Rice. He bugs the crud out of me at times. But I’m truly happy we found each other all those years ago and that we’ve been blessed to meld our life journeys.
(*) My adult children and their partners. They get up every morning, continue to fight the good fight, and make me proud. Here’s to them...Daniel and Lauren and their Winston...Quinn and Patrick and the beautiful grandbabies they’ve given Rice and me...Alex and Sierra and the 800 strays and rescues to which they open their hearts and home. Couldn’t love any of you more!
(*) Love. I’m grateful for love that’s unconditional. But I’m also fond of love that’s romantic. Then again, love can be affectionate. Enduring. Familiar. Playful. And let’s not forget self-love. But maybe let’s pass when it comes to obsessive love.
(*) Laughter. Do you remember the song, I Love to Laugh, from the original Mary Poppins movie? Well, being sixty-two, I do. And I get a giggle out of it still because it pretty much nails it. Some people do laugh through their noses. Others honk. Then there are those who hiss or squeak or blast or twitter. (And I don’t mean Twitter as in tweeting.) My favorite part of the song right now: “I love to laugh. It’s getting worse every year.”
(*) Wine. I’m grateful for a dry red with a jammy afterbite. The kind that comes in a box works.
(*) My body. Ironic, I know. I’m not crazy about it, but I am thankful for it, ever since a shopping trip for a bathing suit waaaaay back during my junior high years. It was a painful outing during which I actually cried in the dressing room. Damn me and my freakin’ fat legs! I left the store, lumbering in self-pity, and promptly crossed paths with a man in a wheelchair. He was young with long unkempt hair. His eyes lacked any spark, and his lips turned in a slight snarl. I don’t recall his clothing. There was something way more remarkable about him than what he wore. I tried not to stare but to keep moving and not show any pity—or anger or confusion or grief. Yeah, me and my freakin’ fat legs just kept on walking—yes, walking—with nothing to fret about compared to this Vietnam vet, who’d returned home without any legs, fat, skinny, or in between.
(*) My senses. I fear my vision is worsening, and then there's Rice’s hearing, which is grim. (Sorry, m'man, but you know it's so.) Still, I’m grateful for all the senses I have and what they allow me to experience. There’s not much that compares to hearing squeals of laughter from the grands or feeling the water they splash on us...from a lake, a pool, a tub. Any of those will do. If you’re like me, you love seeing the water-colored change of leaves each autumn and breathing in the crisp air that smells of earth and pinecones and bark. Maybe you, too, enjoy a frothy hot chocolate out by the firepit this time of year. I can almost hear the fire crackle and feel it warm me just thinking about it.
(*) My health. Am I the healthiest 62-year-old around? Oh, hell, no. Do I find it fun to count carbs, give up smoking, cut back on drinking, and get in more exercise? Ha! Do you think I get my jollies from scheduling countless appointments for dental procedures, chiropractic adjustments, thyroid and blood sugar checks, and full body scans to rule out recurring melanoma? Why, no, no, I don’t. But so far, I've been mighty thankful when I've gotten my results. They give the word “negative” such a positive spin. (Knock on wood for more years of negative feedback to come.)
(*) Art. I’m grateful for painting, sculpture, and literature. Architecture, music, and dance. Theater, photography, and films. Anything that pleases the senses and helps people grow their creativity, that’s art in my book.
(*) Nature. I’m not sure I’m thankful for creepy crawly things, and I abhor rodents. Otherwise, I consider myself quite a nature lover, especially in places where the seasons change.
(*) My parents, sibs, and ancestors. I’m grateful for my mom, who stayed strong after being widowed three times. I’m thankful for pictures and sweet stories of the birth dad I never knew, but also for the step-dads who treated me kindly, the siblings—step- and half—who loved my cranky soul, and the ancestors who, in some way, played a part in getting me to who I am today.
(*) Delight. Have you ever seen a child’s face light up while watching a Walt Disney World parade in process? Well, that’s the kind of delight I’m referencing. Sheer delight. Not rehashed, ho-hum, been-there-done-that pleasure. Fresh delight. Maybe vicarious delight? It may be elusive at times, but it’s out there.
(*) Faith. I don’t show or share mine enough, but I’m grateful for the comfort it brings me and the freedoms it represents.
(*) Kindness. I wish people would stop dissing this trait. Kindness is not a weakness, folks.
(*) My home. It’s outdated, in need of repair, and in the freakin’ suburbs. But I love it.
(*) Creature comforts. Does anything compare to reading a good book in front of a cozy fire while wrapped in a fluffy blanket? Unless maybe it’s reading that book to a grand who’s snuggled up beside you?
(*) My work. Yes, I grouse about my work. Yup, I’m ready to retire. Yet I’m grateful that, over the haul, I’ve had the ability to get out of bed every day, report to a place where the people are mostly good, and sit at a desk to crank out work that matters. Grant-seeking’s not for wimps, but it has its rewards. Pun intended.
(*) Technology. I’m thankful when technology works for me, which it does more often than I tend to admit. It’s a love-hate thing, you know.
(*) The sun, the moon, and the stars. Light from the sun promotes health and growth. Softer light from the night heavens promotes rest and rejuvenation and dreams. I’m grateful for all these things.
(*) Good neighbors. Nuff said.
But I have candles of regret as well. Many of them need little explanation. They include:
(*) Not being as good a sister as I’d like to be. I’m bad about staying in touch and always vow I’ll call, or even text or email more. So Heidrich sisters, beware: I’m thinking we should do something like the Ogram sisters and plan a girls’ getaway weekend. Lynne, Susan, Tina, Lisa...anyone in??
(*) Never truly bonding with Rice’s family. No animosity here. Just not the connection you see in all those Hallmark Christmas movies...that have started already...and sometimes make me want to suck on a lemon to chase away all their sweetness. Sometimes.
(*) Not reaching out more to my birth dad’s family. He (Douglas Putnam) died when I was a toddler so I never really knew him. His family--my family—is warm when they reach out. They’ve opened the door. I’ve peaked through and liked what I see, but I still stall at the threshold. Meanwhile time passes. Damned introversion.
(*) Having to wear ugly shoes for the rest of my life. (Screw you, sciatica.)
(*) Not being a better friend.
(*) Not being a better wife.
(*) An occasional bad haircut or color job along the way.
(*) Not recognizing my own value.
(*) Not speaking up more.
(*) Not taking better care of myself when I was younger. (Young people, bend your knees when you lift things.)
(*) Worrying too much.
(*) Making decisions guided by fear rather than inspiration.
(*) Giving up on myself too quickly.
(*) Not being a better mom.
(*) The fact that my head sweats when my adrenaline kicks in. This is not a joke. People fret that I’m ill or nervous. (I’m not.) On top of that, in every freaking picture at any important life event, there I am: the wet rat, center-stage. Even in winter. (A brief P.S. to those tempted to offer advice in an attempt to help: meditation, relaxation, mindfulness, Propranolol...none have eased the situation. Air movement hasn’t hurt. But not everyone enjoys an arctic breeze the way that I do.)
(*) Not being more photogenic. (Only partly due to the wet rat situation outlined above.)
(*) Losing my singing voice after my thyroidectomy.
(*) Being too self-conscious to sing in front of others when I still had a voice. Karma, anyone?
(*) Being too self-conscious, period.
(*) The fact that this part of my candle list was the easiest to complete. (Attention mind: you need to re-set!)
Yet there are also the candles that represent myhopes. Here are some things I most certainly hope:
(*) Not to be a cranky old person.
(*) To discover retirement is as sweet as I’ve anticipated.
(*) To finish my book in progress ... because it can’t seem to finish itself.
(*) To discover that vocal exercises will bring back my singing voice.
(*) To stay curious.
(*) To stay strong enough to bear inevitable sorrows but soft enough not to let them break me.
(*) To grow a splendid vegetable garden.
(*) To have ample resources to keep me comfortable for as long as I have.
(*) To live long enough to see my grandchildren become adults.
(*) To be happy with the 2020 Presidential election outcome.
(*) To nurture my creativity more each year.
(*) To see my adult children and their partners continue to thrive.
(*) To add value (through my presence) to the lives of my family and friends.
(*) To pare down my schtuff before I die (so the kids don’t have to deal with it).
(*) To walk more.
(*) To embrace change. (Because it’s ineviable.)
(*) To travel and share more laughs with Rice.
(*) To seek the good in people and situations.
(*) To remember: wrinkles mean I laughed; grey hair means I cared; scars mean I lived.
(*) And finally...not to haunt Rice’s ass if I die and his second wife is younger and prettier and he buys her a writers’ studio.
Whew! That’s a lot of candles.
If you noticed they only add up to sixty, have no fear. I’ve saved the utter best for last. The twobiggest sparklers on my sixty-second birthday cake would have to be my grands:
(*) Britton and
(*) Charli
Lucky me. All those candles shine mighty and bright. They represent a lot of living and loving. You might be wondering, what more could this gal possibly want out of life? If granted just one wish on my sixty-second birthday, what would it be?
The answer is simple: More, please. My wish is for more of the same.
Cheers! Jan
