Homecomings

My sister and I went through the Christmas decorations yesterday. No blood was shed. In fact, we didn't even have to arm wrestle. We were in unison on several items as we turned to my mother and said, "You have to keep this." I took a few things. Like I really need more decorations.

Then I started getting antsy. I wanted to shout, "It's time to go to the neighborhood party!" I did not want to miss a minute.

Everyone should have an occasional day that includes hours and hours of laugh-out-loud fun. I think I've filled my quota for the year. Even my mother stayed until the bitter end. She must have been enjoying our antics and I know she enjoyed the stories. I liked it best when she would say, "Sheri, do you remember so and so?" With complete disrespect, I said, "No Mom, I only went to grade school, middle school and high school with this person. Why don't you introduce us?"

Then the photos started circulating. The stories got a lot more interesting. (That's the great thing about this age --what are they going to do, ground us?)

The neighborhood is right behind a naval plant. Well, I don't know what they make there now but when I was growing up (Cold War Years,) it was all very hush-hush. As far as I know, none of us are radioactive. The military underestimated a group of kids who ran along that strip. As we sat behind my friends' homes last night, the fence (with barbed wire) is still there. Many of us said, "I've scaled that fence." One said, "I could still do it." Thankfully, level heads prevailed.

We danced. We sang. We ate well. We told stories that no parent should ever have to hear.

I could write forever about this. Trust me, there's more to come. But I have another homecoming. The husband comes back today. He missed a great party.

Music People

Jan gave me a few photos the other day. Everyone kids me that my love of music came from this marriage -- this band guy. Truthfully, he has enhanced it but the seeds were sown long ago.

Country music love started with my father and being trapped with his music preference. (Parents always get to pick the music -- a rule I now embrace.)

While perusing these photos, I noticed we are always surrounded by music posters and
rock & roll logos we burned into our lofts. (I also noticed that I am constantly draping myself across someone but we'll discuss that later.)

I have no idea what we were doing in this photo but I am absolutely sure there was music in the background.

A Possible Christmas Photo

When this is posted, I will be sitting in a waiting room while my father has sinus surgery.

A few years ago, my mother had knee surgery and in the recovery room, my father and I got hysterical laughing at her in the surgical cap gone askew. I called tonight to remind him that I might bring a camera. It's his turn. He will have a surgical cap. He will have a mask over his face to catch whatever (ick!) comes out of his nose.

We've been warned that the inability to breathe through your nose can cause panic attacks. We've been told that he will not sleep well for the few days until the nasal packing is removed. I'm thinking this is prime photo opportunity.

'Tis the Season

It's wedding and graduation season. We've reached the point in our lives where most of these ceremonies are for children of our friends.

Folklore tells us that all brides are beautiful. I'm not buying it. I've been to some weddings where the bride was uggo and the dress did nothing to flatter her. It's kind of like saying all babies are beautiful. Maybe they are beautiful to the parents but some of them look like Mikhail Gorbachev.

The White House released photos a few weeks ago of Jenna Bush and her new husband. She was a beautiful bride and I liked it that they chose an intimate setting on the Crawford, TX ranch rather than a full-blown, media-infused White House wedding. I'm paraphrasing a quote that was attributed to Laura Bush: We will be leaving the White House but Jenna and her husband can always walk this land and enjoy the memories of their wedding.

The Belle was a gorgeous bride. I find myself browsing through their wedding photos every time I am looking for a particular picture.

Graduation parties have gone the way of childhood birthday parties. Parents (usually the mother) spend hours or weeks assembling photos for scrapbooks or videos. Scheduling becomes a project worthy of NASA attention.

"Tis the season to wish a lot of young people well as they embark on new chapters. "Tis the season to write a lot of checks. 'Tis the season to keep some tissues handy.

Little Projects

Little projects can be my undoing. I start and stop. I get distracted by things like clients who actually pay me or pesky errands. Why am I the only one who knows how to find a grocery store?

Before the oldies moved in with us, I used to keep my multiple boxes of photos in their room. In my mad dash to prepare for them living with us, I stashed them on a high shelf in my closet. I get on a ladder and drag them down but I have yet to sort and organize them.

I used to crochet baby blankets and donate them to shelters and hospitals. As a tightwad, I would find beautiful yarn on sale and snap it up. Now I have another corner of my closet filled with yarn waiting to become something. (I got a little distracted this winter with hospitals, nursing homes, the hospice and funeral travel.)

I want to learn to text message; I have no idea why. But, it's a looming project.

I need to update my iPod and clean off a bunch of the songs I don't like. I'm trying to upgrade and sync my laptop and my ancient home computer. I bite off little pieces each day but it's still looming.

Computer files need to be compressed, updated and deleted. I still don't understand my digital camera. There is some serious filing that is calling my name.

There are plenty of big projects that need my attention but it's the little ones that nag at me.

I'm working on yet another little project these days. I will get it done.

Crafts for Grown-Ups

I know girlfriends who have broken up with boyfriends (or husbands) and had a wine and scissor night. You might be able to alter the photos but you cannot alter the past.

I can laugh about it but I could never do it. It doesn't change anything; it doesn't solve anything. It just leaves a big hole.

The Christmas Card

I am a card addict. Although I mess up, I try to remember birthdays and anniversaries. It's fun and people seem to appreciate it. It's always kind of jarring when someone says to me, "Yours was the only birthday card I received."

The oldies love to go to the mailbox. I hate them sorting through my mail but I let it go. It's all junk and bills. I like the mailbox around my birthday (Yeah! Cards for me!) and the holidays.

Lots of people have given up sending Christmas cards due to the hassle, postage costs, etc. Not us! This is my favorite ritual of the holidays and I have every holiday card received for the last 10 years, at least. Many years ago, the husband and I decided to venture away from Hallmark and do an original card for the holidays. We're marketing people -- easy enough!

We forgot a few things. We forgot that we're both Type A and think we can out-concept each other. We still forget that shooting for the perfect photo is like the proverbial needle in a haystack.

He forgets that I hand address every card and at last count, we send out at least 350 of them. (You have to die or be put on the Roman Do Not Mail List to fall off of our holiday card list.) He forgets that it must be printed and some years, art directed. (We know people.)

I love coming up with the concept. I love the debate while he puts his spin on it and we have to defend our own ideas. I love it that he cares about this.

One year, we were not in a good place in our marriage. We had a beautiful card and I struggled with whether or not to send it. In the end, we decided it represented the best of us. Plus, we wanted to extend joyous wishes. By the time those cards hit the mailbox, we were healing.

Don't tell me Christmas cards aren't important.

Pa Comes to Visit

One of our bedrooms has served many purposes. It's been a guest room. It was the daughter's room for a short period while she was in law school. Now, it's the oldies' room.

For people living in that room, they can change it or decorate it to their heart's content. I have a few photos on the wall that have stayed ... until now.

There's a great photo of my grandfather (the sane one, not Wild Bill) that has been in there forever. He's in full military uniform. He's young. He's handsome.

I came home from a trip a few weeks ago and that photo was propped on my bedroom mantel. I didn't think much about it. Maybe Big Daddy moved it. Maybe it fell down and no one knew where to put it.

Tonight I was sitting on the patio with the mother-in-law. Out of the blue, she said, "That man hasn't been coming around anymore." I am totally clueless. Is it houseboy? Is it my father? Is she stroking? I took a deep breath and asked the dreaded question -- "What man?"

Her response was, "The man in the photo. He kept appearing in our room so I took the photo down and put it in your bedroom."

I choose to believe he was looking for me.