Month: April 2018

birthday parties

~ oneletterup ~ 1 Comment

Birthdays.

Everyone has one. Whether they choose to admit it, announce it or celebrate it.

When you’re a little kid – and your parents are into the celebrating part – you might get a party. And then…decades later…if you are really lucky,  you will unearth old faded polaroid black and white party photos – of yourself plus those who attended your 5th birthday party. In my case it included my brother and sister and random neighborhood kids. Former neighborhood kids as well. Family friend kids from out of town. Five year olds don’t often take kindly to standing still for very long (Polaroids took several minutes each).  Never mind smiling on cue.

Being corralled on a tiny front porch with a latched gate at least kept everyone in one location. I do wonder if this was before or after the cake….

Try as I might, I can’t recall the names of most of these party guests. Besides my brother and sister (who, despite the ever present fact that I was the oldest, got invited to my parties for years…thanks to my mother-the-only-child), I do remember Joanne, the girl with the coat on. She lived down the street and whatever the weather (this was in May), she always wore a coat. Fun fact.

One other thing.

Seeing traces of my kids in my 5 year old face?

Bonus.

why I don’t want to go to my 8th grade reunion

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First of all, why would anyone have an 8th grade reunion? asked my 30-something daughter with more than a little incredulity.

Who does that? she muttered to me on the phone a few months ago.

I hadn’t thought about it from that perspective. Even though I initially had mixed feelings about going, I hadn’t questioned the idea. Someone is planning a 50th reunion this year and my best friend Wendy (also a member of the 8th grade class in question) wants me to go with her. She is going, as she lives close to the location. So I should go with her. Like we did back in the day…

Hey I’ll meet you in the girl’s room.

Come to my/your house after school.

Let’s go to Valley Fair and buy…

  • a new pocketbook,
  • trashy nightgowns,
  • the new Beatles 45

However, not this time. Except for Wendy, I have no connections with anyone from those days. I went to that school from 6th through 8th grade and afterwards we all dispersed to a consolidated high school with 2 other towns.  It wasn’t so incestuous in a class of 360.

Junior high: well, it was awkward.  For everyone. As it will be until the end of time. The mean girls and the bullies. And the rest of us walking the halls trying to fit in…or disappear. Eating hot lunch and pacing the blacktopped playground sizing up the daily dramas. The ever present worries: did I study enough? will I ever be popular? who is my friend today?  I did have some adventures in acting out; which was kind of exciting in a going-outside-my-comfort-zone kind of way.

1967 diaryedit march18

Mean girls – who certainly were in the minority, but unfortunately often set the tone – can direct a life of misery for those not in the “in group.” No matter how many different ways I set my hair with Dippity Do and pink plastic curlers, it didn’t matter. I never made it into the in-group. I was tall (uh oh), wore glasses (double uh-oh) and liked sports (fuggedaboutit). I often raised my hand in class and asked questions – that may have worked against me too. I do know that notes were passed and, when they got passed to me, the list of “who we don’t like” often had my name on it. The 1960’s version of text messaging.

So, again….why would I travel long distance, deal with a bad back for hours, pay money to sit (bad back again) and reminisce…

About the “good old days?”

 

 

Opa

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He made me laugh.

He loved me unconditionally.

My maternal grandfather was a character. In the real sense of the word. I called him Opa; the German version of Grandpa. He was very proud of his German ancestry. I called my grandmother Oma, in deference to his wishes I imagine. I saw Opa and Oma frequently throughout my childhood. They only lived an hour or so away.  [My paternal grandparents lived farther away & unfortunately I rarely saw them]1956 opa and me copy

We “clicked” – Opa and I – from my earliest memories of him. He “got” me in ways no one else did. He embraced the tomboy in me and loved to boast about my supposed skills on the softball field. “How’s my favorite shortstop?” he would greet me when I was 13. He encouraged me in all my interests. He did not, however, always approve of my choices of television shows and later…my politics. The thing is, we could always agree to disagree. I could speak up to him and it was okay. Never any love lost.  More on that in the future…

He called me his “#1 Granddaughter” (I was the oldest), but he would always be sure to add…”but I love all my grandchildren the same.”

He was smart, funny, strong-willed but fair. As a child, that’s how I knew him. He could also be difficult, abrupt and demanding. But never with me. More on that in the future as well… His sense of humor bordered on the – shall we say – inappropriate at times, but I always loved feeling like I was in on the joke.

Opa and I became “pen pals” when I was about 10 years old.  I still treasure those letters, so carefully written in his distinctive script. Sometimes on fancy stationary from fancy hotels when he was on a business trip or vacation. They always made me feel more grown up than I was…

1964 opa letter pg 1 edit
page 1 – November, 1964

 

1964 opa letter pg 2 edit
page 2 – November, 1964

He died over 25 years ago and I miss him still.

He believed in reincarnation.

He left me with so many unique memories – along with his letters, home movies and photographs. So many stories!

Stay tuned.

 

 

to thank or not to thank

~ oneletterup ~ 10 Comments

Apparently it is rampant. Not thanking people.

The advice columns in our local newspapers regularly cover this topic. My grandchildren never let me know they got my Christmas presents....My son/daughter/grandchild doesn’t thank me for the checks I send…I sent my niece a graduation gift and I never heard anything about it. And so on…

The advice usually involves allowing consequence such as don’t send any more gifts! or just send a card. I think I like that second one.

I would love to say I don’t experience this, but sad to say I do. Not with grandchildren (after all he is not yet 2 years old); but with adult relatives who know how to spell and put a sentence together – nieces, nephews, in-laws – and yes – adult children at times as well. Now, I am not expecting engraved or embossed thank you notes written with perfect penmanship (the shock might kill me). Or even ink. Printed with pencil would work. I’d take a postcard. Even postage due. What bothers me the most is that these family members, who I care about deeply, come across as entitled and ungrateful. I don’t like thinking of them that way, because I know what good people they are.

In this day and age of all things digital, an email, e-card or even a text message would be better than nothing. Knowing what little effort it would take to let me know they received/appreciated/liked or didn’t like what I shopped for, wrapped and mailed…the lack of effort speaks volumes. And it makes me sad. Sad for them as well because I imagine this is how they also present themselves to the world.

As I get older, time is shorter. It gets more and more precious. So I ask myself: Do I need to spend my time on people who won’t take 2 minutes to say “thank you” in some way, shape or form? I think not. I was once told by a family member that geez most people these days have never sent thank you notes to family.  Really? What kind of reason is that? Doesn’t make it right and harkens back (in a weird way) to the old “if she jumped off a bridge, would you do it too?”  Think about it – your family is, well, your family — why wouldn’t you thank them in a special way? If not in a special way, then in some way.  There is absolutely no down side.

So there’s my small rant for the day. Sounds like anger, but underneath it is mostly hurt. I am grateful I was raised to acknowledge gifts no matter how small. And that I took it to heart, learning how important it was and is. So were my siblings; who, by the way, always thank me – in writing.

***

My “lessons” began shortly after I learned how to print…

1961 note009
age 7

 

the beach

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Here is where I want to be:

hamptonbeachnov2016.jpg

It has been raining for 2 days; puddles and small lakes forming everywhere I look out my windows. The grass disappearing underneath. The sun hiding behind stubborn clouds.

As soon as it clears and the sun comes out…and it warms up a bit, that’s where I’ll go. My favorite place to walk. It fills me up; its peace, its soothing sounds – the ultimate room with no doors, no walls – infinite space.  There is power in the ocean – an energy, a purpose. The tide goes in and goes out. Predictable. Not much in life is that predictable.

Often I pass by small children digging holes – trying frantically to avoid the waves that ultimately wash away their castles. Joggers of all shapes and sizes. Dogs run and jump despite the “no dogs allowed” signs. Couples pose for selfies; the ocean at their backs. A lone walker will stop and stare at the horizon. And nobody bothers her. I get it. It is hypnotizing and calming and energizing all at the same time.

Seagulls run up and down the sand. They stop. They look around, shake their heads as if bored. Same old, same old.