Occasionally, I hear my son comment, “I’m not an artist,” as I pull some creation from his backpack. The daughter of an artist, I want to shout, “Of course you are! You are the very embodiment of creativity! You are young and free from social constraint and the indignity of criticism! You are the blithest of spirits; you are inspiration itself, oh, artist!” But I don’t. I listen to my third grader mumble something about not being able to draw very good. I correct him-- “very well”-- and remind him that there are many different kinds of artists and that building lego creations is sculpture, and rigging up ropes to make a hammock in a tree is design, and fighting bad guys with neighbors is playwriting and it’s all art and you are an artist!
Then I slump in my chair fearing I’m too late. Whose job is it to make sure every child feels artistic for as long as possible? The teacher’s? The parent’s? Shouldn’t every child feel the dazzling freedom of personal expression as often as the whim strikes? Shouldn’t art move through children like a second breath? I want all kids to think they’re good artists at least until 9th grade, for pete’ssake, when cynicism shows up and unpacks; every intention of staying awhile. I couldn’t bear to hear those words from my son so early in life, so I hatched a plan.
“I’m going to take you to the Museum of Modern Art and show you that art is more than drawing a tree that looks exactly like a tree. There are lots of different kinds of artists who use paper cups and chairs piled high, and video and string. And I want you to believe in your heart of hearts that you have the capacity to make art if you want to,” and he said, “I don’t want to go.” And so we went.
I asked a friend to go with us who had a child in his grade so that he would have a pal to flop around on the museum’s leather upholstered benches with. He spotted Van Gough-- whom he remembered from school-- then I tried to explain Jackson Pollack, Picasso and Calder—leaving out the misogynist/alcoholic bits. The crumpled pieces of red paper propaganda that we kicked around and the shiny pineapple candies that we were invited to eat were big hits. Then we happened upon Cindy Sherman.
“This artist loves to play dress up,” I said, “she loves costumes, make-up, wigs and fake stuff. And in every photograph you’re about to see, it’s all the same lady in disguise.” And so we walked through and they looked. An elderly couple stopped my son and asked what he thought of Cindy’s work. The woman looked like she could have been Cindy in her photos; big lips, hair and glasses.
“She’s weird,” he answered. They smiled.
“But good weird,” I said at bedtime, “right?”
“Yes,” he nodded. Good weird.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Slippery Slopes
Last Sunday my son and I ended up on a four-seater chairlift in between two friendly, young, large gentlemen dangling snowboards from their left feet. In the course of the short ride up the ski mountain we learned that they were friends and that this was their first day on a snowboard and ski mountain, ever. I asked how it was going so far and they smiled and shook their heads muttering good-naturedly something to the effect of, “So far so good,” followed by a bemused, “How did I get here?” I smiled and chuckled along with them. I was impressed with them for trying something new and told them so. Learning to ski as an adult takes a combination of courage, resolve and a rubber ego. I reminded them to take their time and take breaks as often as they needed to collect themselves if they felt nervous or out of control. I also reminded them that no one would be recording their experience or posting it on Facebook or YouTube and that they should be proud of themselves for trying something new; something out of their comfort zone. “Way out,” was the reply.
About two supports from the end of the ride and the disembark ramp, I also learned that this was their very first time on a chair lift and that the teacher whose lesson they had just finished didn’t tell them how to get off. Oh, I thought as we glided ever closer to our final destination, yikes. “Okay,” I said to my son, “you are going to ski down the ramp and straight ahead as swiftly as possible. Got it?” He nodded. Then I said to the guys, “And you two are going to stand up when we get there and use your right foot-- like Fred Flintstone-- to glide your board across and down the ramp; like a skateboard. If you fall, which you may, just scoot, crawl or roll out of the way as quickly as possible so that the folks coming off behind you don’t crash into you. You, to the right and you to the left. Got it?” They both nodded. Then, at the last minute I added, “You’re going to be fine. We’re all going to be just fine.”
And we were. The fellow on my right made it down without a hitch and the guy on the left didn’t fall until he was safely out of the way. My son wasn’t crushed by any of us and we all enjoyed the feeling of grace under pressure and the small triumph that comes with accomplishment; however minor.
I was glad that my son got the chance to see adults trying something new for the first time. I planned to beat him over the head with it the next time I wanted him to try a new food. I thought about what everyone had learned from the experience except for me. I already knew that I had a bossy, take-control side; that was nothing new, and I already knew how to ski and didn’t plan on taking up a humiliating, ego-crushing new sport any time soon.
The next day I went to my first ‘How to Teach Math and Science’ class. I hadn’t been in a science classroom in well over twenty years. Math and I had squared off last year in order to take the GREs, and again last semester in my statistics course, but I can’t say as I’ve missed her since we parted ways. The Cartesian Diver experiment was a great party trick and our professor demonstrated the small ketchup packet sinking and rising again at will within the clear plastic bottle of water with laissez-faire finesse. But how did she do that? I was almost certain it wasn’t telekinesis. Students raised their hands and density was revealed to be the magic afoot. Our professor wrote density equals mass over volume on the white board and I dutifully scribbled the formula into my notebook.
It was a vaguely familiar formula and the tiny trap door that had shut away years of lab partnering and high school formaldehyde cracked open, but just barely. She asked if everyone understood and I nodded reflexively, then she turned to wrap up the class. Across the table a student looked at me and whispered, “Do you?” For some reason I was honest with her even though she was a stranger. “No,” I whispered back. As the rest of the class stood to pack up and the bustle of bodies resumed, I slid around to her side of the table. She went over the concept until it made absolute sense to me. I was grateful for her help-- this was way out of my comfort zone-- and I was glad that I’d had the nerve to be honest with her. I was proud of my small triumph, glad for my rubber ego and very relieved that no one would be posting this moment on YouTube.
About two supports from the end of the ride and the disembark ramp, I also learned that this was their very first time on a chair lift and that the teacher whose lesson they had just finished didn’t tell them how to get off. Oh, I thought as we glided ever closer to our final destination, yikes. “Okay,” I said to my son, “you are going to ski down the ramp and straight ahead as swiftly as possible. Got it?” He nodded. Then I said to the guys, “And you two are going to stand up when we get there and use your right foot-- like Fred Flintstone-- to glide your board across and down the ramp; like a skateboard. If you fall, which you may, just scoot, crawl or roll out of the way as quickly as possible so that the folks coming off behind you don’t crash into you. You, to the right and you to the left. Got it?” They both nodded. Then, at the last minute I added, “You’re going to be fine. We’re all going to be just fine.”
And we were. The fellow on my right made it down without a hitch and the guy on the left didn’t fall until he was safely out of the way. My son wasn’t crushed by any of us and we all enjoyed the feeling of grace under pressure and the small triumph that comes with accomplishment; however minor.
I was glad that my son got the chance to see adults trying something new for the first time. I planned to beat him over the head with it the next time I wanted him to try a new food. I thought about what everyone had learned from the experience except for me. I already knew that I had a bossy, take-control side; that was nothing new, and I already knew how to ski and didn’t plan on taking up a humiliating, ego-crushing new sport any time soon.
The next day I went to my first ‘How to Teach Math and Science’ class. I hadn’t been in a science classroom in well over twenty years. Math and I had squared off last year in order to take the GREs, and again last semester in my statistics course, but I can’t say as I’ve missed her since we parted ways. The Cartesian Diver experiment was a great party trick and our professor demonstrated the small ketchup packet sinking and rising again at will within the clear plastic bottle of water with laissez-faire finesse. But how did she do that? I was almost certain it wasn’t telekinesis. Students raised their hands and density was revealed to be the magic afoot. Our professor wrote density equals mass over volume on the white board and I dutifully scribbled the formula into my notebook.
It was a vaguely familiar formula and the tiny trap door that had shut away years of lab partnering and high school formaldehyde cracked open, but just barely. She asked if everyone understood and I nodded reflexively, then she turned to wrap up the class. Across the table a student looked at me and whispered, “Do you?” For some reason I was honest with her even though she was a stranger. “No,” I whispered back. As the rest of the class stood to pack up and the bustle of bodies resumed, I slid around to her side of the table. She went over the concept until it made absolute sense to me. I was grateful for her help-- this was way out of my comfort zone-- and I was glad that I’d had the nerve to be honest with her. I was proud of my small triumph, glad for my rubber ego and very relieved that no one would be posting this moment on YouTube.
Carnation Day
Back when I went to high school in the barbaric eighties, our school had a Valentine’s Day tradition. For weeks leading up to the big day, students could purchase carnations through the student council to give to other students. For a buck, you could buy a white, pink or red carnation and write out an accompanying note, which would then be passed out to it’s intended on the morning of the big day, during homeroom-- in front of everyone--, by a member of the student council.
White was for friendship; usually sent between friends. Pink meant, “I like you a real lot,” and was a favorite amongst the anonymous set. It was pretty exciting to see a pink carnation delivered because everyone knew that pink meant someone had a crush and that was a big deal; unless everyone knew who the girl or guy was going out with in which case it was a big fat yawn. But, red. Woah. Red meant love and that was something else entirely. Friendship and like-a-lot I could wrap my head around but love was far beyond my comprehension. And its bedfellow, lust, was worlds away. I gathered it was some vague intention perpetrated between the really pretty junior and senior girls with thick eyelashes and shiny hair, and the burley, athletic guys with said same.
As a freshman girl, the notion that I might receive a pink carnation was exciting; a red one was unfathomable. My girlfriends and I logged hours on the phone the days leading up to the 14th, hypothesizing about who might have a crush on who and why. The morning of Valentine’s Day I was on pins and needles. I had purchased three white carnations for my girlfriends and they had promised to buy one back for me, so I knew I was assured at least that much. But nothing prepared me for the feeling of anxiety that washed over me when the two student council reps walked into our classroom holding an armful of carnations, some of them pink and red. There were only 24 students in our homeroom; who could be getting them all?
Not me, that much I knew. But tell that to the rising tide of hope and desire that was making my ears hot. I sat in the second row, watching and waiting as the flowers were passed out; envy reigned supreme. I smiled as I read the inside jokes that accompanied the white carnations from my girlfriends. Then I watched with big eyes and pounding heart as a pink carnation was held out towards me. I took it and whispered thank-you then flushed. Too self-conscious to look at anyone, I unfolded the slip of paper and read the unfamiliar scrawl. It read, “I really like your personality. From, Anonymous.” Ohmygod. Ohmygod.
I spent the rest of the day in a trance. As the popular older girls glided by me between classes laden with armloads of pink and red carnations, I nodded; simpatico.
White was for friendship; usually sent between friends. Pink meant, “I like you a real lot,” and was a favorite amongst the anonymous set. It was pretty exciting to see a pink carnation delivered because everyone knew that pink meant someone had a crush and that was a big deal; unless everyone knew who the girl or guy was going out with in which case it was a big fat yawn. But, red. Woah. Red meant love and that was something else entirely. Friendship and like-a-lot I could wrap my head around but love was far beyond my comprehension. And its bedfellow, lust, was worlds away. I gathered it was some vague intention perpetrated between the really pretty junior and senior girls with thick eyelashes and shiny hair, and the burley, athletic guys with said same.
As a freshman girl, the notion that I might receive a pink carnation was exciting; a red one was unfathomable. My girlfriends and I logged hours on the phone the days leading up to the 14th, hypothesizing about who might have a crush on who and why. The morning of Valentine’s Day I was on pins and needles. I had purchased three white carnations for my girlfriends and they had promised to buy one back for me, so I knew I was assured at least that much. But nothing prepared me for the feeling of anxiety that washed over me when the two student council reps walked into our classroom holding an armful of carnations, some of them pink and red. There were only 24 students in our homeroom; who could be getting them all?
Not me, that much I knew. But tell that to the rising tide of hope and desire that was making my ears hot. I sat in the second row, watching and waiting as the flowers were passed out; envy reigned supreme. I smiled as I read the inside jokes that accompanied the white carnations from my girlfriends. Then I watched with big eyes and pounding heart as a pink carnation was held out towards me. I took it and whispered thank-you then flushed. Too self-conscious to look at anyone, I unfolded the slip of paper and read the unfamiliar scrawl. It read, “I really like your personality. From, Anonymous.” Ohmygod. Ohmygod.
I spent the rest of the day in a trance. As the popular older girls glided by me between classes laden with armloads of pink and red carnations, I nodded; simpatico.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
The Act
And the Oscar goes to… What’s-Her-Name and What’s-His-Face. Fabulous, fabulous; couldn’t be happier for you, really. But let’s talk about acting for a moment. Actors get jobs and then they act for as long as their union contracts stipulate; so many hours a day for so many months. Then the job ends. They drop the façade, go back to their lives, pop open a Tab and finish their games of Angry Birds or Words with Friends, or texting angry words with friends. But what if the acting gig never ended? What if you found yourself in a situation where you had to act intermittently, but all the time, day or night? You have to be always ready to be “on” and the job will never end? And the acting you have to do is truly important and will affect others’ lives deeply and permanently? Know what I’m getting at? Do you see where this is heading?
No one has worked harder at acting than the divorcing parent with his or her children. There is a no more seminal performance necessary than when Mom goes to the ATM and suddenly discovers that her joint bank account has been cleaned out. What does she do when she gets back to the car with her kids in the backseat? She acts. And when the husband arrives home unexpectedly to find another man’s car in the driveway? And the ensuing argument wakes the sleeping child? You better believe he needs to act. Because when those parents can put a tourniquet—not a Cub-Scout-first-aide-lesson tourniquet, but a stranded-in-the-Alaskan-frontier-without-a-flare-gun tourniquet—on their true emotions and look into their child’s face and say—WITH A SMILE—“Everything’s okay,”—man, oh, man, that’s acting. And to be that convincing takes Herculean Lawrence Olivier ability.
Because every fiber of your being is screaming with desire to tell your precious cherub what a stinker her parent is. Your misery wants company so badly that your body aches to sit your children down and tell them all the nasty little details of who had the nerve to do what to whom. But you don’t. In stead, you act. Because if you’re a good parent—which is code for selfless parent-- you will pretend to your child every time he comes breathlessly in the back door with blithe spirit and flushed cheeks, that the crisis you are in isn’t happening to him. Because, in fact, it isn’t. Your marriage is just that-- yours. So you must act your little heart out when she asks if Daddy can come to her birthday party or Mom can come to his big game. You smile, and you say yes, and then you act for the duration of the meal, chewing the inside of your cheek if you must to remain on task and not let the little barbs lined up in your tear ducts fire from within every time you look at him. You act that you’re happy to be on the same set of bleachers with your disloyal wife in front of your knowing community, because all that acting—in the long run—will bear the fruit of confidence in your child. All your acting will allow your children to grow up and not have to act; so that your sons can be their most relaxed self, and your daughters can feel precious and loved.
Because the whole name of the divorce game is love, and if your kids don’t feel that they have permission to love both their parents equally, they’ll take you down as teenagers and most likely take themselves down as adults. So, you act. You act your heart out. And when your daughter gets dropped off from a vacation with Daddy wearing earrings that his new girlfriend picked out for her, you smile and tell her how great they look. And when your son arrives home telling you how mom’s new husband was really helpful with his science fair project—because he’s sooo smart-- you beam. “What a great guy,” you even say out loud because for you, divorced parent, Oscar season never ends.
So, as impressed as I am with Meryl and Jean Dujardin, I am so very in awe of you. When your children are older and well adjusted; you’ll know when the time is right. When they’ve asked you for the hundredth time or perhaps for the very first time to tell you what happened; then you can be honest. And that will be your acceptance speech. Keep it brief, and list all the reasons you're grateful and thank all the people who helped you through. Until then, though, whatever you do and however you’re feeling-- no matter what-- keep acting.
No one has worked harder at acting than the divorcing parent with his or her children. There is a no more seminal performance necessary than when Mom goes to the ATM and suddenly discovers that her joint bank account has been cleaned out. What does she do when she gets back to the car with her kids in the backseat? She acts. And when the husband arrives home unexpectedly to find another man’s car in the driveway? And the ensuing argument wakes the sleeping child? You better believe he needs to act. Because when those parents can put a tourniquet—not a Cub-Scout-first-aide-lesson tourniquet, but a stranded-in-the-Alaskan-frontier-without-a-flare-gun tourniquet—on their true emotions and look into their child’s face and say—WITH A SMILE—“Everything’s okay,”—man, oh, man, that’s acting. And to be that convincing takes Herculean Lawrence Olivier ability.
Because every fiber of your being is screaming with desire to tell your precious cherub what a stinker her parent is. Your misery wants company so badly that your body aches to sit your children down and tell them all the nasty little details of who had the nerve to do what to whom. But you don’t. In stead, you act. Because if you’re a good parent—which is code for selfless parent-- you will pretend to your child every time he comes breathlessly in the back door with blithe spirit and flushed cheeks, that the crisis you are in isn’t happening to him. Because, in fact, it isn’t. Your marriage is just that-- yours. So you must act your little heart out when she asks if Daddy can come to her birthday party or Mom can come to his big game. You smile, and you say yes, and then you act for the duration of the meal, chewing the inside of your cheek if you must to remain on task and not let the little barbs lined up in your tear ducts fire from within every time you look at him. You act that you’re happy to be on the same set of bleachers with your disloyal wife in front of your knowing community, because all that acting—in the long run—will bear the fruit of confidence in your child. All your acting will allow your children to grow up and not have to act; so that your sons can be their most relaxed self, and your daughters can feel precious and loved.
Because the whole name of the divorce game is love, and if your kids don’t feel that they have permission to love both their parents equally, they’ll take you down as teenagers and most likely take themselves down as adults. So, you act. You act your heart out. And when your daughter gets dropped off from a vacation with Daddy wearing earrings that his new girlfriend picked out for her, you smile and tell her how great they look. And when your son arrives home telling you how mom’s new husband was really helpful with his science fair project—because he’s sooo smart-- you beam. “What a great guy,” you even say out loud because for you, divorced parent, Oscar season never ends.
So, as impressed as I am with Meryl and Jean Dujardin, I am so very in awe of you. When your children are older and well adjusted; you’ll know when the time is right. When they’ve asked you for the hundredth time or perhaps for the very first time to tell you what happened; then you can be honest. And that will be your acceptance speech. Keep it brief, and list all the reasons you're grateful and thank all the people who helped you through. Until then, though, whatever you do and however you’re feeling-- no matter what-- keep acting.
If You Want to Sing Out
Seven or eight years ago on Hickory Drive in Maplewood, a man named Ford met a guy named Tim at a big, multi-family bar-b-que. As the general chaos and cacophony of children and dogs swirled around them, they began talking and learned that, lo and behold, they had nothing in common-- except that they both liked to play music. Ford ran home to get his guitar and Tim sidled up to the piano inside and within minutes, the low-grade, disembodied hysteria of the b-b-que ceased. Michael Steiner, the host, remembers, “The kids stopped running and started dancing. And there we were; kids and parents in the same room dancing, playing and singing together. It was amazing.”
That gave Michael the idea of hosting a Hootenanny. So, that May, he invited 100 or so neighbors and friends to his home for a musical party. The caveat was that at least one member from each family had to perform; had to share something. He ended up with 30-40 acts, a huge success, and the party’s been an annual event ever since.
Out of that a second musical event was born—this one for adults. At the first “Jam”, as it was dubbed, “eight folks stayed up until 2am,” Michael said, “everyone singing, harmonizing and playing something. We kept trying to go home and then someone would think of another song. After that I began putting a book of lyrics and chords together for folks to choose from.” That was five years ago. Now the lyrics and chords are projected on the living room wall in Ford’s house. Michael continued, “25 folks cram in—29 of them playing guitar. Everyone is very humble about their abilities, but there’s a lot of terrific talent in the room.”
I asked Michael about the talent and he said it’s everything you can imagine. “Dave is semi-professional, Mark worked in the music business, and Nerissa played classical piano growing up and has since learned uke. Christine had a band in college and Cat just learned the ukulele, too.” “What about you?” I asked. “I had two or three years of sax in middle school.” “That’s it?” “That’s it. I just started teaching myself the guitar in the last nine years. I figured that far stupider people than me have figured this out. How hard can it be?”
The night I was invited to a Jam at Ford’s house, there were fifteen or so folks in attendance; eight of them had walked. We weren’t crammed. Well, maybe a little. There were keyboards and drums set up plus big standing bongos in the corner. People streamed in the door carrying ukuleles, mandolins and banjos as well as guitars and basses. As coats were peeled off and plopped in a pile in the foyer, the energy grew. People were excited to sing and play; they’d booked their sitters and had been looking forward to this for months. There was a generous bar set up in the kitchen and plenty of snacks in the dining room, but this wasn’t about that. This was about playing music. Ford got things going; he was their leader. “You’ve got to have a leader,” Michael said, “or else things just break down. We used to be so bad. Someone would start a song and then not know the words and it would peter out and be so deflating. We’ve learned from that.”
The night I was there, there was a pretty smooth method to the madness, I thought. Someone called out a song, Michael found it in his computer and threw it up on the wall, then Ford counted us off and we flew. Most of the choices tended to be fun harmonizing songs—Beatles, Eagles, CSN, Monkees—and all the choices resonated with the 37-47 year old crowd. Like them or not, there are songs that we can’t help knowing after growing up with Top 40 radio, and we delighted in singing The Carpenters, Fleetwood Mac, Elvis Costello and Earth, Wind and Fire. I was surprised to discover how many verses I knew by heart.
“I don’t know why more people don’t do this,” Michael said, “All you need is one decent musician to lead a song. The lyrics and chords are all online. You print them out or project them on the wall. It doesn’t cost anything. And you get to feel like you’re in a band for a night. Sit next to someone harmonizing and you feel like a million dollars.” Michael was right. It was so easy and so darn much fun; all of us singing our hearts out to melodies which had woven themselves into our DNA when we were young and still growing. I sang harmonies for a while and then spied the tall, lonely bongos in the corner. I hopped over and stood behind them at the start of a Talking Heads tune that begged for percussion. Although I’d never drummed before, the riffs and rhythms came out of me like a nursery rhyme I’d learned as a child. I was having so much fun I felt I could have lifted off the ground and flown. I’m still growing, I thought, and I felt like a million dollars.
That gave Michael the idea of hosting a Hootenanny. So, that May, he invited 100 or so neighbors and friends to his home for a musical party. The caveat was that at least one member from each family had to perform; had to share something. He ended up with 30-40 acts, a huge success, and the party’s been an annual event ever since.
Out of that a second musical event was born—this one for adults. At the first “Jam”, as it was dubbed, “eight folks stayed up until 2am,” Michael said, “everyone singing, harmonizing and playing something. We kept trying to go home and then someone would think of another song. After that I began putting a book of lyrics and chords together for folks to choose from.” That was five years ago. Now the lyrics and chords are projected on the living room wall in Ford’s house. Michael continued, “25 folks cram in—29 of them playing guitar. Everyone is very humble about their abilities, but there’s a lot of terrific talent in the room.”
I asked Michael about the talent and he said it’s everything you can imagine. “Dave is semi-professional, Mark worked in the music business, and Nerissa played classical piano growing up and has since learned uke. Christine had a band in college and Cat just learned the ukulele, too.” “What about you?” I asked. “I had two or three years of sax in middle school.” “That’s it?” “That’s it. I just started teaching myself the guitar in the last nine years. I figured that far stupider people than me have figured this out. How hard can it be?”
The night I was invited to a Jam at Ford’s house, there were fifteen or so folks in attendance; eight of them had walked. We weren’t crammed. Well, maybe a little. There were keyboards and drums set up plus big standing bongos in the corner. People streamed in the door carrying ukuleles, mandolins and banjos as well as guitars and basses. As coats were peeled off and plopped in a pile in the foyer, the energy grew. People were excited to sing and play; they’d booked their sitters and had been looking forward to this for months. There was a generous bar set up in the kitchen and plenty of snacks in the dining room, but this wasn’t about that. This was about playing music. Ford got things going; he was their leader. “You’ve got to have a leader,” Michael said, “or else things just break down. We used to be so bad. Someone would start a song and then not know the words and it would peter out and be so deflating. We’ve learned from that.”
The night I was there, there was a pretty smooth method to the madness, I thought. Someone called out a song, Michael found it in his computer and threw it up on the wall, then Ford counted us off and we flew. Most of the choices tended to be fun harmonizing songs—Beatles, Eagles, CSN, Monkees—and all the choices resonated with the 37-47 year old crowd. Like them or not, there are songs that we can’t help knowing after growing up with Top 40 radio, and we delighted in singing The Carpenters, Fleetwood Mac, Elvis Costello and Earth, Wind and Fire. I was surprised to discover how many verses I knew by heart.
“I don’t know why more people don’t do this,” Michael said, “All you need is one decent musician to lead a song. The lyrics and chords are all online. You print them out or project them on the wall. It doesn’t cost anything. And you get to feel like you’re in a band for a night. Sit next to someone harmonizing and you feel like a million dollars.” Michael was right. It was so easy and so darn much fun; all of us singing our hearts out to melodies which had woven themselves into our DNA when we were young and still growing. I sang harmonies for a while and then spied the tall, lonely bongos in the corner. I hopped over and stood behind them at the start of a Talking Heads tune that begged for percussion. Although I’d never drummed before, the riffs and rhythms came out of me like a nursery rhyme I’d learned as a child. I was having so much fun I felt I could have lifted off the ground and flown. I’m still growing, I thought, and I felt like a million dollars.
Tree Task
A week after Christmas, I finally took down the tree. And the ornaments, decorations and lights. I sighed the sigh of a thousand sighs and wondered, once again, how to bring the joy back to this task. I’m pretty sure I enjoyed putting it all up-- the tree, the lights, the decorations- but it all seems so long ago, December. Christmas is a little like childbirth for me. I forget all about the labor once it’s over and then by the time is comes around again I’m looking forward to it like a blitheful bride. And then, neck deep in the frenzy, I remember.
I wonder if it’s really the task of unhooking and wrapping, folding and storing that tugs at me, or the churning in my head. If it were solely meditative, my head would be empty; free to lovingly tuck in the little ornaments like dolls into their sleeping bags of tissue paper worn soft by years of use; and then into plastic crates; their lids snapped shut with finality. But my head is crowded; each ornament means too much. Some are sweet; like the Japanese paper cranes swiped at the end of a friend’s wedding to a Japanese girl. Her mother had lovingly folded hundreds of paper cranes to give as gifts to departing guests, but they had left them on the tables when they took their purses to go, so I rounded them up and now place them on my tree, red and silver; as symbols of love’s hope and a mother’s graceful diligence. My mother took apart the wooden crib mobile my sisters and I shared as infants and gave each of us an ornament of a little wooden child happily astride a circus animal. I still have the ornaments I made in girl scouts, cookie cut from a mixture of flour and salt, and painted gold; my maiden name on the back. I picked three starfish off the beach one summer years ago and aired them out on the back porch in the sun and rain for a month. They, too, get hung on the tree with a simple wire hook.
But also hanging, gently clanging up against miniature colored light bulbs, are the ornaments from my marriage; the ones he didn’t take; the ones too pretty to toss. Beautiful tertiary-colored Christmas balls on sale from the Moma gift store years ago dangle near the ornaments culled from various vacations; when an ornament and an unusual kitchen utensil were all we’d budget for as souvenirs. I still hang the paper ornaments-- cut out and single hole-punched for hooks-- from clever Christmas card graphics that I hung all around the bottom three feet of the tree when my son and his toddler buddies were prone to grabbing and eating whatever they could reach. Coiling the chili pepper lights reminds me once again of my Dad who’s since died. Growing up, his signature tree move was to put one strand of some non-holiday lights around the lower extremities of our tree. He got a huge kick out of the glowing pink flamingos or red hot chili peppers that alternated as they broke then were happily replaced. They served to remind us not to take ourselves, our tree-- or the holiday, I suppose—too seriously; which worked, because my tree continues his tradition of low grade rococo whimsy to this day.
Those chapters are long since over now but I’m reminded of them every year as I dutifully unwrap the treasures that archive my past. I like having a tree in my house for a few weeks, I really do, and I’m sad to see it go. I love the smell and the twinkling lights; the hugeness of this giant looming thing in my living room; an invited guest, mute and still. I enjoy the tree’s invitation to be creative, daring me to slap a hook on something and hang it up in the name of festive. I like that it shakes things up.
Once our tree is returned to its former self, we thank it for joining us in our home; appreciative for its sacrifice and service; a vertical document of a life lived fully and like it’s annual bearer, still growing. Then we drag it out onto the curb where we lay it to rest and head inside to vacuum; looking forward to the needles we’ll uncover in June, like an off-season beachcomber who doesn’t shake out her shoes too well, on purpose.
I wonder if it’s really the task of unhooking and wrapping, folding and storing that tugs at me, or the churning in my head. If it were solely meditative, my head would be empty; free to lovingly tuck in the little ornaments like dolls into their sleeping bags of tissue paper worn soft by years of use; and then into plastic crates; their lids snapped shut with finality. But my head is crowded; each ornament means too much. Some are sweet; like the Japanese paper cranes swiped at the end of a friend’s wedding to a Japanese girl. Her mother had lovingly folded hundreds of paper cranes to give as gifts to departing guests, but they had left them on the tables when they took their purses to go, so I rounded them up and now place them on my tree, red and silver; as symbols of love’s hope and a mother’s graceful diligence. My mother took apart the wooden crib mobile my sisters and I shared as infants and gave each of us an ornament of a little wooden child happily astride a circus animal. I still have the ornaments I made in girl scouts, cookie cut from a mixture of flour and salt, and painted gold; my maiden name on the back. I picked three starfish off the beach one summer years ago and aired them out on the back porch in the sun and rain for a month. They, too, get hung on the tree with a simple wire hook.
But also hanging, gently clanging up against miniature colored light bulbs, are the ornaments from my marriage; the ones he didn’t take; the ones too pretty to toss. Beautiful tertiary-colored Christmas balls on sale from the Moma gift store years ago dangle near the ornaments culled from various vacations; when an ornament and an unusual kitchen utensil were all we’d budget for as souvenirs. I still hang the paper ornaments-- cut out and single hole-punched for hooks-- from clever Christmas card graphics that I hung all around the bottom three feet of the tree when my son and his toddler buddies were prone to grabbing and eating whatever they could reach. Coiling the chili pepper lights reminds me once again of my Dad who’s since died. Growing up, his signature tree move was to put one strand of some non-holiday lights around the lower extremities of our tree. He got a huge kick out of the glowing pink flamingos or red hot chili peppers that alternated as they broke then were happily replaced. They served to remind us not to take ourselves, our tree-- or the holiday, I suppose—too seriously; which worked, because my tree continues his tradition of low grade rococo whimsy to this day.
Those chapters are long since over now but I’m reminded of them every year as I dutifully unwrap the treasures that archive my past. I like having a tree in my house for a few weeks, I really do, and I’m sad to see it go. I love the smell and the twinkling lights; the hugeness of this giant looming thing in my living room; an invited guest, mute and still. I enjoy the tree’s invitation to be creative, daring me to slap a hook on something and hang it up in the name of festive. I like that it shakes things up.
Once our tree is returned to its former self, we thank it for joining us in our home; appreciative for its sacrifice and service; a vertical document of a life lived fully and like it’s annual bearer, still growing. Then we drag it out onto the curb where we lay it to rest and head inside to vacuum; looking forward to the needles we’ll uncover in June, like an off-season beachcomber who doesn’t shake out her shoes too well, on purpose.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Party Hearty
The holidays are bearing down on us like the Grinch on his sled heading for Whoville and that means it’s party season.
I love parties. Love throwing them, love going to them, and I love hearing about them. Growing up my parents threw parties all the time. They taught me the tricks of the trade: background music always on, lights mostly off and the other ones low, and plenty of bread and cheese-based hors d’oevres.
Back in the seventies, my parents had a New Year’s Eve Party. About eight couples could make it but six couples couldn’t at the last minute, so my parents made about six mannequins by stuffing their clothes, giving them photograph heads, and set them in chairs all over the house to make it look like there were more people at the party. Even Nixon got his own mannequin. They hosted a Come As Your Favorite Couple Party for Halloween. I remember Adam and Eve, Bright Eyed and Bushy Tailed, and Princess (him in drag) and the Pea (her, all in green) from Dad’s super 8 movies. I went to a Halloween party with the same theme just recently and the host and hostess were dressed as Little Red Riding Hood and Wolf Blitzer.
Once, my parents went to a Vacation Party where every couple brought a check for $50.00 made out to the local travel agent and showed up with their bags packed. After dinner they put all the checks into a hat and a winner was drawn. My parents won! They left for the airport the next morning for an all-expenses-paid weekend in Bermuda. In the nineties they hosted a Rocky Horror Picture Show Party for their friends-- who were all in their fifties-- and hadn’t seen it. Guests had to research the movie and come in character, which they did by golly. Dinner was followed by a living room screening complete with props.
When my parents hosted parties, we were allowed to pass hors d’oeuvres for the first hour and then it was up to get ready for bed where we sat in our pajamas at the top of the stairs, our faces pressed between the railings, looking down at the tops of their hairdos; hearing bits and pieces of conversations that mostly went over our heads. Eventually we were discovered and hustled off to our rooms. Back in my day, children were out-of-sight, out-of-mind at parties, unless it was a family party.
These days I’m thrilled when I go to a party and the hosts subscribe to the same throwback ideology. There are plenty of bar-b-ques, picnics, birthday parties, neighborhood events and holidays to hang out with our kids throughout the year. Grown-up parties are different; we can speak freely, connecting on a different level, not as parents, but as adults, independent of our children. I like your kids, I really do, but I want to talk to you. Uninterrupted. Without Spongebob in the background or your eight-year-old listening to me answer your questions about my last date. And I want to hear about you. I want to know if your boss has been fired yet and if your marriage is surviving the economy—things that kids shouldn’t overhear. A grown-up party is like a spa date; no one asks me to open juice boxes or tells me how much they like farts. And I’m sure they’re a particularly welcome respite for our friends whose kids are with the other parent on that weekend, or who simply don’t have them.
So, I’ve been thrilled over the comeback that grown-up parties are making lately. I’ve heard of some hilarious theme parties as well. My sister was invited to a party where the ladies had to wear either their wedding dress or a bride’s maid dress. The men had to stuff themselves into their tuxes. My other sister went to a Wear-What-You-Never-Get-to-Wear Party. One woman came in a prom dress and another guy came in scuba gear. There was a hula skirt, feetie pajamas, and a woman in mechanic’s overalls. One guy wore the shirt he bought for an East Indian wedding and his friend came in his beloved Wookie costume. A recent party theme I heard about-- best held near the holidays-- was the Ugly Sweater Party, where folks unapologetically wear the ugliest Christmas sweater they can get their hands on, and there are myriad out there just begging to be worn.
I wish January through March weren’t so bereft of social functions—just when the holidays are over and we need them most. Maybe I’ll host a theme party in February. And another one in March. If everyone hosted just one grown-up dinner party a year, think about how much more relaxed we’d all be. All those little spa dates would have to add up to some good. Plus it’s a great motivator to get your entire house really clean.
I love parties. Love throwing them, love going to them, and I love hearing about them. Growing up my parents threw parties all the time. They taught me the tricks of the trade: background music always on, lights mostly off and the other ones low, and plenty of bread and cheese-based hors d’oevres.
Back in the seventies, my parents had a New Year’s Eve Party. About eight couples could make it but six couples couldn’t at the last minute, so my parents made about six mannequins by stuffing their clothes, giving them photograph heads, and set them in chairs all over the house to make it look like there were more people at the party. Even Nixon got his own mannequin. They hosted a Come As Your Favorite Couple Party for Halloween. I remember Adam and Eve, Bright Eyed and Bushy Tailed, and Princess (him in drag) and the Pea (her, all in green) from Dad’s super 8 movies. I went to a Halloween party with the same theme just recently and the host and hostess were dressed as Little Red Riding Hood and Wolf Blitzer.
Once, my parents went to a Vacation Party where every couple brought a check for $50.00 made out to the local travel agent and showed up with their bags packed. After dinner they put all the checks into a hat and a winner was drawn. My parents won! They left for the airport the next morning for an all-expenses-paid weekend in Bermuda. In the nineties they hosted a Rocky Horror Picture Show Party for their friends-- who were all in their fifties-- and hadn’t seen it. Guests had to research the movie and come in character, which they did by golly. Dinner was followed by a living room screening complete with props.
When my parents hosted parties, we were allowed to pass hors d’oeuvres for the first hour and then it was up to get ready for bed where we sat in our pajamas at the top of the stairs, our faces pressed between the railings, looking down at the tops of their hairdos; hearing bits and pieces of conversations that mostly went over our heads. Eventually we were discovered and hustled off to our rooms. Back in my day, children were out-of-sight, out-of-mind at parties, unless it was a family party.
These days I’m thrilled when I go to a party and the hosts subscribe to the same throwback ideology. There are plenty of bar-b-ques, picnics, birthday parties, neighborhood events and holidays to hang out with our kids throughout the year. Grown-up parties are different; we can speak freely, connecting on a different level, not as parents, but as adults, independent of our children. I like your kids, I really do, but I want to talk to you. Uninterrupted. Without Spongebob in the background or your eight-year-old listening to me answer your questions about my last date. And I want to hear about you. I want to know if your boss has been fired yet and if your marriage is surviving the economy—things that kids shouldn’t overhear. A grown-up party is like a spa date; no one asks me to open juice boxes or tells me how much they like farts. And I’m sure they’re a particularly welcome respite for our friends whose kids are with the other parent on that weekend, or who simply don’t have them.
So, I’ve been thrilled over the comeback that grown-up parties are making lately. I’ve heard of some hilarious theme parties as well. My sister was invited to a party where the ladies had to wear either their wedding dress or a bride’s maid dress. The men had to stuff themselves into their tuxes. My other sister went to a Wear-What-You-Never-Get-to-Wear Party. One woman came in a prom dress and another guy came in scuba gear. There was a hula skirt, feetie pajamas, and a woman in mechanic’s overalls. One guy wore the shirt he bought for an East Indian wedding and his friend came in his beloved Wookie costume. A recent party theme I heard about-- best held near the holidays-- was the Ugly Sweater Party, where folks unapologetically wear the ugliest Christmas sweater they can get their hands on, and there are myriad out there just begging to be worn.
I wish January through March weren’t so bereft of social functions—just when the holidays are over and we need them most. Maybe I’ll host a theme party in February. And another one in March. If everyone hosted just one grown-up dinner party a year, think about how much more relaxed we’d all be. All those little spa dates would have to add up to some good. Plus it’s a great motivator to get your entire house really clean.
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