Table Manners

My siblings and I had a funny habit of singing at the dinner table. It is probably a genetic trait from my Mo-Tab mom, who upon hearing practically any word in the English language can come up with a song to go with it. Although, she’s not entirely to blame. My dad is a closet musician. He can play a mean guitar, harmonize with the radio and even lay a tune (or twelve) on the piano.

One evening, as dinnertime rolled around, the stereo was blasting the Les Miserables soundtrack. The music must have still been ‘in our souls’ because after we sat down to eat, someone bellowed out, “Red” from the song “Red and Black.” Dad instinctively sang, “The blood of angry men.” The volley continued, all of us singing the ‘reds’ and ‘blacks’ and Dad chiming in for the main lines.

Black
The dark of ages past
Red
The world about to dawn
Black
The night that ends at laaaaaaast!

We all joined in and held the last, triumphant note. Glory, in the dining room. {uh-huh} And, even more embarrassing because, I’m pretty sure, someone had a friend over for dinner. But, I can’t, for my life, remember who it was sitting at the table in utter confusion at our shenanigans.

It might come as a surprise, then, to know that at one point Dad declared a ban on singing at the table. A new rule. An absurd rule. A rule most families wouldn’t even THINK of creating. It must have been an out-of-your-mind moment for Dad, but the rule was made, nonetheless. Followed? Well, that’s a question for another day.

I’ve been thinking of this family rule lately, because I’ve got a not-so-closet musician in my house. She’s full of song, day and night, and lately has had a hard time getting any dinner eaten because it interrupts the ‘performance’ at hand. It is cute and infuriating all at the same time. Especially if the milk gets spilled during some hand action associated with the current lyric. I’m starting to understand the wisdom in applying a no-singing-at-the-table rule.

Dang, I hate it when Dad is right!

Images

I've been 'home' for a few weeks, rediscovering the old and noticing what's new; immersing my kids in their roots. Dal and Kate are at the age where they can grasp the concept of the progression of life and are interested in how things used to be when Mom was little. We've looked at old photos, played with old toys and talked about things as they were when I lived here.

While visiting Grandma Great, Kate found a picture of my mom in her early twenty's: long, straight hippy hair, full cheeks and lips, dark brown eyes. She insisted it was Mommy in that picture (what a compliment!). It took a lot of convincing for her to believe it was Gram.

***

The other day, as I zipped down the hall, I glanced in a mirror as I passed. The image jolted me to a stop. The mirror was angled in such a way that I could see my reflection and, at the same time, see the reflection of my wedding photo hanging on the wall behind me. Eyes darting back and forth, I noted new forehead wrinkles and longer hair, same crooked teeth and smile. Me then. Me now.

***

I pulled an album off the shelf labeled "1982-1988." Dad didn't take so many pictures back then. With kids on either side, I laid the book on my lap and we slowly flipped pages, looking. My kids wondered at the different clothes and funny hair. Reactions included, "I see Maryn's face!" or "That looks just like Kate!" "Is that really Grammy? She looks very different!" And, as I closed the back cover, "Mom, those pictures were from a long time ago, huh?"

***

Later, as we were loading up in the car, Kate jumped in the van. I buckled in Baby. And, before I could get in my own seat, Kate put her face close to her backseat window and called to me through the glass. I put my face up to the outside of the window to hear what she had to say. Her smile greeted mine as I strained to see beyond the tinted glass. If I moved my eyes just right, I could see in; see her. If I gazed a different way, I saw my own reflection. Two images, in overlay. A glimpse, a shadow, of then and now.

***

It has been fortuitous but heart-breaking that my trip home was this month. 86-year-old Grandma fell soon after we arrived, and over the past two weeks her physical condition has improved, but her mental capacities have wavered. She isn't the same woman I've adored and admired and have tried, for a lifetime, to emulate. She is old and confused; unaware; weepy; void of expression. I haven't seen her laugh lately. When I look at her eyes, they often look through me or away from mine. I'm afraid we are losing her. But, I'm more afraid that my warm and sunny memories of her will be overrun by these new cold, gray images. Images of a woman I don't know; eyes I don't recognized; a voice devoid of Grandma.

***

After the kids grew tired of old photos and stories of "back then," I pulled down one more album: "1976-1981." I fingered pages until I found what I was looking for. Fall 1977. Young and skinny twins hold up chubby baby girls, posing in front of a Washington, DC memorial. Me and Jodi. "Twin" cousins, first born babes. We were on a trip to meet Grandma and Grandpa: missionaries in DC and lonely for family. I gazed at a snapshot of Grandma and me. Her eyes were bright, her smile contagious. She was young and active, fun and energetic. I'm sure I loved her instantly. This is the image I want to keep. This smile. These eyes. This Grandma.

Maybe if I look closely at her now, I can overlay this long-ago image and see the woman that she really is.

an extra mile

We scooted into a booth for a quick Pei Wei dinner in Golden, Colorado. My children and I were hot and hungry after a day of museum-going and site seeing with grandparents. I had just finished a twelve day stint of scout-camp-induced single motherhood, and although I didn't have a husband home yet, I had the next best thing: Grammy and Papa! And, now I had a full tummy and a fortune cookie in hand. I cracked it open and laughed out loud as I read:
"The love of your life will unexpectedly appear before your eyes."

"Wouldn't that be hilarious if Chad really showed up somewhere?" I said to my parents. Even though we'd tried our best to make our summer schedule jive, it ended up that Chad had scout camp and I was heading to Utah with my parents, and we weren't going to see each other for a whole month! Like ships passing in the night, I left home on Monday and he was coming home Tuesday. "We can talk on the phone once he's back in town," I'd consoled myself. Unsuccessfully.

After our dinner, we dropped Grammy and Papa off to go to a concert and the kids and I settled in for some hotel swimming and bedtime. Then, the phone rang. Chad! I answered and said, "Are you at your base camp? Did you manage to get a cell phone connection?" His answer: "No, I'm home! Where are you?" A few directions and a speedy 60 minute ride later, Dal and Kate were running in jammies through the foyer of the Holiday Inn with Daddy's open arms in sight!

Sweet reunion!

I couldn't stop the smile or the tears. Together is where we belong.

I sent a text to my dad while he was at the concert: "Don't underestimate the power of the cookie." Fortune cookie or not, I feel 'fortune'ate to have had the "love of my life unexpectedly appear before my eyes" and know he's mine forevermore!



Post Script: The "unexpected appearances" didn't stop at the Holiday Inn. Chad also made a surprise visit to Utah for the 4th of July weekend, catching up with us at Bear Lake! What a guy!

re-created

From the time I was 5 to t he age of 11 our family lived in a darling, cozy home in East Layton. It was a small, split level, Tudor-style house and my parents were masters at finding a use for every nook and cranny. In the basement was one unfinished room. It was a utility closet that doubled as the laundry room and Mom managed to carve out a small space to be her sewing spot. From the backyard we could look down into a basement window and see our mom working on some kind of creation as we played the summer days away.

This picture, this snapshot in time, flashed through my mind today as I escaped to my cool, unfinished basement. I’ve also got a little spot, amid the food storage and the moving boxes, for my sewing machine. And, today I had a stack of hole-in-the-knee pants that needed transforming. As I cut off pant legs and hemmed ‘new’ shorts, I thought of my mom and the circle that life is. Once I was the recipient of the make-do creations Mom came up with in her cellar-dweller spot: homemade clothes; remade hand-me-downs; home-spun doll outfit and costumes and toys.

She was much more creative than I’ll ever hope to be. But, as I presented their ‘new’ clothes to Dal and Kate, they were excited to have more short pants in their drawers: summer clothes to play in and wear out and get messy. And, I was grateful for a mom who used whatever she had to create a childhood of wonderful.

life is not a straight line

I’m admittedly a Facebook holdout. I’m not sure why, except it is my own small way to be different. Like refusing to read “Breaking Dawn.” I’m such a rebel. But, I digress…

I think the real reason I can’t sign up with Facebook is because my brain cannot manage to be connected to any more people. What a problem! I’ve been blessed, in overabundance, with amazing friends, family, acquaintances, neighbors. People I really, really like to be in touch with. Christmas-card-writing season, while quite possibly my favorite part of the holiday, is downright daunting. I love it. I really do. But, Facebook would add to the crazies.

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Friday night, amid a plateful of goodies and surrounded by the constant (wonderful) chatter of female friends, I was filled with gratitude for people. We were gathered to say ‘goodbye’ to two friends who are moving; two women who have managed, in only one year, to wind themselves into my heart. Maybe my moving three times in three years has made me good at getting attached fast. Maybe I’ve just been extra lucky to run into great people along the way. Whatever the reason, I think saying goodbye pretty much stinks.

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“See you the next time you pass through!” I called out as we left the restaurant. We’d just spent the afternoon and evening reconnecting with a high school friend (and her darling boys) who were in town, waylaid for the night en route back home. A friend with whom I lost contact for about a decade, but who now (thanks to blogging and the common denominator of meeting up in Utah), I cherish as one of those “forever friends” Michael McLean crooned about back in the day.

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“Life is not a straight line.” That’s what Lloyd Newell mused on this morning’s Spoken Word. Coming and going, moving and staying, passing through. I, for one, have been blessed by the lives that have snaked through mine.

brotherhood

I knew he’d be a great big brother from the moment I looked my very clingy 20-month-old in the eyes and said, “Mommy has to go to the hospital now so your baby sister can be born. Be a big boy and stay here with Grammy. You can come see me soon, okay?” Instead of tears and a death-grip around my neck, as was expected, he toddled over to Grandma’s waiting lap, waved good-bye, and somehow his young self knew he was stepping into, stepping UP to, a new role: Big Brother.

He has always been watchful of Sister; always aware of her needs and ready with a binky or a toy or a fun game to make her smile. When he was almost 3 (or maybe newly 3; I forget), I was loading the kids into the car after a trip to the library. As Dallin climbed into his carseat he noticed a wayward fruit snack, fallen from the bag he’d eaten earlier on our drive. This coveted treat was a surprise and the look in his eyes told me of his glee at this fortunate discovery. Instead of instantly popping it into his mouth he started twisting and pulling it with his little fingers. He was breaking it in half so Kate could have some, too.

Today was the last day of Kindergarten. As he packed his bag for school he carefully counted up his ‘blue tickets’: earned for good behavior and, today, to be used to ‘buy’ treats and toys from his teacher. When he came home bearing two new hair clips for Kate, I wasn’t surprised. His teacher told me he had carefully picked out something for her before he chose the treats and prizes for himself.

Dallin is the kind of big brother I always wanted; he’s the kind of older sibling I should have been (sorry K, P and J). He got this generous and loving gene from his dad, and I’m trying, every day, to be more like my boy.

growing...

5 months...can you believe it?