Updated: Nov 23, 2022
Betcha didn’t know that February was International Friendship Month. Yeah, yeah, I know, the month that just passed. Still, there’s never a bad time to fit in a call or a hug or a shout-out to someone you care about if you haven’t been good about it lately. Right?
Here are a few interesting facts I read about friendship while surfing the net:
Friendship can extend your life.
Animals can have friends, even beyond their species.
Babies can recognize the emotion of friendship at 9 months of age.
I don’t doubt for a moment the importance of friends in my life. Truth is, though, I’m not always a very good friend myself. Reaching out and staying in touch can be difficult. Lucky for me, I have friends who understand me (they tolerate my introversion). They are better about calling or texting. They keep us in touch.
During February my friend Kathy invited me and two other women to spend a weekend playing at her house. (In this instance, playing means being pampered.) She instigated an overdue gathering of our Happy Hour, a group of four women who met at a neighborhood pool in 1991. Back then we were all Southern transplants suddenly living the lives of stay-at-home moms with young kids. Somehow pool gatherings evolved into Friday afternoon whine-over-wine dates (white Zin, veggies and dip for us; Kool-Aid and Cheetos for the kids). We were there for one another...when our littles stepped on our hands...when our trying teens stomped on our hearts. When our Happy Hour kids celebrated graduations and marriages, we were right there leading the toasts. The most recent jewels in our crowns? Welcoming grands to the Happy Hour fold.
At our recent Happy Hour get-together we enjoyed more upscale wine, private rooms and baths, fresh flowers and peppermint soap, an afternoon of boutique shopping, and a two-hour long dinner out. My friends even played along with my suggestion that we each choose and share a personal word of the year, our theme, so to speak, to help keep us moving forward.
I can’t deny that I miss the long-ago years when I saw my friends more often (and we could party later into the night). Yet I relish our friendship today. Isn’t it magical that an acquaintance can become a friend, and then maybe even a good friend, or perhaps the quintessential intimate friend? Isn’t it healthy for us to allow our friendships to ebb and flow and transform throughout the different stages of our lives?
Having a ton of friends has never been that important to me. Having friends I can trust and strongly connect with has. Knowing I’ve lost connection with friends who’ve meant a great deal to me throughout the years...well, that’s on me. I won’t beat myself up for it, but I’ll try to do better. Each friend has opened up a world in me, whether we’ve crossed paths in school, through our love of art and writing, at church, through family ties, in the ‘hood, at work, during book club, or through myriad other avenues that slip my mind at the moment. I enjoy having friends (or good acquaintances) who are not a mirror image of me but who are of different cultures and different generations.
Speaking of different generations, does anybody really do friendship like a kid?
Given that kids are such experts at friendship and the art of play, I thought I'd ask my almost seven-year-old grandson Britton for a few of his views on friendship. Here's part of our discussion:
Me: “What is a friend?”
Britton: “A friend is someone you play with a lot...or you know a lot about them.”
Me: “What’s a good way to make a friend?”
Britton: “Start to know them …and start playing with them. Start talking about yourself. Tell them what you like, and you tell them what you don’t like. They might have something in common. Then they might say “’Let’s be friends.’”
Me: [trying to come up with a less sterile word for ‘acquaintance’] “What do you call someone who’s not your friend yet but you think they could become one?”
Britton: [thinking....] “Well, first I ask them their name. And when they tell me it, that’s what I call them.”
Me: “Do you think there are different kinds of friends?”
Britton: “Yes. They might have differences like they don’t have anything in common. If I have two friends that aren’t friends, I’ll ask them to see if they’re related somehow. They might have questions, and I’ll see if they like the same type of [TV] show. But it’s okay if it’s not the same. Having differences is okay.”
Me: “What are some words you’d use to describe a good friend?”
Britton: “Funny. Playful. Hilarious. Kind. Strong. Weird. Kind of interesting (knowing a lot of interesting stuff).”
Me: “Do your friends ever drive you crazy?”
Britton: “No. Not that much.”
Me: “Anything else you have to say about friends?”
Britton: “No, I’m all out.”
(Me again here.) Yeah, I know, the month to celebrate friendship is pretty much over. Still, there’s never a bad time to fit in a call or a hug or a shout-out to someone you care about if you haven’t been good about it lately. Even better, won’t you join me in vowing to celebrate our friendships all year long? I mean, friends rock. Don't you agree?
Cheers! J
(This post is in memory of my mother Grace on what would have been her 86th birthday.)
Eighty-six years ago today, a baby was born in a small farming community in the thumb of Michigan. Her name was Grace, and she would eventually become my mom. The year she was born, unemployment raged at 25 percent, the Nazis took power in Germany, and Babe Ruth hit 34 home runs. She died of ovarian cancer in 2012, the year the Mayan calendar predicted the world would end. Yet here we are. (Below: Grace in her high school graduation picture in the 1950s.)
LIFE WITH GRACE. I wanted to remember Grace in a special way today. But how? I considered sharing some of the things she taught me. She was a woman of adages: “Don’t lie.” “Never wear ratty underwear.” “Actions speak louder than words.” Yet those lessons seem somewhat “meh,” like Velveeta cheese on Ritz crackers. Grace was more like baked brie with pecan crumble on crisp apples. She was more like what musicians know as a grace note: a note added to embellish a harmony or melody. Grace was quite often that. An embellishment. A sometimes not so subtle grace note.
(Below, Grace celebrating marriage in the 1960s [look at her delicate shoes!].)
THE GOOD. Life with Grace was far from boring. She was a tiny woman and perhaps a tiny bit vain, too. She loved dressing “to the nines,” with shoes and a purse to match her outfit. Her shoes had to be custom ordered, a size 5-1/2 narrow with a AAA heel. Grace relished dressing us up, too; she liked for her five daughters to be noticed. She adored entertaining…laughing…playing bridge…hosting dinner parties…decorating and re-decorating her house.
(Below, me long ago, all dressed up by Grace.)
THE BAD. Growing up with Grace was not all lollipops and laughs. She could be quite critical. You could usually tell disapproval was coming when she squinted her eyes before speaking. (“Janet, why isn’t this A- an A?” or “Jan, what do you think about our joining Weight Watchers together this Saturday?”) Have I mentioned she wasn’t always subtle?
Grace wasn’t big on issuing apologies either (deserved or not). Nor was she a huge fan of PDA (public show of affection). I used to attribute this to her stoic English-German roots. In retrospect, I think being vulnerable scared her. She was widowed three times. Her longest marriage was six years. I’ve come to wonder if brushing off her feelings made her pain a little less real. Married or alone, she had five girls to raise. Perhaps she just expected us to “get” it, to understand that she had to be strong.
(Below, Grace being strong, taking four of her five daughters on a cruise of the Saint Lawrence Seaway to visit Expo '67 in Montreal.)
THE SHARP. Never one for self-pity, Grace embraced life. She enjoyed several careers through the years. She was court reporter before raising her family. In later years, she worked as a realtor and then an international tour guide, leading travel groups on train trips through Canada and Europe. She went back to college in her sixties for a degree in interior design. She was ambitious, smart, and well-intentioned. She loved to share her fun and generous spirit.
(Below, Grace with her five daughters and three of her granddaughters on a cruise to Mexico in the 1980s.)
THE PREPOSTEROUS. Have I mentioned yet that Grace could be a bit of a flake? When our kids were little, she’d bring them small presents whenever she visited. Our son Daniel must have been around eight when Grace came laden with a gift that made her particularly giddy. Her excitement was contagious, and we all gathered around to watch. She handed Daniel the gift, a rubber hand. “Put this on your shoulder,” she told him, “and press the button. See, it moves!” Indeed, the hand did move—one finger on it, at least. Oh, yeah. Inadvertently, my mother had bought our son … let’s just call it a battery-operated intimate adult novelty device. “The Hand” is still remembered fondly during many a family gathering.
(Below, Grace enjoyed receiving gifts as well as giving them. If only we'd captured a picture of Daniel opening "The Hand"....)
HER LEGACY…ABRIDGED. Looking back, I guess I did learn some fairly deep lessons from Grace, whether she meant me to or not. For one, I never hesitate to say “I love you.” (You never know if you’ll get another chance.) For another, I try to emulate how she maneuvered life’s detours. She trekked through tough and tragic times to round the bend…just in case more joy and adventure awaited. Mostly, though, I try to live by one of her other adages: “Get over yourself and laugh.” It’s not always easy, but it definitely makes life much more delicious.
(Below, it would please Grace to know that her daughters are still hanging out for the occasional adventure [here at the Weather Channel in Atlanta].
Here’s to magnificent memories of life with Grace on her eighty-sixth birthday! May her lessons continue to creep up unexpected, like a subtle grace note in the wind.
Happy holidays, all. It’s that time again, the season to jingle and make jolly, to dust off annual traditions, SMILE, and plaster our sweet silly HAPPY selves all over social media. It’s time to share with the world that we, too, all live wonderful lives, especially in December.
You have some special holiday traditions, don’t you? I’m talking about those rituals we engage in, over and over again, with friends and family. It doesn’t matter how you define family or which holidays your family observes. The subject here is the traditions themselves, the rituals and customs that lend a life-force of connection and give a family its own unique fingerprint.
Caroline Kennedy says this about family holiday traditions: “Christmas can feel like a lot of work, particularly for mothers. But when you look back on all the Christmases in your life, you’ll find you’ve created family traditions and lasting memories. Those memories, good and bad, are really what help to keep a family together over the long haul.”
When it comes to holiday traditions, I like mine fine, but I’m open to looking at new ways to celebrate, too. Sometimes. You quickly learn about the compromises of tradition when you become part of a couple. A case in point? An early Thanksgiving with my husband’s family. Here’s what was for dinner: Vegetable beef soup. No, that wasn’t the starter course. That. Was. IT. Delicious and nutritious? Yes. An acceptable alternative to Thanksgiving turkey for the recently wed Rices? Oh, hellz, no. Sometimes the art of compromise can go bite itself.
A fun part of becoming a couple is that you can start your own traditions. (If your own parents allow it, right?!) In our early years, Rice and I enjoyed Christmas Eve with extended family, appetizers and wine, all followed by a candlelight service at church. After our first child, Alex, arrived, we switched things up, opting for an earlier church service, followed by appetizers and wine. When Babies #2 and #3 came a bit later but only eleven months apart, getting the whole crew scrubbed and into their holiday finest for church became an Olympic event. On top of that, Santa and the term “some assembly required” entered the equation. Christmas Eve became more complicated, and a BIG FAT debate arose as well: To wrap the gifts or no? In my childhood home, Santa’s gifts were never wrapped. Who ever heard of Santa delivering wrapped gifts? You guessed it. Jimbo Ricebob, that’s who. In Rice’s childhood home, EVERY present was wrapped because EVERY present came from Santa. O Compromise, O Compromise….
During the childrearing years, Rice and I did pretty well, keeping the compromises of tradition in check. From the time the kiddos were wee, they each got an ornament in their stocking, something reminiscent of the year they’d experienced. You know, a ceramic cello to commemorate one starting orchestra, a porcelain diploma to remind us that another’s graduation was around the bend. These ornaments got labeled and dated, and each year the kiddos added their own collection to THE family tree. Note: There were no specialty trees in this household, thank you very much. THE tree contained our family’s story told through the most beautiful ornaments ever to have been gifted. Okay, so there may have been a few tacky adornments along with some DIY decorations and one particularly heinous ornament our middle child, Quinn, got from a boyfriend shortly before they broke up. No worries. The aesthetically-challenged ornaments were lovingly hung on the back of the tree. Our youngest, Daniel, would come down before school on December mornings and sit briefly in the family room just to gaze at THE tree in its glory. How I love that memory. (Below, the kiddos in front of THE tree in the late 1990s.)
Through the years some constants remained: We always watched A Christmas Story, usually while decorating THE tree. We always sang the We Are From Ford [Elementary School] song on the way home from Christmas Eve at church. We always tied a ribbon across the top of the stairs on Christmas Eve after the kiddos were snuggled in. That way they knew to get the nod before coming down Christmas morning all together. Christmas morning meant an egg-and-sausage casserole with Pillsbury orange sweet rolls, THE family favorite, on the side. Each kiddo’s stocking contained individual sundries along with a toothbrush, a set of thank-you notes, a chocolate orange, and, during the teen years, a pack of condoms. Santa may have preferred that the kiddos abstained, but for heaven’s sake, if they chose not to, at least they’d received the safe sex memo.
Traditions come and go, no? For years on the first Sunday in Advent, our family invited friends and neighbors over for an afternoon potluck. That was followed by the lighting of the Advent candle at dusk and a Christmas carol sing-along. The dreaded 12 Days of Christmas became a favorite, with the women taking the even verses and the men the odd ones. Oh, the harmony (and drama) the guys put into those 5 golden rings! I don’t remember when or why we stopped doing those Advent potluck-singalongs. Other spotty traditions include my taking a couple photos where the kiddos pose the same way year after year for comparison sake. (Left, Alex, Daniel, and Quinn, early 1990s; right, same crew, early 2000s.)
For many years, I sent out a family New Year’s card and newsletter. I’m not sure when or why I stopped doing that. Maybe it was around the time it became unclear as to whether Rice and I were still the kiddos’ immediate family, or whether we’d been relegated to “extended” status. Actually, while it’s bittersweet, I can embrace that. If Rice and I are extended, that means our kiddos are building their own lives, anchored with some new traditions. In the words of Abigail, a character in Pat Conroy’s The Lords of Discipline: “The human soul can always use a new tradition. Sometimes we require them.”
It’s true. Sometimes new traditions have their place. A case in point? Picture an adult son, because he loves his wife, going from store to store in search of a Sara Lee pecan coffee cake to enjoy with his wife’s family on Christmas morning. Pillsbury orange sweet rolls be damned. Sometimes a son’s gotta do what a son’s gotta do. For the sake of a new tradition. In the name of love.
So, yes, new traditions can have their place. You know THE tree I’ve talked about here? Beautiful as it was, it was also lots of work. Besides, it hasn’t been the same since the kiddos moved out and took all their ornaments with them. I’m learning to enjoy a smaller, modernized version of the tree (below), supplemented by a few tabletop minis to commemorate special memories (further below, my Happy Hour and Thursday Night Slashers’ tree).
If the human soul can always use a new tradition, maybe I could spruce up our household’s mishmash of Christmas stockings, no? Not that I planned to replace the kiddos’ three beautiful hand-appliqued stockings their Aunt Tina lovingly crafted for them years ago. But why not swap out some of the old stocking collection I’d piecemealed together through the years when the kiddos added a spouse or partner or grand to the family mix? Why not start with some new fur-trimmed stockings for Rice and me and the grands?
As luck would have it, I found some stockings I fancied on sale. Back home, I laid them out on the coffee table near the mantel, contemplating who would get which one and how I’d arrange them for hanging. They were still there on the coffee table when my six-year-old grandson came for a visit. He saw them and had to touch them, of course, giving extra attention to the soft cream-colored one in the middle.
“Would you like that one, B?” I asked him, somewhat pleased with myself.
He didn’t answer right away but continued running his hands over the indulgent fur.
“JJ,” he finally said. “I like my old stocking better. And I like the Winnie the Pooh stocking you put out for Charli last year when she was in my mommy’s tummy.”
Touche, little man. The newer stockings might be finer with their rustic style and subtle tones, but sometimes a JJ’s gotta do what a JJ’s gotta do.
Britton and Charli will be keeping their old Christmas stockings. Perhaps the human soul doesn’t always need a new tradition after all. Sometimes this ol’ soul knows the value of compromise. For the sake of tradition. In the name of love.
