Did you know that April is National Car Care Month? In that light, here’s a question for you: What’s the all-time favorite car you’ve ever owned? My first car was a yellow Chevelle. I was sixteen, and the car may have been almost as old. I can’t say she was my favorite, but I was fond of her. The first week I owned her, I almost set her on fire. If you surmise I was showing her off, you’d be right. There I was, cruising my friends around town, wind whipping at my blond hair, Jim Croce crooning from the sound track. Suddenly Charlie Borchard called from the back seat, “Uh...Jannie, we have a problem.” (These may not have been his exact words. I just remember that Charlie was a mellow guy, definitely not an alarmist.) Someone else in back—Bob Johns? or maybe Joe Ruthig?—was a bit louder and more demonstrative. Their words, “Pull over, Janet!” caught my attention, and I heeded. The problem? Ash coming off my cigarette was blowing from outside my driver’s window back into the car through Charlie’s passenger window behind me. As poor Charlie batted the ash, a hot ember had engaged with some loose papers underneath my seat. They say where there’s smoke there’s fire. They are correct. Other memories of my Chevelle are distant but vivid. She hydroplaned like a crazy lady on roller skates. I learned to avoid puddles. I also learned to stay calm and off the brakes when water couldn’t be avoided. Speaking of brakes, the Chevelle had brakes that screeched like a banshee, especially when jammed. I discovered this the day a friend and I decided to skip psychology class. My mom was working, or so I thought, but as we drove nearer my house, we saw Mom’s car backing out of the driveway. I wanted her not to see me so, instinctively, I hit the brakes. Screech!!!!!!! Talk about getting busted in plain sight. In spite of my love-hate relationship with her, I’m sad to say, the Chevelle died ahead of her time and by my hand. I failed to change her oil. That is not a good thing. It will, as I can attest, blow an engine, causing certain death. Through the years, I’ve had a number of cars. In college, I nailed an 8-point buck while driving a peach-colored Monza. In early adulthood, Rice and I, white-knuckled, brought our first born home from the hospital tucked snug in her car seat in the back seat of a navy blue Citation. These days, I drive a diesel-fueled VW Passat. She’s black, rides smoothly, and gets excellent mileage. Her name is Adele, and, aesthetically, she’s quite lovely. Some of you might think she’s my favorite car ever. You would be wrong.
The all-time favorite car that I’ve ever owned was probably not really a car at all. The Tank was a boxy black Ford Aerostar minivan that drove like a truck. How excited the kids were the first night we drove it around the subdivision to show off our “new” purchase. How mortified they would become, years later, when The Tank became the vehicle in which they learned to drive.
During its hay day, The Tank served us well. It carried us to the beach and back on more spring break trips than I can remember. It transported our son’s cello trio—all three teenaged boys and their instruments—to and from practices, tryouts, and gigs. It provided rides for a slew of our daughters’ soccer buddies—and their gear—to and from practices, tryouts, and games. The Tank even managed to warm things up in the bedroom for Rice and me.
How, you ask? I’ll tell you.
One night the ringing phone jarred us awake a bit after midnight. The phone was on Rice’s side of the bed, so I listened curiously to his half of the conversation. “Yes, Officer, we do own a Ford Aerostar.” “Yes, she has our permission to drive it.” “Thank you, sir, I appreciate your checking.” Then, I kid you not, the man hung up the phone and rolled over to go back to sleep. In fairness, he was still half-asleep. I, on the other hand, was not. I jumped out of bed, flush, determined to learn what in the H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks was going on.
Long story short: Our underage daughter was caught drinking that night. She blamed it on The Tank, which looked “sketch” parked on the street of her friend’s upscale neighborhood. Rice and I agreed. The Tank is what caught the attention of police during a routine neighborhood drive-through. The officers had noticed The Tank parked haphazardly, unlocked, with a full bottle of Jägermeister in the passenger seat. They’d also noticed that The Tank sat in front of a house with a big ol’ picture window. Looking through that window was like gazing onto a well-lit stage. On that stage, three teen-aged fools sat at a table, yucking it up, a case of Bud light at their fingertips. The good news is, we all survived that night. Yes, even our daughter. God love her.
We continued to drive The Tank for a decent stretch of time after that night. Toward the end, her air conditioning failed. She started to fall apart. We often couldn’t fix her, as Ford no longer made her or her parts. Eventually, we had to let her go in peace.
Here’s the thing: Despite her boxiness, our kids all learned to drive her. Despite her sketchy façade, she got us safely from place to place. Sure, The Tank did tank. But not before she carried her weight in swimsuits and boogie boards, in cellos and soccer gear, in Jägermeister and who-knows-what-else? What a glorious ride she provided in her day. Despite the fact that she wasn't really a car at all, The Tank may be the all-time favorite car I’ve ever owned.
How ‘bout you? What’s yours?
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.
