(This post could be dedicated to soooooo many people, but I choose my sistas—Lynne, Susan, Tina, and Lisa. In case I haven’t told you all enough—or maybe even ever: I love you!)
Happy Friday, the 13th to all! February rushed out the door before I could fit in a post. I hate that. A monthly post is a promise I made to myself, for myself, in 2018. Mostly I’ve been faithful to it.
Sometimes I’m not sure it matters. The writing. Then again, it matters to me. Perhaps Flannery O’Connor put it best: “I write because I don't know what I think until I read what I say.”
Today I want to write about love. Yes, pastel-colored flowers dot my front door wreath, having replaced last month’s red hearts. February is a rearview memory. But my thoughts on love—specifically, on saying the words “I love you”—those thoughts have continued to steep.
In Baby Butch: a memoir (in progress), Rosaia Shepard writes, “... when you love someone, you must say the words for them to bask in it. You must say, “I love you.” Rosaia’s work is lovely throughout, but those words in particular resonate with me.
I don’t think she’s talking about an “I love you” cooed in a starry-eyed, passionate context. That can be scary to say, sure, when hearts are young and love is new and you want to say the words but what if they’re not echoed back? Rather, I think she’s talking about saying “I love you” to the people who live alongside you, the ones you care about, the ones who irritate you but also lift you, the ones who are part of your big fat messy everyday life.
Rice, our kids, and I are big on “I love you.” I admit, saying it can get rote, like a mindless habit. A few years ago I realized this when I ended a co-worker’s voicemail message with a quick "I love you". It tickled him, but I was embarrassed. Maybe I needed to get a grip. Maybe I should stop parroting it back if I wasn’t feeling it at that very moment? Later that day, Rice called. “I’m picking up milk,” he said. When he added, “I love you,” I didn’t say it back. It seemed so silly. He was talking about milk, not love. So why’d he say it? I’m not sure if he noticed I didn’t say it back. It didn’t feel good, though. As much as Rice, the kids, and I are big on “I love you,” my mother Grace wasn’t. She was part of the Greatest Generation. Her ancestors championed big families, likely to help tend the fields. Survival was key. Telling offspring “I love you” was not. Grace continued that tradition with her daughters. Actions spoke louder than words, she believed. I don’t think we sisters felt unloved, even if she never said the words. Of course, I should let each sister speak for herself. Still, one recollection haunts me to this day, even if only a little. In my mom’s final year, she battled ovarian cancer and dementia, and poor balance caused frequent falls. At one point, she needed surgery for a broken hip, and I worried she might not come through it. She did, although she was loopy as hell in post op. I knew she still poo-pooed “I love you,” but somehow I thought the time was right. As I left her room for the night, I called out, “I love you, Mom.” Her response? “Okay.”
Through the years my sisters and I have laughed about that exchange. Our mom’s comeback was totally “gracious,” as we girls called it whenever she grew...well, she could be cantankerous. But I didn’t find this particular response out of character or mean-spirited. It didn’t feel good, though.
So here’s the deal. We’re living in tough times, what with divisive politics, a world pandemic, a tumultuous stock market. What’s the harm in saying I love you? If you do, that is. It might feel a little awkward, maybe rote, perhaps like a mindless habit. Failing to say it won’t feel good, though.
Speaking of love, I love sustaining this blog. It helps me process my world and clarify what I'm thinking. I’m pleased any time someone tells me something on this site has resonated with them. To those who visit to read and maybe even share, I thank you. Or perhaps I should say, “I love you”? I do, you know. I love you for connecting and wish you a splendid day.
(Final note to my sistas: pssst, see below.)
Cheers ~ Jan
(This post is dedicated to the memory of my mom Grace. I think of her often, particularly in January, her birth month as well as a time she liked to roll up her sleeves and get organized. Happy 87th in heaven, G! Hope you enjoyed some cut-throat Euchre with the angels. And that you won, of course.)
Dear Grace (NOTE: We girls called her that, or G, with no disrespect, truly):
You’re messing with me again. You know you are. You’re probably feeling a cross between irritation and glee about it, too.
Call it the January conundrum. The New Year inspires me to tidy up, to get rid of the old to make room for the new. You used to do this, too, I remember. I need to tell you something, though, G. This annual tidying-up business isn’t what it used to be.
For starters, today’s home décor style leans more than ever towards minimalism. You know how you liked to warm up your walls with lots of pictures? Or how you relished collecting and displaying ornate little frames, antique dolls, and vintage shoes? (Yes, I mean dolls like Annabelle, pictured below, which you picked up heaven-knows-where and is now perched on my computer desk.)
Well, G, minimalists are sending a loud message: “We are a culture drowning in our possessions.” They’re encouraging folks to get a grip on all that collecting. Their mantra is that owning fewer possessions, owning with intention, is freeing.
A couple years ago I became familiar with a minimalist named Marie Kondo. Let me tell you about Marie, because I think there are quite a few things you’d like about her. I know you’d admire her petite, pretty image. You likely would have embraced some of her “KonMari” methods, including her kick-butt way of folding and storing clothes. No one knows better than I how much you loved to feel organized.
Yet here’s where it gets complicated, G. Marie is a minimalist. KonMari provides a surefire system for paring away items that cause clutter. If they “spark joy,” keep them. If not, get rid of them. In my dreams I can see Marie gently lifting an antique pair of spectacles off the entry table, placing them in your hands and asking (in Japanese, of course), “Do these spark joy?” And I can envision your likely reply (in English, of course), “You bet your ass they do!”
Now, G, I know you always said you hate clutter. I believe you believed that was true. But you can’t deny you were a collector. You had a mad passion for certain collectibles, which, unfortunately, you passed along to me. Why is this unfortunate, you ask? Because I now have an abundance of collectibles and antiques to pass along to my adult kiddos. And guess what? They don’t want ‘em. With the exception of Grandma Pearl’s sewing machine (on which both girls have called dibs) and the baby grand piano (which Daniel might want, if he doesn’t nix it for something newer and shinier and smaller), the other items aren’t in high demand.
Personally, I’m okay with the kids paring down. I agree that we, as a culture, have way too much stuff. But G, when I say that other items of yours aren’t in high demand, I’m being polite. The real deal is this:
Nobody gives a shilling for or about antiques anymore.
Blasphemous, I know. As a kid, I remember you frequently bringing home new furniture or art (which was actually old, of course, but new to us). When you grew tired of one of your collectibles, you’d sell it back to the dealer and bring home something in its place. Guess what? Today antiques are passé. Mid-century is all the rage. Or Scandinavian minimalism. I kid you not. If your space isn’t spare, it’s square.
Sigh.
But I get it, G. Tastes and trends change. I’m trying to respect that and break the habit of keeping things just because they were gifts or they elicit memories or they’re still practical and we have the space. Part of my battle I chalk up to The Endowment Effect: the tendency to overvalue things we own, which in turn explains why we are so unwilling to give them up. The other part of the battle is more difficult. The other part is knowing how much certain items truly sparked your joy.
How can I get rid of items like your oil painting of the old man and his pipe? You told me it was the first piece of art you ever bought, and it filled you with tremendous joy. When you were downsizing, you asked me to be sure it remained in the family, and it now has a spot in my keeping room. But where will it go next? I wonder about so many items passed along from you (like that painting, or the side table and the nautical lamp, or the zither and the sketch of me from a high school trip to Paris, all pictured below). Will they all end up in the landfill?
The pragmatic part of me asks, what does it matter? Isn’t everything eventually just ashes to ashes, dust to dust? Yet my struggle continues, especially when it comes to figuring out what to do with all your pictures and photo albums. (Yes, G, I still have your albums, plus other old pictures begging to be archived. The albums still bring me joy. Bulky joy. But joy.)
So, G, I hope you can understand that some of your stuff must, well, go. Here are my thoughts on that. I’ll continue collecting memories and experiences we shared. Note: that might mean saving a photo of something rather than saving the item itself. For instance, I now have photos of Annabelle and the items in the keeping room, which I might opt to save in lieu of the real deal. If I choose, I can store these memories in photo albums along with notes like the one below, which reflects on a mid-1990s family sleigh ride in Michigan. Yes, it was below freezing, and, hellz, yes, you always managed to snort when you laughed, which totally tickled the kids and got a mention in the note. These are memories and experiences I want to save. These are what I want to share.
Sure, there’s still the issue of how and where all these photos are being stored. The old-style bulky photo albums (pictured below) are magnets for dust in and of themselves. Then again, in this digital age, bulky albums can be converted into sleeker packages, like on-line albums or space-saving photo books (also pictured below).
But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. A whole new year awaits, filled with more firsthand memories and experiences I’ll want to collect. How and where will I store them all? Let’s just say that’s part of the January conundrum. January 2021.
Miss you, G. Cheers, all! J
(This post is dedicated to my daughter Alex. To this day, she has never met a stray dog or cat she hasn’t wanted to adopt. Her love affair with animals started long before a setter named Scarlett entered our lives one January 6th back in the mid-1990s. Scarlett’s story is special, but then, what pet’s story isn’t? She’s been gone from this world a long time now, yet she continues to live in the hearts of our family. RIP, Angel Dog.)
In the past, the twelve days following Christmas used to be among my all-time favorite times of the year. While other families untangled the Christmas lights to return to the attic by the new year, the Rices kept them lit. Only on January 6—the Epiphany, the date that represents when the Magi reached the baby Jesus with their gifts--did we end the observation of our extended holiday season.
That was a lifetime ago, though. I was raising young children and running a home-based business. True, I was busy, busy, busy, and I didn’t exactly have control of my own schedule. But I wasn’t yet tied to a nine-to-five have-to-be-in-the-office-NOW gig. That would come later, and it would provide me with empathy for the people who decorate for Christmas the day after Thanksgiving and put it all away on or before January 1st if at all possible. (Correction: It would turn me into one of those people.)
So for those of you who like to take down the yule lights before stepping out for your New Year’s Eve celebration, I feel ya. I also have three things to say:
Number One: Don’t bid farewell to 2019 too quickly.
You don’t want to wish away the potential wonders of the Betwixt. In this instance, I’m using Betwixt to refer to the specific period between Christmas and New Year. In the generic sense, Betwixt is an old word used back before the 12th century. It actually means between.
To be fair, the Norwegians’ already coined a name for these days on the calendar between Christmas Eve and New Year’s Eve. It’s called Romjul. It’s not just a name, though. It’s more like a purpose, which is for people to slow down and catch their breath, cozy up in the pj’s for a needed reset, and enjoy loved ones without all the planning and frenzy of the previous days. Romjul is an unspoken invitation to stop fretting and to spend more time relaxing and reflecting. So do it.
Number Two: Do set your sites on hopes for 2020.
Yeah, yeah, you might think I’m talking out of both sides of my mouth, and what can I say? I’m good at it. Yet in truth, I do believe we can look forward to tomorrow without wishing away today. I’m trying extra hard to practice that as I await the upcoming new year. You see, I retire from the nine-to-five in January 2020. My last day of traditional work is December 30, 2019. You might say I am GIDDY.
In some ways, the days till retirement have crawled. I haven’t loved every moment of my day job, but I’ve mostly been proud of my work. Its biggest drawback? The time it’s taken. Time away from pursuing other to-do’s and being with people and in places by choice. My choice. Yet suddenly here I am. My time will soon be my own. OMGosh, that takes my breath and leaves me with a sense of tremendous freedom.
Yet with freedom comes a sense of onus.
My bucket list is robust. What if I dive into my next chapter with so much gusto that I crash and burn before February 1? Then again, if I ease in too slowly, I could become a sloth within the same time frame. First-world problems, you say? Why, yes, I believe you’re right.
So in first-world fashion (one that allows for much rumination), I’m nixing my more traditional new year’s happiness to-do list with something more abstract. Until I define my AWESOME new normal (which could require extending my current Betwixt), here’s a more-and-less list to get the new year started:
Number Three: Don’t ever—and that means never—lose your sense of wonder.
Like many, I’ve struggled through my share of difficult holidays. I’m grateful for friends and a husband who talked me off the ledge during the years of “some assembly required.” It’s gotten easier as the Rice children have become adults. I don’t miss much about the days when Rice and I hit the Black Friday sales early, Santa wish lists in hand, headed in separate directions to cover more stores without the aid of an iPhone or cyber sales.
What do I miss from those days? The sense of steadfast wonder that came with them. Sure, Christmas is often more fun when children (and then grandchildren) are front and center. Yet sometimes, like during the Betwixt, merely reflecting on past blessings can bring back that sense of wonder. For me, this happens when I recall the Angel Dog. My recollection of her follows.
Alex was in third grade when she asked for a dog. Not just any dog, mind you. An Irish setter. Where she came up with that breed, I don’t know. You don’t see a whole lot of Irish setters here in Georgia. Gently, I told her no, a dog wasn’t in the cards for us just then. I didn’t dare tell her that a house with three kiddos was all that I could handle. I did remind her that her sister was afraid of dogs, but Alex assured me that Quinn would get used to a dog if we just had one. “I’m sorry, Alex,” I said. “I don’t think we can pull it off just now.” “That’s okay, Mom,” Alex replied. “I’ll ask Santa.” Yup, it was that time of year. I was up to my eyeballs in stress, and before I could stop myself, I blurted, “We need to have a talk about Santa.” (Note: Moving forward, the story is true to the best of my recollection. There might be another version out there, depending on who’s retelling it. I can’t be 100% certain.) If my memory is correct, I recovered quickly and well. “The thing about Santa is this,” I said. “He likes to check in with parents before he decides on kids’ gifts. Just in case there are situations like ours.” Alex furrowed her brow in suspicion but didn’t argue. A few seconds later, her face relaxed and she had a comeback. “I’ll just pray to God for a dog, Mom,” she said. “You’re always saying that God answers prayers.” Oy! This kid. She kept my brain working overtime. “Yes, God answers prayers.” I sighed. “But sometimes his answer is ‘not now.’” Alex didn’t press it, and I survived the season, hanging on by my fingernails but, thankfully, without the arrival of a dog. Until Epiphany. On January 6th, I kid you not, a bag-of-bones of a dog showed up on the railroad ties separating our yard from our neighbor’s. The dog appeared frail and gray around the eyes. Her head shook some as she bared her teeth, but I swear it was a smile and not a sneer. Did I mention, she was an Irish setter? In a Hallmark movie, I’d have tied a bow around the dog’s neck and brought her into her new home. But Rice was traveling, Quinn was frightened, and I wasn’t truly sure of the dog’s health or temperament. Of course it was raining, and when Alex asked to build a dog shelter on the patio with a box and an umbrella, how could I say no? (I was already worried I was hell-bound, given the Santa and God talks we’d had earlier that season.) As you’ve probably surmised, Scarlett joined our family on the cusp of that Epiphany so many years ago. She lived in the garage for months. (Don’t feel too bad for her, though. She had her own couch out there, and she also got plenty of walks and treats and company.) From time to time, Alex would ask Quinn if Scarlett could move inside. “Maybe when I’m five,” Quinn would tell her. Quinn turned five on the Fourth of July. Freaked out by the cul-de-sac fireworks, she and I snuck inside to rock in the quiet of the living room. Not surprisingly, Scarlett wasn’t happy about the fireworks either. We must’ve left the garage door partly ajar, because the next thing I knew, Scarlett’s nose was nudging at my leg. And Quinn’s. “I think I’m going to be ill,” Quinn said, when she realized what was happening. (Who knows where she heard that phrase, but, yes, she really said it.) “Do you want me to put Scarlett back out?” I asked her. She was quiet for a moment. “No,” she finally said. “She can stay inside.” The Angel Dog moved into our home that day. She made us her family for the next several years until she succumbed to cancer. Today she lives on, if only in our hearts.
Some may consider this story one about God’s love and faithfulness. Others may pooh-pooh it as a sappy tale of chance or coincidence. I say, why not just embrace the magic when it comes our way?
May we never outgrow our sense of wonder. Cheers ~ J
