The Old Dining Room Table

Just last night we had delivered to our home an old, slightly battered dining room table.  It arrived from its former residence in Wareham, Massachusetts.

It was a drop-leaf dining room table that my grandparents had made back in 1952 when they built their summer cottage on Cape Cod. 

At first, I imagine my grandparents only had to lift one leaf to make room for themselves and their two daughters. And then when my mother and her sister both married, the table had to be enlarged to include their husbands.

Eventually, my parents had four children and my aunt and uncle had five children.  Neither the table nor the cottage, for that matter, could handle that large a group, so each family started visiting my grandparents separately. 

My family had the last two weeks in August for our annual vacation to the Cape.  There we played in the ocean every day and each evening we moved that table, lifted the leaves on either side, and opened it up for my grandparents, parents, and the four of us children to fit around and eat our evening meal together.

There were countless family lobster-fests held at that dining room table with the table completely covered with lobsters and bowls of butter and platters filled with ears of corn on the cob.

And even if we got lost in the magic that is summer at the beach, we would always know it was Saturday because – without fail – we would be called to the table for dinner and there would be hot dogs, baked beans and coleslaw awaiting us. Well, the hot dogs were one clue; the other was that we had to attend the 6:30 Saturday evening Mass.  And that was without fail, too.

In the mornings, we weren’t quite as formal and usually ate breakfast in shifts, so both leaves of the table remained down.  Some of us would eat our toast or bowl of cereal out on the porch anxiously awaiting the moment when we were allowed to grab out towels and head to the beach.

I remember many years sitting at that table writing out postcards to friends. For years we’d watch Nanna writing out her grocery list while sitting at the table and then, years later after Nanna was no longer with us, we’d watch Mom handling the same chore.

And I can remember many evenings sitting around the table playing cards and board games with my sister and brothers. 

One year, when I was in college, I remember watching my grandmother, aunt and mother sitting around the table after dinner one night drinking Southern Comfort and getting a little silly and even, I dare say, a little tipsy. But later, whenever I’d mention the tipsy part to my mother, she’d get defensive and offended that I’d even make such an accusation.  But, c’mon.  I was in college by then.  I knew tipsy when I saw it.  Yet it’s a memory that makes me smile even today.

I imagine when the table was new, it was shiny and clean and unmarked.  And despite all attempts at protecting it with tablecloths and place mats, the decades have taken their toll on that old table and it is a little marred and a little less shiny now.

So when the time came to sell the cottage this summer, my elderly parents didn’t want the hassle of getting rid of the furniture, so they opted to sell the place “as is.”  My brother and I went up there in July to clean the cottage and clear out my parents’ personal belongings, but were leaving the furniture. 

When we met with the realtor, I told her that the one piece of furniture I’d like to have was that dining room table.  Knowing, of course, that it would never fit in my little red Audi, I wondered how I would get it to Ohio.

My brother thought he might return to the cottage for one last weekend with his wife and some friends later in the summer, and I knew that table would fit easily in his truck.  And it would have, but when it came to making the decision to revisit the cottage one last time, he decided that he’d already said his last goodbyes to the place, and he changed his mind.  So I thought I had lost my chance.

I was tempted to just let it go – much as we had let go of the cottage itself – but Vince convinced me that it was worth a couple hundred dollars to have the table shipped to us. 

And so, with the help of the realtor, we did just that. 

True, it’s not a valuable heirloom. It wouldn’t fetch thousands of dollars on that Antiques Roadshow program. And it would never be featured in a House Beautiful publication.

But that old, slightly battered dining room table is – to me – priceless.  I’ve walked by it a half a dozen times today and each time I do, I smile just looking at it.

I also smile knowing that I’m married to a caring husband who recognized the value of that scarred old table.  And I know that new memories will be made around that table. 

Even if it isn’t sitting in our dining room.  

And even if  we don’t eat hot dogs and baked beans and cole slaw every Saturday night.

It’s All the Fault of Netflix (That’s My Story, Anyway…)

Vince and I have started watching the series, Friday Night Lights on Netflix and, unfortunately, have been staying up later and later as we chew through Season 1. 

“Just one more episode,” we say. And then we end up going to bed so late, there is no way we’re getting the recommended eight hours’ sleep.  Heck, we’re not even getting six!

So it’s silly – especially considering that the series has been over for a couple of years.  I mean, it’s not like we have to catch up on previous seasons in order to be ready for the new season to start. 

Ah well. I suppose it’s better than watching regular TV.  Why?  Because for one thing, there are no commercials on Netflix. And for another, whenever we watch an episode of a current series we’re following and that episode ends, we look at each other like, That’s it?  There’s no more?  Whatta ripoff!

Clearly, we are not fans of the cliffhanger.

But we started this trend a few years ago when we rented DVDs of an entire season and watched all the episodes in a row. No, silly, not all in the same night – we did spread them out over a week or so.  But we didn’t have to rely on our (sometimes) faulty memory as to who was doing what to whom and why.  And then we’d rent the next season.

Now we have that marvelous invention, the DVR. And we have Netflix. And if we’re not careful, we’re going to turn into those dreaded things called couch potatoes. This is especially troubling because we really don’t follow very many episodic television series. We don’t watch American Idol. We don’t care which star dances better and wins a disco ball trophy at the end. And we’re woefully ignorant about what the big scandal is on Scandal.

Fortunately, last night we had a diversion. Family came over and we had a nice, chaotic evening together of food, frivolity and fun. Throw in a little hair styling and getting the chance to meet the newest member of the family and, well, you have a recipe for a great evening.

And tonight? Well, tonight, I’m on the fence. I could either join some friends for a music trivia night at one of the local watering holes in town.

Or I could go home and take a nap. 

Right now Plan B is winning because I haven’t had enough caffeine to open my eyes beyond mere slits. And I’m grumpy.  Grumpy is not a good thing.  Just ask Vince.

But I suspect I will wake up as the day goes along and I will start thinking that hanging out with friends is far preferable to a nap.

We’ll see.

As long as I do NOT pick up the television remote. There is, after all, more to life than finding out if the Dillon Panthers win the District Championship.

If you don’t know the answer to that question, is your life any less fulfilling?  No, of course not. 

I can only hope that Netflix loses its appeal soon enough because, y’know, we have exciting lives to lead. And trivia to pursue. And flowers to plant. (Sigh. More on that one later.)

So here’s to a Netflix-less evening. Say it with me now: “Jane, put down the remote!”

A Few of My Favorite Things

The other day someone asked me to name my favorite Christmas gift of all time. It made me pause because, while I’ve received many wonderful gifts over the years, I’m not sure which gift I’d consider my absolute favorite.

I can, however, tell you the first Christmas present I ever remember receiving. It was a “Chatty Cathy” doll and when you pulled a string on her back, she spoke one of several phrases. Now, you have to remember this was back in the dark ages when having a doll that sported realistic-looking eyes was a major development in the world of doll making. So having one speak was high tech for its time.

And I loved my Chatty Cathy doll. I was the only girl in the family since my younger sister hadn’t yet been born and I only had brothers to play with. I loved all things girly – something they didn’t understand – so I pretended that Cathy and I were sisters.

But then it happened. My older brother absconded with Chatty Cathy one day shortly after Christmas and yanked the “chatty ring” on her back too hard and one too many times. And Chatty Cathy ceased chatting. It broke my little 4-year-old heart.

To this point I hadn’t quite learned the art of retribution. But now that I’m thinking about it and getting mad all over again, I’m wondering if it’s too late to get back at my brother. Hmm. I wonder if he still has some of those little green plastic army men? I could melt them down into a big ol’ pile of green goo.

On the other hand, they’d probably release all sorts of toxic chemicals into the atmosphere. So…better not. Besides, I’m pretty sure that even if he did have some of those little green plastic army men stored in a box somewhere, he surely no longer plays with them. Yeah, he’d probably look at me like I’m the crazy one if I whipped out a Zippo lighter.

Apparently I’m not very good at the whole retribution thing.

But I digress. I was talking about favorite Christmas gifts. I’m guessing that talking about Soprano-style retribution defeats the feel-good aspects of “Favorite Christmas Gifts,” eh?

So let’s move on, shall we?

My mom tells me that the year prior to the whole Cathygate incident, I asked Santa for balloons for Christmas. Balloons – really? This is a gift I neither remember asking for nor receiving, although apparently both happened. But since I still get all giddy when I receive a handful of helium-filled balloons, I’m sure this one was true. Santa must have been ecstatic that year. This is great, kid, he probably thought. I can pick up a cheap pack of balloons and the elves won't even have to break into a sweat on this one.

But, Santa, it’s never about the price of the gift. Right?!

As I said earlier, I loved all things girly – still do – so the year I received a little heart-shaped birthstone set with a ring, stretchy bracelet and necklace from Woolworths that I coveted, I thought I’d hit the jackpot. Never mind that the bracelet turned my wrist green and the ring broke within a week or two. I loved those little heart-shaped sapphire “jewels”!

I remember as a young adult asking my parents for specific gifts to furnish my apartment. One year, I asked for a dresser for my bedroom. Another year, I asked for a rocking chair. A third year, I asked for a cheval mirror.

But my favorite gift I received as a young adult was a hammer. Yes, a hammer! I’d decided that I really shouldn’t use my high heels to pound nails into the wall anymore, so I asked my dad for a hammer. This was a gift he could get behind, so off he headed to Lowe’s. And under the tree on Christmas morning was a colorfully wrapped gift – in the exact shape of a hammer. I laughed as I picked it up and said, “I couldn’t possibly guess what this might be!”

When I use that hammer today, it always makes me think about my dad – and I always smile.

As we get older, I think the thrill of receiving gifts lessens a bit since we can most likely afford to buy the gift in question ourselves. What makes it special, really, is the person giving us the gift. That someone we care about thought about what we might like – and chose a gift especially for us.

So I’m just happy whenever I receive a gift. But please don’t go searching through eBay for an old Chatty Cathy doll. I couldn’t bear it if she stopped chatting and it broke my little 50-something year old heart!

My Aunt Ethel

I tried to write a blog last night that was silly or irreverent or hopefully somewhat amusing…but I couldn’t. I didn’t get farther than keying in the date, which is my first step in writing a blog. It’s easier that way because I’m not staring at a completely white screen and a blinking cursor that seems to mock me for not being able to come up with a title, let alone an entire blog.

So why couldn’t I write a blog last night? Well, because I was sad. And I still am. You see, my Aunt Ethel died the other day. It wasn’t unexpected, but that doesn’t seem to make it any easier.

When I first heard the news, I didn’t cry or react much, which is hard to believe given that I’m this overly sensitive and emotional-type person. (A cringe-worthy statement to hear if you’re a guy. Thank goodness Vince can deal. Either that – or he didn’t know that side of me until it was too late!)

Anyway, I think I didn’t cry right away because Aunt Ethel had been in the end-stages of Alzheimer’s. She didn’t speak and didn’t recognize us when we saw her in June. So it’s easy to say it was a blessing that the Lord took her. Her suffering is over.

But then the realization hit that this woman – who graced our lives for about 84 years – is gone forever. My mom lost her only sister. And I know how much she mourns her loss.

As one of my cousins said when she heard the news, “It’s like the end of an era.” And that is true. On that side of the family, my mom is about the only one of her generation left.

In fact, my parents’ generation is quickly losing members of a special fraternity and, with their passing, we’re losing an incredible group of people. Or, as Tom Brokaw called them in his book: “The Greatest Generation.”

Coincidentally, I’m reading Brokaw’s book with that very title at this very moment. Well, not this very moment, since I’m writing at this very moment. But, you know what I mean.

Another cousin recommended the book to me, so I borrowed it from the library. And I’m finding it very enlightening. I always thought my parents were unique in their views about life and money and patriotism and family. But reading the stories in the book about the men and women who lived through the Great Depression and World War II, I discovered that my parents’ behaviors, attributes and values were intrinsic to their generation.

When I was a kid, I thought we were poor. I mean, I knew we weren’t destitute, but I didn’t think we had a lot of money either. In truth, my dad had a pretty good job as a metallurgical engineer. And my mom was fortunate not to have to work while we were younger. Sure, she could have. She’d worked as a registered nurse before she had children. But people of their generation thought it was important to have a parent stay home and raise their children, which is a whole other blog for a whole other day.

But I digress.

See, I thought we didn’t have a lot of money because we were not allowed to waste anything. If an apple or a banana had a bruise or a black spot, we either had to eat around it or cut off the bad part. Vince would laugh at this statement – because now I crinkle my noise and make a frowny face if he offers me an overripe banana. “Yuck,” I’ll say. “It’s mushy!”

Back when I was a kid, my mom would simply respond, “It’s fine. Eat it.”

Blecch. But I ate it. Back when I was a kid. You know what I say now? I say that it’s good to be an adult and not have to eat mushy bananas.

When I was a kid, I hardly ever saw my mother tear a new piece of aluminum foil from the roll because she reused every single scrap. She’d take a sponge and wipe off any food particles, and then would carefully fold that by-now soft piece of foil and place it in the drawer. And woe to the child who used a piece of foil and then balled it up and tossed it in the trash! After we received the obligatory lecture, Mom would likely pull it out of the trash, smooth it out, and fold it up neatly and put it back in the drawer.

And if I ever walked out of a room to, say, go to the bathroom, I’d come back to find the room dark. Apparently, we had an Energy Fairy in our home who magically turned off lights that weren’t in use for approximately 45 seconds. The funny thing is, I never EVER saw that Energy Fairy. What did my parents do? Did they have some weird Spidey-sense that someone had left a light on somewhere in the house and they’d spring into action? They’d climb the walls to our bedroom on the second floor, flick the switch to the “off” position and then fly back downstairs – all before I had time to flush the toilet? It was weird.

But my parents – and others of their generation – knew what it was like to go without. When they were young, they saw people who had lost their jobs and their homes and didn’t have welfare or unemployment to live on while they found another job so they could pay the bills. Even if their parents hadn’t lost their jobs and their homes, the time in which they were raised left a huge impression on them.

So they didn’t waste money on new rolls of aluminum foil and they didn’t want to send a single penny more to the electric company than they absolutely had to. And in our family of six (four of whom were not paying the electric bill), they had to be extra diligent.

When I grew up and was living on my own, I’d leave every light on in the place – just because I could. And I’d ball up a piece of foil after one use – just because I could.

And then I got a little older and a little wiser and realized that my parents weren’t total flakes. Why waste the electricity? I didn’t, after all, enjoy sending my hard-earned cash to AEP. And why fill up our landfills with balled up pieces of aluminum foil and all the other stuff that our generation started tossing out without much thought?

Now we have recycling bins and energy conservation and composts in our backyards. And the funny thing is, my generations and subsequent generations all think they discovered recycling.

So the Greatest Generation lost another member the other day. I know how hard that is going to be on my mom. I know my uncle is missing his wife of 60 years. And I know how sad my cousins must be because they’ve lost their mom. I pray for strength for them as they mourn her passing.

As for me, well, I’m going to have my moments of sadness, too. But I’m going to remember all the fun times we’d spend with my aunt and uncle and cousins on our way back from Cape Cod through my growing-up years. I’ll laugh when I recall the time my Aunt Mary got my mom, Aunt Ethel and Nanna a little tipsy on Southern Comfort. I will be grateful that Vince was able to meet Aunt Ethel before her illness rendered her incapable of communication.

And I will be grateful for all the life lessons that she – and other members of her generation – taught us. May her soul and the souls of all the saints rest in God's peace, and may light perpetual shine upon them.

The Birthday Celebration That Almost Wasn't

We had a great weekend celebrating Vince’s birthday with friends on Friday night and with family and friends on Saturday evening. Only it didn’t start out quite so promising.

When I spoke to Vince at lunchtime on Friday, I told him that I had to make one stop after work and wasn’t sure when I’d be home. I knew I wasn’t going on a major shopping spree, so I assumed it would be within a half hour or so of my normal arrival time.

You know what they say when you assume – right? Yeah, well, that’s pretty much true.

Vince, on the other hand, assumed that when he heard “shopping” and “Jane” in the same sentence that it would be several hours before I arrived home tired, flushed and loaded down with enough shopping bags that required his brute strength assistance to carry them all in from the car.

Sure, if I’d uttered the words “retail therapy,” he may have been correct in assuming that I was going on a mall hopping frenzy – but I was only planning a quick run to the store to pick up his birthday cake.

And then, as life is wont to do, plans changed.

During the afternoon, some friends told me they were going to Bob’s Bar after work. Neither of them, by the way, is named “Bob.” But I asked if we could join them – and then perhaps we could all head to the movie theater afterwards to see Due Date, which I’d heard was pretty funny. They agreed and we made plans to meet up around 6PM.

And then, because I like complications, I sent out a last-second invite to some of our other friends to see if any of them might be available to meet us at Bob’s Bar for a drink in honor of Vince’s birthday. Normally, I’m the Queen of Preparation and Special Events, but because I’d been sick earlier in the week, I hadn’t done any advance planning. My bad.

At 4PM I sent a quick text to Vince to alert him to our change of plans.

At 5PM on my commute home, I called him and left him a voicemail reiterating our change of plans.

At 5:45PM, coiffed and ready for our evening out, I sat at the dining room table semi-patiently waiting for the birthday boy.

At 6:20PM, I sent him a text in capital letters, “WHERE ARE YOU?” (For the sake of decorum, I won’t tell you what I was doing/thinking/saying/cursing between 5:45 and 6:20!)

And, finally, at 7PM, he showed up. You should know that I was standing in the open doorway with my purse in one hand, tapping my foot so vigorously I got a cramp in my toes. In my other hand, I held a fresh shirt for Vince to change into, along with his deodorant (in case he’d had a sweaty day at work). He wasn’t even allowed in past the kitchen – he had to change in the doorway, swipe on a little Rite Guard and immediately head back out.

What a GREAT way to start a birthday weekend, eh?! Poor Vince.

Turns out that he hadn’t checked his phone for messages and, figuring that I wasn’t t going to be home immediately after work, he offered to fill in for an absent coworker after his regular shift had ended.

By the time we arrived at Bob’s Bar, the original couple we’d agreed to meet up with had already left for the movie. Another couple had stopped in at the bar and when they didn’t see any of us firmly planted on Bob’s barstools, headed back out to their car. We were only able to catch them because they’d flipped on the interior dome light to peruse the movie section of the newspaper to find out what else was playing.

We convinced them to head back to Bob’s with us. And then another couple of friends joined us shortly thereafter. Once I’d had a beer and settled down a bit, we all enjoyed ourselves and toasted both the start of the weekend and Vince’s birthday.

We were having so much fun together that we left Bob’s and headed to our friends’ house where we got the fire pit going and we sat around laughing and telling stories, some perhaps a little more long-winded than others. But it was all good.

On Saturday (Vince’s actual birthday), we decided to go shopping together – so nobody had to assume nothin’! We picked up Vince’s birthday cake. And then we came home to get ready for a fun dinner out with Vince’s family and a couple friends. It was another great evening and we laughed and told more stories.

Vince’s dad had also gone shopping and bought birthday cake. Not one – but two birthday cakes – one for Vince and one for Vince’s brother who had celebrated his birthday earlier in the week. Egad. We had three flippin’ birthday cakes and there were only five of us gathered together after dinner to eat them!

Despite sending cake home with everyone, and despite having cake for breakfast yesterday morning (hey, it’s got eggs in it), we still have plenty of leftovers. If cake doesn’t freeze well, I may be eating cake for breakfast for the next month!

But I think the Birthday Boy had a good birthday weekend, the questionable start notwithstanding.

And next year? Well, I think I’ll send out engraved invitations at least six weeks prior to Vince’s birthday. That way, we’ll both be prepared and in-the-know about our plans. Even if it’s just to head to Bob’s Bar for a quick birthday drink!

Hmmm…I don’t have any engraved invitations sitting around at home. Maybe I should go shopping?

Here's to the Happy Couple!

I took yesterday off from, well, pretty much everything. On Sunday we drove back from northern Michigan and arrived home about eight hours after we started. To folks who drive long distances for a living, I have to hand it to you. That’s some kinda tough work!

Not being one of those people who drive long distances for work, I was whipped by the time we finally arrived home. I had absolutely no interest in unpacking from the weekend or preparing for the upcoming work week. Consequently, I was a little zombie-ish yesterday and didn’t want to think. Certainly I didn’t want to try stringing words together to form any sort of cohesive message.

Today, however, I’m feeling a bit more refreshed. So let’s give stringing some words together a try and see if we can get anywhere close to cohesive.

While the drive home was a long one, it was also beautiful. We took the more scenic route and the trees in northern Michigan are just starting to turn. We were treated to some beautiful fall foliage. In another couple weeks, the colors will be breathtaking, but ask me if we’ll make another trip up north. Go on – ask me. Yeah, the answer would be a resounding “NO!” Not that I wouldn’t like to see it, I just couldn’t take the drive again so soon.

The reason we drove so far in northern Michigan was to attend my cousin’s wedding. It was an outdoor wedding, held at a friend’s farmhouse, which I thought was quite brave of the bride and groom. Not for having it at a friend’s farmhouse, but because the weather in northern Michigan in mid- to late-September can by kind of iffy. And the day dawned cold and rainy, so we all envisioned being huddled under golf umbrellas while we watched the happy couple exchange their vows.

But they had Lady Luck or Mother Nature or the Man Upstairs smiling down upon them, because it turned out to be a beautiful day with the sun sparkling on the green grass and dipping the distant fields in gold. Truly, it looked like a commercial for the perfect outdoor fall wedding. Except perhaps for the hysterically crying flower girl who apparently didn’t enjoy her role in the proceedings. I imagine the director would have called “Cut!” and they would have replaced the crying child with her smiling twin.

But it wasn’t a commercial – it was real life. And despite the crying flower girl, it was a beautiful ceremony at the top of a ridge overlooking rolling fields and trees. The bride and groom wrote their own vows, which were by turns heartfelt and touching and humorous. I saw many a guest dabbing at damp eyes with tissues or – if they were fancy enough or well-prepared – actual lace hankies.

I’m always amazed when a bridal couple elects to write and recite their own vows. Mostly because I don’t think I could get through it. I figured I’d either stumble over the words or get too choked up to continue. Yep, just let me repeat after someone and I’m good. So I have to give them major props for pulling it off so well.

The reception was a blast, too. As the wine and beer and cider flowed, guests sat under a big white tent and were treated to a delicious dinner of salmon and country ribs with lots of great sides. Toasts were given – lots of toasts were given – and everyone celebrated the happy couple.

They had a great idea for a “photo booth,” which was simply a wrought iron bed set outside the barn. Later in the evening, guests had their photos taken in all sorts of spontaneous poses on and around the bed. I’m sure the bride and groom are looking forward to seeing how these turned out. Hopefully no guests will be too horrified by their antics!

Weddings are such great events – not only to share in one of the most special days a couple can have, but also to renew relationships with family and friends. Plus, they are a good excuse to let loose and, as my 7-year-old niece says, “dance up a storm”! Which we did. Either because we’d drunk enough liquid courage – or because we were cold and were trying to warm up! No matter the reason, a great time was had by all.

So to the happy couple, I extend my love and heartfelt congratulations. May you live a long and happy life together.