Moments in Montclair: Clubs Part 2

There came a moment when I knew.  Something was going on in the attic, and I wasn’t invited.  My older brothers, David, Timmy and Todd, came down the stairs in the afternoon, smug and suspicious, and swaggered into the living room.  Timmy flipped the channel to Hogan’s Heroes acting like they didn’t notice I was mid-Father Knows Best.

“Hey, I was watching that,” I said standing up and crossing my arms in anger.

“So,” David said as he smoothed his dark bangs down into his eyes.

“So turn it back,” I demanded as the three of them would laugh.

“I’m telling Mom.”

“Go ahead.”  They knew I wouldn’t.  I wasn’t a tattletale as I knew what that would get me… a mouth full of teeth. So I stormed off into the kitchen for a few Mallomars and a glass of milk with Nestles Quick.  Something was different and I couldn’t put my finger on it. Perhaps it had something to do with the red ink drawing on all of their right forearms of a sword piercing a bloody heart.

The next day I followed them up to the third floor and watched them disappear through a tiny half-door at the edge of the third floor landing.  A space I knew was reserved for Christmas decorations and dead bodies.  It could only mean one thing… a new club had formed.  And that sickening feeling of not belonging enveloped me like Linus’ cloud of dust.  I tip-toed over and placed my ear to the door. I heard murmurings and chants, something like “We Are the Sole Members of the Death Club.  Susan, Kevin, and Joe are not allowed.” I wanted more than anything, at that moment, to be in that club.  Sure I hated the thought of Death, it scared me out of my wits…  but it was cool, and I, clearly, was not.

We lived in a three-story (four if you count the basement) house that had a fair share of odd-shaped closets, dark corners and three attic spaces with separate doors  all of which were home to a secret club at one time or another. The six of us took turns declaring ownership, writing up rules, and deciding who could belong.

One year the Fireball Club was all the rage where you had to be able to suck on a fireball without any facial expression as your tongued burned in order to join. Then came the Let’s Play War, Go Fish is for Sissies club, the Dad is Mean Because He Makes us Do Chores club, the Let’s Light Matches in the Basement club, and the Our Gang knock-off He-man Woman Hater’s Club of which I was not a supporter. The closet on the stairs was home of the Hide From the Monsters club, and the other attic room off the bedroom on the third floor was the perfect spot for weekly meetings of the Seance, Ouija Board and Levitation club. But my favorite, and most memorable club, was The Dance Club.

I was about nine years old and Soul Train and Laugh-In were about the coolest shows a kid could watch.   One Saturday, noticing the house was suspiciously empty, I ventured into Todd and Kevin’s room and heard dance music coming from the closet.  I knocked and pulled on the doorknob and felt it pulled shut from the other side.

“Hey! What’s going on in there?” I yelled through the door.

Silence, the music shut off.

“Open the door!”

Murmuring on the other side.

After a few long minutes, the door opened and Todd, dead serious, stood in bell bottoms and his best shirt with the Nehru collar. His metal medallion glinted as he said, “Come in.”

Timmy sat like an Indian chief with a cassette player on his lap. Patchouli incense smoked in snake-like curls around his head. A lone lightbulb overhead shone down between clothes on hangers pushed to the side. Kevin, my younger brother sat to his right, his chest puffed up beneath his patterned vest.

“We have a new club,” Timmy announced as if the U.N. was listening. “Are you interested?”  Does Dan Rowan love Dick Martin?

“Yes!” I exclaimed with just the right amount of enthusiasm… not too much. “How do you join?”

“You have to wear your coolest clothes, then you have to pass the dance test,” he said matter-of-factly.

“The dance test?”

“We get to pick the song and you have to dance for three minutes here in front of us.  Then we get to vote if your dancing was good enough.”

“Ok.”  I ran to my room and searched for the new tangerine and cream paneled mini skirt my Aunt Catherine had recently bought for me.  I pulled it on, rubbed the six gold buttons to a gleam, and then zipped up my white vinyl knee boots and strutted my stuff back to that closet.

With the seriousness of the Pope in heaven,  the door opened. I stepped below the hanging bulb and Timmy pushed the shiny black button of the cassette player. Bend Me Shape Me  blasted and I shimmied like I was Goldi Hawn trying out for Laugh-In.

When the music ended I was politely asked to leave and the ballots were cast.  Ten minutes later I was inducted into the Closet Dance Club of ’68.  It would be one of my finest moments, a time when I knew who I was and how I fit into the family. I was a sister who mattered and a mighty fine dancer. What more could a nine-year old want?

Looking back, I have plenty of memories of trying to make it. Plenty of memories of wanting to get in. Sometimes I did and sometimes I didn’t. Sometimes I admitted people into my clubs and sometimes I didn’t.  The funny thing is that I have very little memory of clubs lasting more that the initiation phase, because, after that, we lost interest. After that it didn’t really matter. What mattered was that we made it, that we belonged; we were someone others wanted in their club. We felt like a person who counted, someone who deserved to know the secret handshake and the secret password.

And, funny, after all of these years…  it’s still what counts. That we matter to people and that we make them feel that they matter to us.

Christmas Cards

God's Peace to You

Christmas cards hold a magic I find impossible to resist. Like most holiday traditions, the process is sacred, and, thus, it must unfold the same way each year.  In late November I will buy boxes of cards, stamps, and order prints of our children, sometimes of the four of us if I am feeling visually acceptable.  Next I’ll stack it all on the kitchen counter, a jagged heap of paper that will irritate my husband for days or even weeks.

Soon there will be a conversation that will resemble this:

 

“I noticed you have a new stack growing on the kitchen counter.”

“Christmas cards.”

“I see that.”

“Aren’t they cute?”

“How long are they going to sit here?” he will gently inquire knowing I won’t have a definite answer.

“Oh, they’ll be gone before Christmas, Honey.  I can promise you that.”

 

Then, on an ordinary December evening, I will get the inner nod.  This will be the night.  Perhaps Matt will have a volleyball practice, or Tim detained by a client dinner.  Whatever the happenstance, I will be presented with an evening alone.

I’ll light a fire in the fireplace, a few candles to add to the glow, and pour a glass of pinot noir. I’ll pull out the old George Winston December CD and pop it in the stereo. As the piano fills the room I’ll move the jagged paper stack from the kitchen counter to the floor by the hearth and lean my back against a worn leather ottoman.

Then it will begin, a journey through time that only I can claim.  I’ll open a ragged address book that today’s internet savvy people would scoff at.  But I love to see friends’ names, scratched out as they have moved from place to place, putting their family thumbprints upon communities here and there.  A well worn address book tells a story.  It reveals that life is a trail of smiles and tears.

I’ll start at “A” and work my way through a vast list of entries.  And each precious name holds a life story that will capture me for a long moment.  As I write a note, I will fear that it feels trite, like I have written it a thousand times already…but it is a wish, pure and powerful to all of those whom I have loved.

 

God’s peace to you.

 

Peace:

 

…to the girl I met at seven.  The deck of cards we kept handy in back pockets along with the chalk for hopscotch in the street. I can still hear your laugh and count the freckles on your nose. God’s peace to you as you search for meaning in a city of lights and trolley cars upon great hills.

 

…to the teen that slammed her locker shut next to mine for four years in high school. Your  infectious smile and energy live on in my memory. I loved the way your blonde pony tail was always perfect, smooth against your head and tied with a bow.  I wonder if it is perfect now during the long hours you spend by the bedside of your beautiful mother.  God’s peace to lift your heavy heart.

 

…to my college roommates. You have held my secrets close for a quarter century.  What would I do without you?  Who would I have become with your laughter? God’s peace to you as we wonder how those carefree girls became women with lives of challenge.

 

…to my parents. You have raised six children to love and cherish their families. Your example is the compass by which I direct my life.  God’s peace to you as you continue to seize each day and squeeze joy from it.

 

…to my brothers so brave and wondrous.  The life stories we could tell and often do. You are the husbands and fathers I knew you would be. God’s peace to you in your homes as you mold a generation.

 

…to my husband’s family.  I arrived one day, a city girl to your country home. I have never felt such warmth. God’s peace to thank you for years of love and acceptance.

 

…to the neighbor that welcomed me to my first house, to the mom I met at the park when my daughter was five, to the women that taught me the meaning of community and support.  God’s peace to your families as you lead them, strong and powerful.

 

…to each and every relative that brings depth to the puzzle that is my heritage. God’s peace as you continue to reveal our American story.

 

…to the boss that believed in me, the usher at church who can’t help but smile, the friends along the way.  All those friends along the way.

 

Before I know it, I will have spent time with each of you, the lovely and inspiring human beings that have graced my life.  I will have held you in my heart, remembered the angle of your smile, the color of your eyes, the unexpected joys and heart wrenching sorrows that have knocked upon our doors.

By the evening’s end I will be reminded that, regardless of whatever the future holds, I have already lived a life of meaning.  I have loved and been loved.  I have laughed more than my share, and cried the tears needed to water the gardens of friendship.

At evening’s end, my will husband arrive, rumpled from a day’s work, my son will enter loud and hungry, and the phone will ring with a daughter’s need to share a giggle.  So I will lay down my pen, knowing I will have a few more cards to write before the Holiday is over.

And so I will wait, until I get that inner nod  to complete them. It is never planned. But I will know when it is time to finish the Christmas cards, share a memory, and wish God’s peace to you…

 

Advent and the Nature of Hope

 

I love Advent. I love everything about this time of grace.  It is a thought-provoking, layered season when a family remembers that it is holy, or at the very least, wants to be.

The night of Christ’s birth holds every possible intrigue.  It is a storyteller’s delight. Year after year we tell and retell these themes of journeying, wonder, mystery and promise. We look into the bright eyes of our children, snuggled in new pajamas around the hearth, and whisper of cold mangers, wise shepherds, angels and silent midnights that hold only peace.

As an adult I have grown to treasure Advent’s grand reminder of  the nature of HOPE. That God does unimaginable work with unlikely beginnings and difficult situations. His elaborate plan of salvation began with the creation of a family in precarious circumstances. A frightened young, pregnant girl with an entire village looking at her askance, an older husband who is not so sure about the whole thing (certainly not used to having angels tell him what to do while he is busy dreaming), and a birthplace that was far from home and extraordinarily unsanitary.

I sometime imagine a chummy angel leaning over to Mary during one of her 3:00 AM feedings and whispering in her ear things like “…just a reminder that this IS the Son of God, don’t make any parenting mistakes as the salvation of the entire world is at stake (no pressure or anything). Oh, and the family business?  He won’t be taking that over.  Your baby will become the greatest revolutionary of all times so don’t be surprised when the empire turns against you after you are forced to watch your sweet boy die the death of a common criminal.”

The holiest of families didn’t have it easy. Not by a long shot. So why is it that we think we should?  Their hardships remind me that God does not live on Easy Street.  That is not where we will witness His great power.  Rather, He lives on Damn This Is Hard Avenue.  Difficulties push us from our safe havens to seek answers.  Pain calls us to wander down that unexplored, often scary, side of town knocking on doors we never would have chosen.  How surprised we are when we find Him in the unlikeliest of places.

He is tricky like that. A king disguised as a baby leads me to open myself to the thought that other miraculous contradictions await if we slow down to consider the nature of HOPE.  If we embrace the notion that God offers possibility when there is no evidence present. To see that sometimes beginnings are disguised as endings.

Advent reminds me to choose Hope as a way of life. To pull my family close and recognize our sanctity in good times and in bad times.  That God uses our joys to strengthen our love, and He uses our sorrows as teachable moments that draw us close to Him and to each other.

The life of a holy family is not always an easy one, but it is the Christmas Story, the one so many of us seek. May God bless us all as we tackle the challenges inherent to family life in this season and every season. As a mother with children off to college and life beyond, I look forward to December 24th, when, God willing, we will  sit as a family, perhaps visited by friends and sung to by angels, on a midnight that holds only peace.

The Whistle

A Father’s Day Tribute!  Love you, Dad~

The Whistle

My dad is one of those people who can place two fingers into his mouth and blast out a whistle that can stop a train.  It was our family’s signature “get your fannies home this minute” signal that would reverberate through the neighborhood at dinnertime.  It was also the signal he used to wake us up on Saturday mornings, hours before our teenage bodies would have naturally awakened.

“Pancakes are on the table!”

I hated those words.  I hated pancakes.  I hated trudging down the stairs in line behind my equally grumpy brothers still smelling of sleep and unwashed hair.

“Hurry up, they’re getting cold,” Mr. Handsome in his White Apron would bellow though we stood within whispering distance, pointing his silver spatula like a policeman’s baton.  “I’ve been up since 6:00 getting this ready for you all.  The least you can do is look alive. Show some respect.”

The six of us would take our places at the table, exhaling loudly and scraping the legs of the chair against the floor extra hard.

“Pass the orange juice.”

“Could you leave some syrup for the rest of us?”

“Why do you use so much butter?

“These are cold”

“Do you have to chew that loud?”

“Kevin, wake up and get your head off the table before Dad sees you.”

I would methodically cut my pancakes into exact squares and move them around.  When Todd wasn’t looking I would take a handful and throw them onto his plate. We had come to this arrangement some time ago as he would always pay me back in vegetables at dinner.

“Up and at ‘em. That’s what I always say.  Early bird gets the worm,” Dad would announce as he barged through the white swinging door that separated the kitchen from the dining room balancing a platter of steaming pancakes that would have made Aunt Jemima dance the jig.

“Elbows off the table.  Where should that napkin be?  Come on, backs straight, chins up.  A little class goes a long way.”  He would make one lap around the room emptying his platter onto our plates whether we wanted them or not, none of us saying a word.

“Beautiful day, lots to do.  You’ll find your lists on the fridge as usual.  No one leaves the house till your chores are done.  Work before pleasure.  Key to success.”

And so it went, week after week, as sure as the passing of the seasons. We grew up in a home built on a foundation of shoulds.  Though it was a constant source of irritation and emotional kindling that ignited many a fire between Father and Child, it also ingrained in us a deep sense of duty and order around which we could build successful lives.

My father, an electrical engineer, found comfort in rules and formulas.  A product of his generation he played the role of the “DAD” to the hilt.  Emotions were for sissies.

And he was very good at lectures.  He had a stockpile of them ready to go the instant they were needed.  He had lectures about jumping on the beds, and not pulling on the banister when we raced up and down the steps, not sitting on the edge of chairs and couches so we wouldn’t break down the cushions. He had a very emotional lecture that had something to do with not putting away his tools after we used them, and also a fiery one we only got to hear on special occasions like the one that lit up the back yard the day David decided to sneak the car out for a joyride before he got his license. And by god, if our mother took the time to make that dinner we were going to enjoy it.

I still don’t know what was going to happen if he “had to turn around one more time while driving the eight of us seven hours to Maine on vacation, or “if he had to come up there” when we giggled and played past our bedtime.

But what he was the best at, was the whistle.  It was a loud, commanding three-note signal that cut though the neighborhood and sent six pairs of legs racing home faster that than the bells of the ice cream truck. He understood that a family who eats together shares a life of meaning.

Yesterday, we sat in the bleachers at my son’s volleyball game as they battled the opponent point by point.  Out of the corner of my eye I saw my dad put his two fingers to his lips and take a deep breath.

“Dad, don’t.  You’ll embarrass him,” I laughed as I tugged gently on his arm.

“You think so?” He asked eyes softening with resignation.

“Yes. He doesn’t know about the whistle.”

“Probably for the better. I have a hard time with it now that I have these new teeth.”

“You’re still belting out your whistle?  In Sun Lakes?” I asked as he looked away thinking that I could not see his eyes cloud with memory.

“You know,” he said, “once in awhile, when the quiet overwhelms me, I pretend that it’s still magic, and you will all run home for dinner.”

A Letter to My Son Upon Graduation

A letter to my son upon his high school graduation. So proud of him!

Dear Matthew,

Love is not easy to put into words, especially a mother’s love, the depth of which is unfathomable.

When I look at you now, tall and strong, I don’t just see an eighteen-year-old man, I see you in all of your life’s stages at once.  I see you as a newborn in my arms in the shadows of midnight, a blur of blonde hair racing down the stairs in Barney pajamas on Christmas morning, the navy shorts and pressed white shirt of a first grader not sure why he has to go to school, the tender realization in your eight-year-old blue eyes that stealing the puck was okay in roller hockey. (Who knew that sharing with others didn’t apply in sports?)

I remember the white pooka beads and Hawaiian shirts that heralded the onset of middle school, basketball and volleyball uniforms, a well-worn back pack and a handful of snacks on trains through Europe,  the royal blue gown of an 8th grade graduate, the proud captain of your high school volleyball team, and now, a man.

As much as a mother raises her son, so does a son raise his mother.  You have taught me many things as I have watched you grow.  From you I have learned the power of a tender heart as I have witnessed your quiet kindness to others all of your life. (Though there was that rough patch when you were three and almost asked to leave Debbie’s Daycare when you knocked over the boy who kept stealing your matchbox cars )  Your teachers throughout grade school always remarked about your concern for the feelings of other children. You attract friends wherever you go, and you are loyal to them.

You taught me how to find joy in the moment. You have the gift of turning the mundane into amusement.  You see subtext and comic irony in the world around you. Your wry humor is a constant source of delight that lightens our days.  It reminds us to relax and not take everything so seriously. I will miss this tremendously when you go to college. Who will alert me to the new, must see, You tube videos?

And you taught me about courage.  Our family life has been marked by transition, and you have endured many relocations from a young age.  In your 18 years you have had seven homes and attended five schools.  Change has been constant.  Anyone who has moved knows that it is never without trial.   You have navigated these changes with elegance, courage, acceptance, and again humor, when all else failed.  It has been remarkable to watch.  You are stronger than you know.

You have a natural tenacity and ability to accept life as it unfolds.  This is a skill that will serve you well in the years to come, because life is about transformation, a decades long process of becoming. There are chapters, but no destinations. And if you are able to visualize each stage as having a beginning, middle, and end  it will be easier to recognize God’s plan for you as He chooses to reveal it.  His plan is rarely the same one that we envision for ourselves, so, in the years to come, as you are surprised or sidelined unexpectedly or sent in directions unanticipated, remember that it is unfolding as it should be.  That’s when you will appreciate your already sharpened abilities to navigate change.

Each chapter has a specific lesson that God, in His all knowing wisdom, sees that you must learn. Painful chapters draw us near to Him, and joyful chapters illuminate the glory and wonder of our world. Both are important.

Matt, I love you. You are the son that every mother dreams of having. I could not be more thankful for you and proud of the man you have become.  Your character and integrity are important to you.  You are finding your voice and moving forward in positions of leadership.  God will rely on you to use that leadership to model the qualities of a good, honest and loving man.  You have been blessed with height and people will have to look up to you during your lifetime, the important thing is to make them want to.

A faith journey is a daily one.  It is vital to see our moral choices, both grave and not, as turning points.  Your choices will lead you closer to God or further from Him.  Lead you down a path toward a peaceful heart or a troubled one.  No choice is made in secret as God is always with you.  Choose wisely and you will live without regret, because real and lasting happiness has nothing to do with material possessions, it is a result of living your values, even when it is difficult. Even when choosing to stand for what is right means that you will lose friends or perhaps a job/position.

This gift of clear sightedness, to recognize the path that supports your values is the prayer that I will pray for you every day as you move forward into the world. Sometimes it is not so easy to discern.  We live in a world that rewards bad behavior in order to boost media ratings. A world that teaches athletes and leaders that there is some private permission to behave immorally because of their position. The temptations that come with success are real. The fallout of those lifestyles ruin families and deeply scar those closest to them. The most powerful leaders, the ones who affect real change, are the ones who choose to lead their families in the ways of love that strengthen the home and thus the community.

Senior year is a year of letting go, when motherhood becomes a complicated mixture of pushing you forward and holding you back. Every day I cry a few tears as I get used to the idea of your moving on from our home, but at the same time, I am so excited for you to embrace this next phase of life.  Have fun, work hard, and enjoy every single day.

I am in your corner, your loudest cheerleader, and proudest Mother at Brophy College Prep  ~ Love, Mom

(Posted with permission!)

Let Your Children Glow

Many families hesitate at the thought of extended travel with middle-school and teen-aged children.  In our overscheduled and often frenetic culture, it may be the most powerful gift you can give them.  Emotional and spiritual growth of emerging teens are equally as important as academics and sports. Travel offers the gift of unstructured time, away from, the sometimes overwhelming, social pressures of their young lives.

Sure, the initial disconnect from home may be bumpy, but that phase ends when young eyes are treated to new and exciting cultures and life experience beyond their limited scope.  They see that there is a whole world out there filled with happy people leading lives that may have nothing in common with the mores of their own community. It helps them put their own lives in perspective and develop a global awareness that will enhance their understanding of our amazing planet.

Teens struggle in our material culture of mixed messages.  An inordinate amount of time is spent replicating the images of those seen in the media as a means of developing a sense of self.  Some of this is natural, we all look for heroes, but too much inhibits the development of initiative and inner reflection.

I am a great believer in downtime for kids. From dawn to dusk they lead directed and scripted lives. I can remember giving an open-ended assignment one day to my eighth grade class who stared back at me with disbelief, utter bewilderment. They demanded guidelines, a model, rubrics. How would they know what an “A” looked like?   That response saddened me.  I told them to get creative, let their souls sing, have the courage to glow, and to give me their best work. They left the classroom in anger.

Time went by, and a funny thing happened, one by one they shared ideas, revealed talents, smiled, gained confidence and yes, glowed a new light when the projects were handed in. This was the same process we experienced with our own children when we moved abroad and widened their parameters.  Alone in a new culture, they had the time to look inward and discover emotional and spiritual strength that they didn’t know they had.

So, the next time you are considering a vacation and wondering if the expense will be worth it, take a chance. Take an adventure. Let your children glow.

 

The Garage Sale

This was the first and last time that I would be traveling three thousand miles for a garage sale.  My parents had finally sold our family home of thirty two years and wondered if, perhaps, we could come home and help them with the sale.  It could not have been coincidence that each of us decided, quite on our own, to leave our spouses and children for the weekend to travel back home. It would be the last time we could sit together the way it started: two parents and six children in a four bedroom house in a pretty N.J. suburb.

I spent much of the day on the airplane wondering how I was going to feel when I walked into 26 Ardsley for the last time.  Being the sentimental type, I feared the worst shedding my first tears as the plane touched down in Newark. I quickly reminded myself that I had sworn not to make this a weekend of “lasts”—The last time I fry an egg in this kitchen, the last time I daydream on this front porch.  I wanted to approach this as the mature adult that I usually am, positive and strong to help my parents through this emotional transition as they prepared to retire in Phoenix.

When I drove into the driveway I was flooded with relief to realize that sadness was the furthest emotion from my mind. I greeted my parents and five brothers, shared a joyful meal around a wooden table worn smooth from years of dinners, homework and school projects, and then helped my parents price the various family treasures that were now being relegated to the sale.  We laughed about some of the items, reminisced about others, and each of us ended up with a pile off to the side of those things that happened to tug too strongly on the old heartstrings. I mean, you couldn’t exactly let some stranger walk off with the infamous ice cream spoon that worked better than the scoop ever did. Surely my parents would have made a lot more money had we not come home to help.

The sale day dawned bright and clear. We manned our stations and the people began to trickle through. It was clear from the start that David and Kevin were the best salesmen while the rest of us practically pushed things into people’s arms just to get them out of the yard.  At one point I needed more masking tape, and since I couldn’t boss my younger brothers around anymore, I ran into the house to get it myself.

That’s when I heard them.  The voices that is.

The voices of children were coming in giggles and whispers from every room.  Knowing that I was alone in the house, I shook my head and started up the stairs only to stop again momentarily and listen. Yes, the voices were unmistakable and I recognized every one.  I heard them sitting around the dining room table dyeing Easter eggs, sorting Halloween candy on the living room floor, and gathered around a decorated fireplace guessing what treats might fill their stockings come morning.

Swallowing hard to push the lump from my throat, I took a deep breath and continued up to the second floor landing.  Standing in the center of the hallway, I looked from door to door. As I half-feared, the voices overflowed from every bedroom.  Not surprisingly, my brothers’ rooms were the noisiest.  I was intrigued however, to find my room completely silent.  Being the only girl I lucked out with a room of my own, so I guess it stood to reason that I did a lot more listening than talking when I was in there.  As I took a step toward my room, I heard the backdoor slam and my older brother, Tim, wonder aloud about what had happened to me.  Knowing the silence of my room would speak volumes to an already breaking heart, I happily turned and trotted back down the stairs, not caring that I had forgotten the reason I had come inside in the first place.

Laughter, old friends, and a little bit of work saw us through the rest of the day.  We all agreed that the sale was a success and found comfort knowing that our childhood memories had found new homes.

Later that evening during a party that our neighbors were throwing for us, my brother, Todd, came over to me and announced that the camera needed a new battery. He suggested that I go home and get the spare.  Being the good sister that I am I told him that he could probably handle that job all by himself.  He quietly urged me, however, to go across the street and spend a few moments in the darkened house alone. He told me that he had just done that an hour before and the experience was unnerving.  One look in his eyes told me that he had heard the voices, too.

Back I went to get the battery and to finish what I had started that morning.  I let myself in the back door, walked reverently across a kitchen floor that held a million footprints, headed up the staircase and stood outside the door to my room. I turned the glass door knob that I always swore to my friends was a real diamond and stepped in. It had been redecorated years before, but it was still mine.

As I stood in the darkness, I had the strongest urge to lie down on the bed.  After years of experimentation I knew that if you lay on your back in a specific angle and hung your head over the edge just so, you could get the most expansive view of the night sky that this room had to offer.  This was an important piece of trivia to a seven-year-old on Christmas Eve.  So, what the heck, I lowered myself onto the white bedspread, lay down and assumed the magic position. Pushing aside the curtain, I scanned the stars once more for a glimpse of that tiny sleigh.  And for a moment my heart found peace. When I felt the blood rushing to my head I closed my eyes and thought to myself, ‘What is a thirty six year-old woman doing searching the sky for Santa Claus on a warm night in June?’ I sat up straight and let the tears run down my cheeks and onto the chenille that had collected them over the years.

Many thoughts passed through my mind in the following minutes, but only one has stayed with me and will continue to inspire me for years to come. I realized that after thirty some years what still came to life when I entered this house was the holiday magic. A sense of peace, joy, belonging, and shared excitement found expression through those annual traditions that our family held dear.  These moments were the treasures.  I would not miss the family knickknacks that I could hold in my hand.  I would miss the moments that I held in my heart. Somehow I knew that when I left this house for the last time, I would not hear those giggling voices again.

There were other giggling voices that I would hear, though, in less than twenty four hours. Those, of course, would be the voices of my own two children now sleeping soundly a continent away. So I said a silent prayer as I slowly walked back to the party across the street.  I thanked God for parents that understood what it took to build a home and fill the hearts of their children with priceless memories.  I thanked Him for parents that took the time to watch us dye the perfect Easter egg, trim the perfect Christmas tree, and put together the scariest costume in the neighborhood.  I told Him that I knew that it was my turn to pick up the wand and sprinkle the magic into the hearts of my own two precious babies.  And, finally, I asked Him for the wisdom and patience to do it well.

I left the next morning, and when I drove down that tree-lined street for the last time, I did not look back.  This chapter in my life was coming to an end, and, actually, it felt right.  Sure, I would suffer pangs of homesickness now and then, but I knew that a piece of me would be revisiting that old house with the passing of every season. I now understood the depth and worth of tradition in our lives and I was anxious to get home and share these realizations with my husband.  We have but a short window of time to shape and mold the traditions that will someday define our children’s childhood experience.  It is an immeasurable responsibility to be sure, and our success will also be measured in the giggles and whispers that echo throughout our home for decades to come.

Dedicated to the Powers Family

In honor of Ralph Powers (1926-2009)