I Have a New Family-In-Law!

Yesterday, amid a cold, windy, snowy afternoon, Jennifer was married in the Mount Timpanogas Temple. Aaron's mom, Sheri, held a beautiful reception for them at the Rose Garden in Sandy. It was a warm, loving evening. Jennifer was radiant - mingling with the guests and having a wonderful time. Memories of a little girl, shy and sweet, juxtaposed themselves next to the vision now before me - my daughter and her loving, handsome husband, embarking on their new lives together.

It's 2:45 a.m. Our suitcases in the kitchen. Everyone went to bed. It will be good to be back in my own bed.

Next week I'll hold a reception here at home. Aaron and Jenn will leave the next day to return to Utah to set up the condo for the two of them, and then finally, I can give my son, Matthew, some of the attention he has not received during his first semester at college!

What Good is a Bad To-Do List?

There's something to be said in favor of the traditional wedding reception, you know, in a banquet facility, where they take care of all the details, and you just have to enjoy your fruit cup and chicken dinner. Where is the stress with a wedding reception like that? What could possibly be on the to do list?

Does their to-do list sound like this: clean & empty fridge, clean oven, inventory serving platters & utensils, remove the oversized sleep sofa to the garage - and does it include a timeline for the cooking and baking?

How about: move kitchen table & chairs to garage, move black leather couch to kitchen, move the birdcages upstairs, and figure out a way to pipe music throughout the house.

Do your Christmas shopping.

If you're a mother of a bride using the banquet facility, don't slap me with your to-do list just yet! It's probably quiet normal for us to overstress, overplan, and over to-do. Whatever the banquet facility provides, we will always want something different or additional for our children's special day, the beginning of their new life, unforgettable, customized.

Yesterday I removed my cape and called a caterer. Yes - chicken cordon bleu and tenderloin au jus, to be picked up at 5pm on reception day. Yes!

I called a talented woman I know and asked if she could come over to help me decorate the staircase next week. Yes! My other friends don't know it yet, but I'm going to ask them to come over and sew the aprons for all the kitchen helpers...oh nooooo.... i forgot to find kitchen helpers ....the kind that really will wash dishes, collect trash, and put hordouvres in (and out) of the oven.

Oh, fanab, that wasn't even on my to do list!

Day 1-Panic

Today is my personal d-day. I swore Thanksgiving weekend as the kickoff for high paced, serious, wedding reception prep. Low level panic swirls in my core. Everything must be ready before we go to Utah, including Christmas, which is between the wedding and the reception. 18 days.

Mother of Bride Jitters

Apres wedding= Normalcy.
Mother of bride dress&*#@#: should have dieted.
A son-in-law= Wow, Wonderful.
Nest emptying= Emotional.
Love= Bursting with it.
New in-law's= The Best - every one.
Mood= Up, upside down, pensive, euphoric, reminiscent
Me as Mother= Remember the good, forgive the mistakes.
Passage, new=Enjoy, keep moving

Just a Note

Jenn and Aaron's wedding day is close and we're getting pretty excited.

A Day With Young Jekyl & Hyde

Only one worksheet of math? That's all you have for homework? And you want to do the dishes for me? You're so sweet, why don't you take this time to get to bed earlier, since you have nothing else to do, sweetie.

Next morning: Why are you still in bed? You've got 1/2 hour - you can do it. What? You have homework to do? The bus comes in 5 minutes - no, it's not my fault. Have a good day..byyyee!

Summer Stories of My Dreams

Tomorrow, from 11am - 1:30pm, the phone may ring, the dog may bark, my stomach may growl, but I vow not to respond. Close the blinds, move the clutter out of my line of vision, put a new ink cartridge in the printer and gather the summer notebooks. The poems and stories scrawled therein will come forth. It's time to type 'em up and take a good look because, actually, they are haunting me.

I dreamt of the gnarly scrub pines of Cape Cod. "Finish me," the tallest pine whispers, reminding me of the quiet hour spent pondering his nightmarish shape and the abundance of life at home in his old, weathered arms. "Finish my story," he calls again. "You knew I was trying to find the words", I acknowledged in my dream voice. This goes on, and, being that it's a dream, the conversation becomes more than ridiculous - it becomes ridiculouser.

The stories want to get out of the Harriet the Spy composition book I carried around all summer. Their days will probably play out as a document in a folder titled, 'Writing', but they'll have a title and legibility. That's all I can promise. So, please, no more whining in my sleep; I'll let you out tomorrow!

Cheap? Who, Me?

The wedding is on my mind. I will not be one of those mothers. Repeat. I will not be the mother that only talks about her daughter's wedding. So, anyway, my generous beloved hubby has told all out of town relatives that we will pay for their hotel rooms. They will need rooms for two nights. We will require 18 rooms. ALL of our relatives are out of state.

People often put up the relatives on couches, cots, tents, and the kids rooms. This is a fact. I've slept on the floor, on an airmattress that was flat by 3:30 am. I've also slept on a sleep sofa that is actually a metal frame. The mattress thing is merely candycoating, so I'll think I'm getting the good bed.

The closeness and camaraderie that can develop from an extended family sleepover, is precious and I want in! But, if morning shows my body with the indent of a bedframe embedded in my back, not to be filled in again until lunch, then get me out of there and bye bye camaraderie.

Hotel Rooms are a good investment. Closeness and friendship are better forged after a goodnights rest. Oh, and families with kids get rooms in hotels with indoor pools.

No Chicken Dance, I Promise

How I would love to attend an old fashioned country wedding. No caterers or DJ's are invited to this shindig! For days, exquisite aromas from the kitchens tantalize and heighten anticipation of the celebrating to come. Violins, are tuned , and accordions dusted. The Bride fusses at her hair, her dress, her mother. The Groom is keeping busy, anything to assuage the alternating nerves, the slow passage of time, and the explicit taunting from his older brothers, for the honeymoon to come.

The Epcot Center's French Pavillion features a beautiful film about the country and its' people. Impressed by the traditional, country wedding upon which we eavesdropped from our comfy theatre seats, I warmed to the simplicity and joy of their celebration, which would last for days.

We have a family wedding coming - fast. The bride is 2,000 miles away and I, the mother of this beautiful bride-to-be, want to celebrate the beginning of the eternal union of my daughter and new son with days of dancing, abundance of good food, and all the relatives - close and distant.

They will be anxious to get back to college for the new semester and the bride does not like to dance, so we nix the dancing and limit the days of celebrating. What remains is the good food and close relatives.

My heritage is not one of quiet celebrations, but a new day is here. A new challenge. I can do this. Do you think we could sneak just one "Hokey-Pokey?"

Reality check

I'm enrolled in an online course: Designing Web Pages I. I'm having a great time because I'm learning words like html and whatever. Enthusiasm is a great motivator and I have that for all the web pages I'm going to build. Four sites will be for Genealogy, one will be to promote my
writing and one will be for our family.

There is a little problem. I don't want to be chained to my laptop! Will anyone even look at my websites? Does anyone, except Jenn and Aaron, even read my blog? Maybe I should rethink this. Maybe I'm not as enthusiastic as I was ten minutes ago.

I really hate reality checks.

Been There, Done That

For three days I have been cleaning closets, shampooing the stairs, and deadheading the geraniums. Cleaning is my activity for thinking.

I have been working on a story about a small Vermont town's upcoming mayoral election. Two of the candidates always draw a crowd because of their intense hatred for each other. One misstep by one and the other is all over him. At times they almost come to blows. The two candidates were once marrried to each other. It's a small town, everyone knows them. I was having fun with this and someone said MOOSEPORT ! This is a movie about a small town election. I don't remember seeing it.

This 'angle' wasn't working for me anyway, so I changed the focus.

There is still a mayoral election coming up, but the focus is on the town's need to entice the tourists who pass by enroute to the mountains only 15 miles away - skiing in winter, foliage tours in fall, and hiking and rafting in spring and summer. Tourism is a major issue for the candidates and they will go all out with ideas to get the votes.

I'm not a funny person, but I know I could have fun with this, and possibly write a funny story.

I had just begun to type my ideas for this story and a big red word, in capital letters, washed over me: CARS! Who hasn't seen the movie with the dying town that no one drives through since the freeway was built and the accidental presence of the red race car brings it back to life.

I'm thinking that no matter what story I write, there will be many other stories already written with a similar idea, but they will not be like mine. That is the beauty of the arts.

Great Island Redemption

George was reading my post, The Best Thing About Getting Older, when we were startled by, "whaaaaat the fliiiiip, mom! Great Island is a peninsula. How can you call it a zit!"

"It's a bump in the bay, isn't it?, I ask.

"A peninsula is surrounded on three sides by water! Don't you know geography?"

George brings Ernie in to read what I wrote about their beloved Great Island.

"A zit! How can you call it that. A zit is ugly and if you squeeze it, it bursts".

"Well, if it sounds ugly, people won't go there and you can have it all to yourselves", I said, trying to redeem myself and rationalize with the irrational and not laugh.

The phone rang and the zit was forgotten. Ernie and George normally don't read my writing, but I expect they will look in now and then, to check for accuracy.

Not the D Word - Again!

I passed a double wide, full length mirror yesterday and gasped. "Who is that woman and, um, - - she looks like me."

Oh, yawn, it's diet time again.

Picture an 'Italian' Thanksgiving featuring antipasti, Nanny's broccoli salad with chunks of garlic and lemon and olive oil from the family olive grove in Avella, Italy. The turkey, the centerpiece, sits humbly upon the table between the homemade manicotti and sauteed eggplant. Amazing Italian pastries from Brooklyn finish the meal followed by a long and loud polka game.

Chew on this: what do you hear from diners when fruit or jello is presented for dessert? What do you hear when chocoloate volcano cake or a well piped cannoli are presented?

Which do you prefer?

Some believe that no food left over is a sign that the guests enjoyed the meal. My mother and grandmother believe that no food left over is a sign that there wasn't enough food.

Some overweight people are simply victims of gluttony and others, me, are victims of a simple formula: GOOD MEMORIES + GOOD FOOD = PERIODIC EPISODES OF ASKING, "WHO IS THAT WOMAN and, um, she looks like me!

I better go and do my crunches now, while I'm in the mood.

The Pageant Game - Go Team

Scheduled to showcase her talent, Middle Eastern Dancing ( I say Belly Dancing) , Jennifer, George and I hung out near the free munchies, observing, as folks arrived to meet the lovely and poised Miss Greater Berks County.

My interviews were complete with the articulate Miss GBC, her personal appearance coach, her parents, and a sponsor. I really wanted to go home, but not before getting photos of the dancer and her costume.

Thank you, Jennifer, for being my photographer, which freed me to spend all my money on smoothies and wraps, while still enjoying the free munchies!

The exotic clarinet from the CD player announced the long awaited moment to see the dance of our Miss Pennsylvania contestant. The CD player was distorting the music and this was a small cafe with little room to dance. It was a poor performance, but Jenn's pictures were good.

When the photos are published, no one will know if the dancing was good or bad. They will know that their small town sweetheart who is vying for Miss Pennsylvania and ultimately Miss America knows Middle Eastern Dance.

If she is crowned Miss Pennsylvania, the pageant handlers will perfect the dance and enlist a personal trainer.

Think of this: when you watch a Miss America pageant, isn't it exciting if your "state" makes the top 10 or higher? It's like a sports event, but gentle, lovely, and intelligent.

Now it's time to write the article. Everyone in town will want to read it.

The best thing about getting older

Summertime is busy. We attend one or two rodeos, the traditional week in Wellfleet, the week in Maine at Mom's, and if we're really organized we squeeze in one or two nights of camping. Ernie and George voluntarily camp every year in February or March. This year they camped on Great Island, located in Wellfleet Bay, Cape Cod, Massachusetts. Great Island is not a real island because it is connected to the mainland. It's really a very large zit on the face of the bay. That description defies the tranquility of the place.

Reaching the island requires a one mile hike through sand.

Ernie and George carried their gear out to Great Island for one night of camping. They carefully prepared their campfire because this spot is woodsy, dry and windy. Camping and campfires are probably not allowed, but that doesn't bother my two guys.

I love sleeping in a tent, but I'm not very flexible. The best time to camp is in autumn when the evenings are cool and the days are brisk. It is irksome to me that school reopens as I become energized! I love autumn.

So, a good thing about getting older is that in four years, when George graduates, we'll be free to enjoy my favorite time of year.

The very best thing about getting older, is discovering the good things about getting older.

Graduation blues

OK. School's almost over. How do I know? Sleeping bodies that do not respond to calls to wake up. Why? I've been informed by one of these bodies, when it was in a somewhat conscious state, that it's done with school. "What about the final exam for calculus?", I ask. "mumble, mumble", or something sounding like that is the response.

Senioritis has held this sweet son in its' firm grip for months. Graduation information is locked up somewhere in his magnificent brain and overstuffed backpack. I'm aware of the calculus final by accident. He didn't mention it to inform me, it merely slipped from his mouth.

The scissors are gently gnawing on the tough apron strings. Does anyone know when, where and what time graduation is?

Writing a story is like crocheting an afghan-both take forever to finish

Everything I see and do urges me to write. The trip to Italy with my mother will be a humorous travel essay. My recent trip to Spain and Italy with my daughter inspires a story that will weave a thread of cultural observations, budget travel, and adventure through a story of a mother-daughter evolving relationship.

The "Drafts" folder on my desk is voluminous. The fictional Mayoral race in Pine Maple, Vermont and the magazine article about small family reunions are near completion.

At this moment, I may never be published, but I'll leave behind some mega-folders of 1st, 2nd and 3rd drafts!

Vacation Hangover

In my jet-lag induced stupor, I have allowed myself to create a blog.